My grandmother used to say her house was haunted.

They're on the other side of the doors. If you listen closely you can hear them, she'd say.

Her words weren't those of an afraid woman. They weren't filled with sadness nor despair, but

rather joy. She'd tell me stories about the ghosts that stayed behind her in the house and as she did her eyes were

always filled with longing and love.

So they're not bad ghosts? I would ask too young to understand the complexities of good and evil.

Of course not, sweetheart.

They would never hurt you.

I truly loved my grandma, but I didn't visit her often. My mother wouldn't let me.

To her, the house had an uneasy atmosphere, one full of malice, as if an unknown and frightening entity loomed over the place.

It didn't help that we lived several hours away, making it difficult for Grandma to visit

us, with her advancing age and declining health.

It made me sad that she lived all alone in such a big old house, but she didn't seem to mind it.

I'm not alone, she would say.

Our love kept us together, even after he passed.

I knew she was talking about my grandpa, her late husband.

However, she mentioned several figures that kept her company,

people I assumed were her own parents, and even some who could have been siblings.

Back in her day, people remained at home to die, spending their last moments with loved ones,

comfortable at home in their own beds.

Because of that, a multitude of different people had drawn the last breaths in a very own house.

As time went by, my memories of the old house started to fade. I was too busy growing up and my mother

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