A Stranger Claimed My Grandpa Was Haunting Her House. The Details Were Too Eerie To Ignore.

Watching my mom mourn her last living parent didn’t help, either. She shuffled through grandad’s pictures and started wearing his knit sweaters because they smelled like him. Seeing her so sad made me ache. And I couldn’t help but wonder, what would my daughters do if I died?

I started having anxiety about going to the store and getting in a car accident; my daughters still home, wondering where I was. I pictured them calling for me in the night and no one answering. The dread was overwhelming.

So when I got the email from Kate, I was intrigued — even excited — by the idea of some sort of life after death. I craved proof that I’d never leave my kids. I confirmed with our family’s real estate agent that the emailer was, in fact, the new owner (just to be sure!) and then asked Kate to keep me updated on ghost sightings.

Whenever she sent an email, I found myself curled up with my phone like it was the latest installment of my favorite book series. I loved the ghost updates, plus, I started to see the new homeowner as a friend. After all, we had a lot in common: We both had two kids, a similar sense of humor and, of course, my grandpa.

After every email, my mom and I would meet up for happy hour cocktails and spinach artichoke dip to discuss. Sometimes the conversation was silly: joking about Grandpa haunting a bad former boss or spooking drivers who won’t let us merge. Other times, we were in action mode: talking about séances, Ouija boards and how to help his spirit “move on.”

But most of the time, we’d just reminisce. My mom had lots of good stories about Grandpa. Like the times he picked her up from school at lunchtime so they could picnic in the park — or the family lake trips, which included long days with everyone out on the boat.

One evening, my mom and I talked about visiting Grandpa’s old house, which was only an hour from our homes.

“Do you think the new homeowners would be OK with it?” Mom asked, topping off her wine.

I shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to ask,” I said. “And if Grandad’s ghost really is there, I guess it’d be rude not to visit.”

We discussed what to say in an email to Kate and even started a draft. But we didn’t get the chance to send it.

Two days later, fires raged through Los Angeles. Thousands of homes burned. Landmarks and businesses were destroyed. Over the coming weeks, at least 31 people lost their lives.

I thought about Kate, who I knew was in the evacuation zone. With small kids to pack for, care for and soothe, I knew she must be stressed and scared. I pictured her in the living room I knew so well, trying to pack family photo albums and her kids’ favorite stuffed animals into a too-small suitcase.

I wasn’t concerned about the house that I spent many weekends visiting. The old wood structure, covered with vines and surrounded by trees, was easy fodder for a fire. I already assumed the place was a goner. But I was worried about my new friend. The house was set back into a hill, with just one way in and out of the neighborhood. One fallen tree or unfortunate stretch of flames and they could all be trapped.

I wasn’t sure if Kate was checking her email, but I sent a quick message anyway, saying I hoped everything was OK. Then I waited.

As the days passed and properties burned, I felt bad that I’d focused so much of my attention on a ghost. It seemed so childish. But there was something about the idea of my grandpa coming back that still sat in the back of my mind.

When I became a mom, I gained so much responsibility. I was the lifeline for the babies I loved so much, who were so small and helpless. It was hard not to be scared. But I couldn’t let myself be afraid of everything. I couldn’t be the parent I wanted to be if I were hiding inside all the time. And anyway, what example was I setting? I didn’t want my girls to be afraid of the world, either.

I wondered if my grandpa came back to encourage me to relax. Maybe he knew his presence would help, or at least serve as a distraction. I realized that, since Kate’s first email, my anxiety had been less overwhelming. Recently, I’d had the urge to make my daughter homemade cinnamon rolls. So early in the morning, before my family was up, I went to the store for ingredients. The rolls were out of the oven before I realized I’d driven myself without fear or hesitation. Whether Grandpa had come back to help me or not, I was feeling better.

Finally, I got a message from Kate. Her family was safe and their home was spared, but many of their friends lost everything. One of her kids’ schools burned down, too. The whole family was shaken, scared, but alive. And after waiting several days for their water to be turned back on, they were finally back home. She was relieved, and so was I.

At the bottom of her email, she admitted that, since moving back in, there’d been no ghost sightings. A couple of times, her kids thought they heard something moving in another room, but no, it was nothing.

“Maybe the fire functioned as a supernatural cleanse,” she suggested in one message.