In this small town, my family and I lived in several places before settling in a house on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was a quiet neighborhood, and my parents quickly made friends with everyone around.
An elderly woman named Lucy lived in the house to our left. She and my parents got along splendidly. Her husband had died about two years prior, and with no family nearby, we became a sort of surrogate family for her. Lucy and her husband had bought their house in the 1940s. Her husband loved to tinker around the house and yard, but the yard was his true passion. He gave it meticulous care year-round, while Lucy would type letters to distant relatives, updating them on their life.
Lucy's husband transformed the yard into a thing of beauty, admired by all. When he died, Lucy thought it fitting to spread his ashes in the backyard—the place where he had spent countless hours. However, after some time, Lucy became convinced that her husband had returned to his yard. She grew especially frightened of the now-sprawling backyard where he had spent so many days. She told us of hearing footsteps on the grass or feeling a tap on her shoulder. She began to avoid the area, saying simply, "It just spooks me out."
The following years were lonely for Lucy. We often invited her to our house for family gatherings, but it couldn't fill the void left by her loss. She spent most of her time typing letters to family and friends on an old typewriter. In the spring and summer, with our windows open, we could hear the steady sound of her typing.
After Lucy passed away, her house remained vacant for a long time. Before the new owners moved in, my father did some repairs inside. He often said he heard footsteps on the old hardwood floors. But we all knew something was truly happening when we heard the unmistakable striking of typewriter keys. Lucy had returned to type her ghostly letters. I suppose you could say that neither Lucy nor her husband was willing to give up the things they loved most.