This isn't one of the really scary stories I have read, but it was scary enough for me.
On February 28, 1966 my father was killed in an accident at work. I was 11 years old. About 6 months after his death my family moved to a different house in my hometown of New Martinsville, West Virginia.
In January of 1967 I was home from school due to illness. My sister and brother had gone to school and my mom had to run errands so I was tucked up on the living room couch with juice to drink and the television to watch.
I was watching television when I heard the screen door on the side of the house open. I thought this was strange because my mom had made me lock both the screen door and the regular door on the side of our house as she was leaving. I was frightened, but I knew the regular door was bolted so I was in no danger. Then, the side door swung open. I not only heard the squeaky hinges on the door, but also saw the shadow of the door opening move across the dining room floor.
I sat there on the couch frozen with fear. I kept telling myself that this wasn't really happening and then I heard the footsteps in the kitchen. They were slow and deliberate, but not as if someone was sneaking into the house.
I decided to just lay back down on the couch and pretend to be asleep. I couldn't get myself to get off the couch or to even look towards the kitchen doorway. I think I was praying that whoever was walking in the kitchen would go down the hallway to the bedrooms, but they stopped just where the kitchen opened into the living room.
Then to my horror I heard a noise I hadn't heard in almost a year. My father had a peculiar way of clearing his throat and that was what I heard. I don't remember what I was thinking at the time, perhaps I wasn't thinking at all, but when the noise came a second time I found myself compelled to turn and look towards the kitchen.
Standing in the doorway was my father! Not as he had been dressed when he was buried, but in his work clothes. He was completely three dimensional and as solid as any living person you might meet. He smiled a somewhat sad smile and I began to scream. You see, the only feeling I associated with my father was fear, and to see him there in front of me flooded me with total terror.
I don't know how long I screamed. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. The next thing I knew my mother was yelling and trying to break down the door to get in the house. You see all the doors were locked from the inside after all.
I came to my senses enough to finally get off the couch and the doors open. I fell into my mother's arms completely hysterical. I told her what had happened, but she didn't believe me and insisted that I had had a bad dream. No one believed me for a long time. Then my sister finally admitted that she had seen our father too. After that it didn't matter if anyone believed me. I knew that what I had seen was real.