In this small town, my family and I had lived at several places, before settling down in a house on Pennsylvania Ave. A very quiet neighborhood, my folks quickly made friends with those all around.
In the house on the left of ours lived an old woman named Lucy. She and my parents got along splendidly. Her husband had died about two years prior1, and having no family close by, we became sort of a surrogate family. Lucy and her husband had bought their house and property in the 1940's. Her husband loved to tinker around the house and yard, but the yard was his real passion. He gave meticulous2 care all year long, while she would type letters to distant relatives about the progress being made.
Lucy's husband brought the yard to a beautiful state. Everybody admired and remarked on its condition. When he died Lucy thought it befitting to spread his ashes in the back yard, the place where he had spent countless3 hours. But after some time Lucy was convinced4 that her husband had come back to his yard. She was especially frightened of the sprawling5 back yard where he had spent many daylight hours. Lucy would tell us of hearing the sound of footsteps6 coming across the grass or of someone
