I never believed in the afterlife, nor did I believe in the existence of ghosts. After the final heartbeat, one finishes their journey on Earth and sinks into the deep darkness of death. As soon as they are buried six feet under the ground, or their ashes being kept in that little casket, they no longer exist in the world, neither physically or spiritually.

And I would never admit that the true reason I did not believe in ghosts was that I was deeply traumatized by the Universal Studios haunted house experience when I was eleven, screaming and fleeing from the place in fear.

I’d rather ghosts didn’t exist, so that it was just visual stimulation and sound effects. That’s all.

But I saw my grandmother as a ghost.

Not long after she passed away, I had not yet recovered from the loss of one of the most important people in my life. With my parents working a 9 to 5 job every day when I was a kid, she was the only person in my household taking care of me. She was a great babysitter, chef, house cleaner and tutor, and I spent almost every day of my childhood reading in her arms, feeling the warmth of her body and the rose hair oil from her hair.

I couldn’t believe a small heart attack took her away from me, the sweet, gentle old lady that spoiled me so badly that I did not have to worry about anything in my life.

Yet she was gone, forever, kept in that little casket. Those ashes that were light as a feather.

In Chinese culture we held a ceremony for the dead for seven weeks, a total of forty-nine days. For the past forty eight days, I wished she would come back to me like she always did every morning, with bags of groceries in her hand and rushing into my house. It would be a relief even if she came into my dream, for once.

But she never did. She vanished into the darkness. And I never believed in ghosts, so she was gone forever.

On the forty-ninth day, I heard the familiar footsteps at the door, the smell of home-cooked meals from the kitchen, and the sound of vacuum all over the house. 

I knew she was back.

I would've screamed, cried, ran away from the house like I did in the haunted house a few years ago. But I stood there, just emerging myself into the familiar warmth.

I felt a sudden weight on my body. It was her usual hugs, so tight that I couldn’t breathe. I knew she would come back to me. I knew she would’ve never left for the darkness without saying goodbye to her favorite baby, lazy girl, little fattie, her granddaughter.

I still don’t believe in ghosts, and I am still traumatized by haunted houses. But I know that every ghost is someone being deeply missed by another person, and they come back for a reason. Not for revenge or murder like those depicted in the haunted house, but just for a last tight hug, a last look into the eyes, a last farewell.