Have you ever wondered about ghost phenomenon that truly exists as a rumor? I am in high school and I hear a lot of ghost stories by my friends: white ladies, a haunted house, devil spirit, ect. However good the stories are, I never believe that ghosts are real. But I really believe when the inhumane people die, they cannot go to heaven but will go to hell, and never be reincarnated (according to the monks). Yet, what really make up ghost stories? Therefore, I always question myself, “Is the rumor about ghost true? And if my parents say ghost is not true, why people keep talking about it?” To find the answer for my question, my friends and I decide to explore our school’s third floor where the haunted classroom is located. On the appointment day, we are standing, and holding hand of each together in the haunted classroom when a clock points 12:00 pm (a ghost’s time). Ten minute pass, nothing seems to happen in a cold, dark, damp, outdated room beside a scary noise of a cold draught that goes through the chink of a broken window. Twenty minutes pass, there is no ghost. Thirty minutes pass; we still see nothing strange occur, we agree with each other to go back our classroom-feeling hopeless. As we go forward the classroom door, my feet turning flaccid, and my body starting to shake so badly when I hear the footsteps come closer and closer behind us. Nobody is brave enough to look back to see what is happening. Then, a masculine lift his voice with a highest volume, “ What are you doing in here? You should know that nobody allows entering this room.” We know that is the voice of a guardian, but we do not want to get caught so we run as quickly as we can. After our ghost hunter failure, my notion about ghost existence is still vague-ghost just exists in human imagination.
At the age of eighteen, I first experience the loss of my loved one-my grandfather dies. In Vietnamese culture, when somebody dies their sprit will stay in the house for ninety days and they will not know that they are dead until ninety days. Therefore, my grandmother has to cook for my grandfather as he is alive: the bowl of rice, the chopstick, the spoon, and the napkin have been set up for him like usual. To reduce my grandmother’s sadness, I stay with my grandmother every day. From the day my grandfather dies, everything seems so sad. “He is gone”, my grandmother says. On the seventh days, a strong noise wakes my grandmother and I up in the midnight, we hear the sound of a chair dragging, and the slipper steps listlessly upstairs (just two of us stay in the house). At first, we think it must be a theft, so I let my grandmother in the room with a cell-phone, and bring a knife with me. While I quietly move forward to an unexpected sound, my heart beat so fast, and the sweat from both hands make me holding a knife unsteady. I think I will be in trouble if there is a real theft in the house right now; I locate the room that has the noise and get all the courage I can, trampling the door vigorously. But no one is there; it is just an empty room which full of the memories—my grandfather’s smell still remain in his room and his pictures is still hanging above his bed—about my grandfather. On the next night, we hear the sound again, yet I do not come to check. The sounds just happen only ten minutes and it repeats every night in the same mode for two months. I know my grandfather is now staying with us. My grandmother can feel his presence in the house every moment. The fearful feeling of ghost is now disappearing on me likes a miracle, I am not afraid on my grandfather ghost. Indeed, my grandmother and I earnestly want to see him again no matter if he is a ghost now. Of course, that will never happen. The day a flock of birds come to my grandmother’s house is the day my grandfather goes to heaven, all the weird sound have gone with him returning a silent sound every night. On the summer last year, I went back to Vietnam to visit my