I don’t believe in ghosts. Really, I don’t. Ghosts are scary and when I think about ghosts, horror movies come to mind and I don’t like horror flicks. I have never been in a haunted house – the ones around Halloween for kicks don’t count, do they? – and I honestly don’t believe that ghosts roam the earth wearing white sheets in disguise.

However, something happened to me that made me accept that paranormal things are possible. After all, paranormal simply means beyond normal so believing that unexplainable things can and do happen doesn’t make me seem odd. I guess you could say that I am a skeptic but I respect the fact that strange things happen to ordinary people, things that are not easy to explain. I know this because something strange happened to me.

I live near an old cemetery in a well-established neighborhood in the original part of the city. My apartment building is old, a brick four story building that dates back to the 1920′s when it was a fashionable place to live. And it still is – the Ashland Flats are clean and comfortable. In fact, the building is so avant-garde that it is still trendy. No roaches or mice would dare to scamper through the marble-floored entryway. My three rooms are huge, with big windows that let in the sunlight. All in all, it is a comfortable place to live.

When I first moved there, my friend ribbed me about the view of the cemetery but I don’t mind it. Unless a funeral is in progress, it looks like a big, open park except for the gravestones lined in neat rows. Big, aged trees line the quiet lane that meanders through the green space. Birds trill their songs in the early morning and I enjoy watching the wind whisper through the huge cedar trees in the oldest section.

After just a few days, I realized that the cemetery was an ideal place to walk Bitsy, my Westie. Not very many others walk in the cemetery and the few that do are harmless, senior citizens getting their daily exercise, a couple of mothers pushing strollers, the occasional history buff and me. We nod, we wave, and maybe say “good morning” and that’s it.

I moved in last spring and all summer long, Bitsy and I took our walks in the cemetery, twice a day, morning and evening. As I became familiar with the place, I noticed the unique landmarks like the angel over a grave from the 1800′s, the giant marble cross that marks a family plot, and the Confederate soldier. He stands guard over the area where the Confederate dead and war veterans lie. I nicknamed him “Johnny Reb”, the name used back then for Confederate soldiers and each day as I passed, I admired how well made the statue was. It was a memorial and I suppose the guy on the pedestal represented all the men who fought in the Civil War.

Carved from gray granite, Johnny Reb is man-sized although he stands on a stone pedestal about four feet off the ground. He wears a slouch hat, a uniform, and holds a rifle in one hand. His face looks real; the eyes, nose, and mouth are well defined. In fact, his face looks very real except it is made of stone. And, I have to admit that it is a handsome face but then that maybe lonely me dreaming because since my divorce (and very brief marriage) I have not dated much.

Most of the guys I have gone out with are shallow, interested in sports and sex. While I don’t mind sex with the right partner and under certain circumstances, I never have been a girl to do the deed just to do it. I keep searching for the kind of man that will be thoughtful, considerate, caring, and have a few interests that do not involve a season, sporting or hunting.

That’s why when I noticed a new face among the walkers in the cemetery I was interested. He stood out among the old ladies, retired men, and young mothers. He did not walk but strode along the narrow drive with purpose and muscles. Each time he met me, he would tip his hat to me, a sweet archaic custom that I liked a lot. Then he would greet me and I would answer. Soon we started walking in tandem but he always stayed in the cemetery after Bitsy and I left. I would look back through the gate, wave, and go inside the building.

He never mentioned baseball, football, or basketball. He talked about playing chess and identified the songbirds for me. Once or twice, we talked about classic novels we had read, books by Dickens and Herman Melville. Since my minor in college was English Lit, I was enthralled. I began looking forward to meeting him each day and wondered when or if he might ask me on a date. The attraction seemed mutual but we never progressed past our daily walks and talks.

Even now, I can describe him with perfect detail. His eyes were a soft grey, his nose Roman and his face as chiseled as an old time Western movie star like John Wayne. His lips were full. When we first met, we exchanged first names so I was always “Miss Chelsea” to him and I called him John.

I think I was in love with him and I shudder to think where our relationship might have gone if I had not noticed something out of the ordinary one day. As we strolled beneath the old cedar trees chatting about a pair of cardinals flitting through the branches, scarlet against the dark green, I glanced up as we passed the Confederate memorial and gasped.

The pedestal where Johnny Reb stood guard over his fallen comrades was empty. The statue was gone.

“Look!” I cried, extending my finger to point. “John, the statue is gone!”

John did not answer me and when I turned to look at him, he was gone. I called his name a few times and looked around for him. I was worried – he had never gone off without a word before and like I said, I had always been the first to leave. Wondering if he had got sick or fallen or something, I began searching for him and that was when I saw that the Johnny Reb statue was back in place.

“What?” I said aloud. I didn’t understand. Was I losing my mind? The statue had been gone and now it was back. That seemed crazy, stranger even than John’s sudden exist until I stopped, struck by a revelation.

Although the late October day was warm, I was cold. Fingers of ice traced the length of my spine and I shuddered. As I stared up from the ground, I realized that Johnny Reb’s features were identical to John’s. The face I had come to know so well belonged to a statue. John was not real; he was Johnny Reb but I was at a loss to understand how he could have come down from his pedestal and walked with me.

Nevertheless, the fact that he did terrified me and I grabbed Bitsy up in my arms. We ran back to the apartment and my knees buckled as soon as I was safe inside the door. I sat and trembled; I even called in sick at work, something I never do unless I am very ill and need to see a doctor. I think I was in shock and for hours, I sat at the window and stared at the Confederate memorial. Johnny Reb did not move; he remained a silent sentinel and I spent the rest of the day in bed. By the next morning, most of the horror had faded and it all seemed like a strange dream. It was not though.

I don’t walk in the cemetery any more. Bitsy and I found a park about eight blocks away but it is worth the extra walk to me to go there. The longer walk is healthier too, I am sure. I moved my entertainment center in front of the window that overlooks the cemetery and I never look out because I would not want to see John – or Johnny Reb – strolling through the lanes

He might wave or something and that would be too much for me.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

I don’t.

But something happened to me that I cannot explain and so I know that paranormal things can happen to plain old gals like me.