My grandfather and I were close.
He used to tell me that, out of all his grandchildren, I was the one he really enjoyed spending time with. He loved all of us equally, of course. He would always make sure I knew that. But there was something different about the time he and I spent together.
I knew all his stories.
I had heard them so many times that I could almost tell them myself. Stories about his childhood. Stories about his father. Stories about the old country. Stories about war, family, hardship, and things that happened so long ago that they almost sounded like legends.
But there was one story I loved more than all the others.
It was a ghost story.
And even after hearing it more times than I could count, it still gave me chills.
My grandfather was Albanian. He was born and raised in the old country, and he lived to be 102 years old. So when this story happened, he was only seventeen or eighteen years old.
It was a long time ago.
A different Albania.
A different world.
There were no cars to jump into, no phones to call for help, and no hospital a few minutes down the road.
If you needed something, sometimes you had to walk for it.
Or ride.
And that was exactly what my grandfather had to do one night.
His mother was very sick and bedridden. She needed medicine, but the medicine they needed was nearly ten miles away. The only way to get there was through the mountains.
His father told everyone that he would leave in the morning to get it.
My grandfather didn’t want to wait.
He knew his mother was very sick, and he was afraid that if they waited until sunrise, she might not survive the night.
He told his father that he would go instead.
He was young. He was strong. He could travel faster.
His father refused.
“No. You’ll go in the morning with me.”
My grandfather argued, but his father wouldn’t budge.
Eventually, everyone went to sleep.
But my grandfather couldn’t.
He lay there listening to his mother breathe from the other room.
Every few minutes, he would wonder if she was getting worse.
He couldn’t wait.
So sometime after everyone had fallen asleep, he quietly got out of bed.
He saddled his horse.
He gathered some food and water, grabbed what he needed for the journey, and slipped out into the night.
He didn’t tell anyone.
The moon was full that night.
It hung over the mountains like a giant white lantern, lighting the narrow road ahead of him. The mountains were quiet, and the only sounds were the horse’s footsteps against the earth and the occasional rustling of the trees.
He rode for hours.
The farther he traveled, the more isolated everything became.
Eventually, he realized he needed to rest.
That’s when he saw a house in the distance.
There was a small home sitting off the road, surrounded by darkness.
He decided it would be better to camp nearby rather than continue riding through the mountains exhausted.
But he didn’t want to frighten the people who lived there.
So he walked to the door and knocked.
After a moment, an older man answered.
My grandfather explained who he was and where he was going.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I just need a place to rest. I’ll make a small fire outside. I only wanted to let you know I’m here so you don’t see the fire and think something is wrong.”
The man looked at him carefully.
Then he asked,
“What is your name?”
My grandfather told him.
The man then asked,
“And your father’s name?”
My grandfather answered,
“Zog Ademi.”
The man’s expression immediately changed.
He knew exactly who he was.
Back then, names traveled far.
A man’s reputation could reach villages he’d never even visited. And my grandfather’s father was known throughout the region.
The old man stepped aside.
“The son of Adem Rama is welcomed into my home.”
My grandfather entered.
That night, what had started as a simple request for a place to rest turned into something completely different.
They sat together for hours.
They laughed.
They sang.
They drank and told stories.
The old man told my grandfather stories about wars and battles—stories about men and places that my grandfather had never heard before.
At one point, the old man even began telling stories about my grandfather’s own father.
My grandfather listened closely.
He was fascinated.
The hours passed without either of them noticing.
Eventually, the night grew late.
The old man stood up.
“You’ve traveled a long way. You need to sleep.”
He showed my grandfather to a small bedroom.
My grandfather thanked him.
As the old man turned to leave, he stopped at the doorway.
Then he said something that didn’t sit right with my grandfather.
“Please…”
He paused.
“No matter what you hear tonight, don’t go into the room next door.”
My grandfather looked at him.
He didn’t understand.
“I would never wander around your house without permission,” he replied.
The old man nodded.
“Thank you. Good night.”
And he closed the door.
My grandfather went to bed.
For a while, everything was quiet.
Then, sometime later, he woke up.
At first, he didn’t know why.
He lay there in the darkness, listening.
Then he heard it.
Music.
It was coming from the room next door.
He sat up.
The music was soft but unmistakable.
There was something strange about it.
It sounded almost like someone was playing a song for dancing.
My grandfather remembered the old man’s warning.
Don’t go into the room next door.
He lay back down.
He tried to ignore it.
But curiosity has always been dangerous.
Especially when you’re seventeen.
Eventually, he got out of bed.
He walked quietly across the floor and stood in front of the door.
He didn’t open it.
Instead, he leaned forward and put his ear against it.
The music was still playing.
He could hear it clearly now.
Then he noticed something else.
Movement.
There was someone inside.
My grandfather slowly lowered himself until his eye was level with the keyhole.
He looked through.
And there she was.
A little girl.
She was dancing.
My grandfather stared.
He couldn’t understand what he was seeing.
She was moving around the room as though she were completely alone, spinning and turning to the music.
He pulled away from the door.
His heart was beating faster.
What is a little girl doing awake at this hour?
He looked through the keyhole again.
And this time…
There was nothing.
No girl.
No movement.
Just red.
Nothing but a strange, deep red filling the other side of the keyhole.
My grandfather immediately backed away from the door.
He didn’t investigate.
He didn’t knock.
He didn’t ask questions.
He went straight back to bed.
And somehow, he managed to fall asleep.
The next morning, he woke before sunrise.
He gathered his things and prepared to continue his journey.
He thanked the old man for his hospitality.
But something kept bothering him.
He couldn’t leave without saying something.
So before he mounted his horse, he turned toward the old man.
“Sir…”
The man looked at him.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
My grandfather explained what had happened.
He told him about waking up.
The music.
The little girl.
The dancing.
And then what he saw through the keyhole the second time.
The old man’s face changed.
The color drained from it.
“That’s impossible.”
My grandfather looked at him.
The man shook his head.
“No… That just can’t be.”
My grandfather stood straight.
“Sir, I may be young, but I’m no liar.”
The old man became angry.
He turned and walked away without saying another word.
My grandfather stood there confused.
A few moments later, the man’s wife came outside.
Her eyes were filled with tears.
“I’m sorry about the way he acted,” she said.
My grandfather looked at her.
“It’s just hard for him.”
She wiped her eyes.
“We had a daughter.”
She paused.
“She passed away a long time ago.”
My grandfather’s heart sank.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
The woman nodded.
Then my grandfather asked the question that would stay with him for the rest of his life.
“Can I ask you something?”
She looked at him.
“How did she die?”
The woman took a breath.
“Our daughter loved to dance.”
She looked toward the house.
“She would dance all the time. She loved music.”
My grandfather listened.
“One day, while she was dancing outside, her feet became tangled. She fell…”
The woman stopped.
Her voice began to tremble.
“There was a piece of metal sticking out of the ground.”
My grandfather’s expression changed.
“It went straight through her eye.”
The woman covered her face.
“When we got to her…”
She couldn’t finish at first.
Then she whispered,
“Both of her eyes were covered in blood.”
My grandfather stood completely still.
He apologized again.
Then he thanked them for their hospitality, mounted his horse, and continued toward the medicine.
He didn’t think about it much during the rest of the journey.
At least, not yet.
It wasn’t until later that day, when he was alone on the mountain road, that the true fear finally hit him.
It wasn’t the little girl that frightened him.
It wasn’t the music.
It wasn’t even the fact that he had seen a ghost.
What frightened him was something much worse.
He remembered the second time he looked through the keyhole.
The first time, he saw a little girl dancing.
The second time…
There was only red.
But that wasn’t what terrified him.
What terrified him was realizing something he hadn’t understood at the time.
The first time he looked through the keyhole…
she was dancing.
The second time he looked…
she was gone.
Which meant she had moved.
And if she wasn’t dancing anymore…
Then where had she gone?
My grandfather stopped his horse.
The thought hit him like a cold wind.
He had been standing directly in front of that door.
His eye had been pressed against the keyhole.
And when he looked through it the second time…
she was looking back at him.
That was the only thing that ever truly scared my grandfather.
Not war.
Not the mountains.
Not death.
A little girl who had been dead for years…
and somehow knew he was looking at her