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Anonymous had an experience with a Ghost near Orlando, Florida, U.S.A. in 2008.

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Anonymous had an experience with a Ghost near Orlando, Florida, U.S.A. in 2008. Here is her story:

My husband had died suddenly and unexpectedly two weeks before, leaving me with two children, ages 8 and 9. For them, I was a strong, dependable rock; for me, I was hurt and lonely and a little afraid.

The day had been cold and would get colder as the evening wore on, so when the kids got home from school and my daughter said her class was studying frogs and she had to go out and find one, I told her no self-respecting frog would stick his snout out in weather like that. We lived in a large housing development of large houses and the closest place she could look was a creek half a mile away. Still, in weather like that, she'd never find a frog. Besides, I explained as I hugged her, I just didn't feel like going to the creek and I wouldn't let her and her brother go alone. BUT, I suggested, no one else would find a frog either that evening, so why didn't we go to the store after dinner and buy marzipan and make baby frogs she could take to school the next day. She loved the idea, so after dinner, off we went to the grocery store. I'd do a little food shopping too, so I left the porch light on, because it would be dark by the time we got back.

When we got home, there was a small pile of something on the door mat; as I turned into the circular drive and got closer, the small pile turned out to be a large--I mean LARGE--frog! All three of us were stunned. That was a BIG frog, really BIG. We planned. The kids would creep up on him from either side and I would take off my coat and hold it out, ready to catch him whichever way he jumped. The plan was in progress and going well when my daughter considered the situation and just walked right up to the creature and picked him up. Oh, what the hey! he was so cold he couldn't move anyway. But from the tip of his nose to his little webbed feet, he had to be over a foot long.

We had an extra aquarium in the garage, so she could take him to school in that, and he could warm up. Into the aquarium went the frog and a dish of water and some breadcrumbs. Ok, I couldn't find a fly and no pet store was open. He'd be fine. We sat down at the kitchen table to make some candy frogs, and we knew who would be the star pupil the next day.

As we shaped the little guys and my son painted them with dilute food coloring, I remarked, "I wonder where that frog came from?" Without a pause, my daughter said cooly, "Oh, I asked Dad to bring him." I never argued.

The next day, the frog was the talk of the school as soon as we got there. But later, at home, I sat down at my husband's piano and put my fingers on the keys, but I couldn't play. I couldn't see the music on the page for the tears in my eyes. A coolness came over me, but not an unpleasant chill, and I felt hands over my own.

The next day, I went to the base exchange (my husband had been in the Marine Corps) to buy something very specific, so I wasn't going to look around--I didn't have time for that. We had often gone there, and we knew many of the salespeople by sight if not by name. I prepared two checks, the extra in case I saw something else I wanted, although I wasn't going to "shop" as such. As I passed the jewelry counter, I glanced into the case. What a pretty pearl ring, I thought, and continued to the other side of the store. On my way out, I glanced at the case again. Really pretty. I got to the door and couldn't go through it; maybe I should just ask how much it is, I thought. So I went to the jewelry counter and asked the saleswoman, who I'd never seen before, about the ring, a grape-shaped cluster of pearls with a small gold leaf and vine lying over them. She told me the price and I decided to buy it since if I didn't, I'd just keep thinking about it. I wrote the check. She looked at the check and asked if my husband was a soft-spoken man with a spanish accent. Confused by the question,I told her he was.

"He came in just before Valentine's Day and asked us to keep what he bought," she said, pulling from under the counter by the register a small box with a piece of paper held around it by a rubber band. On the paper was my husband's name. "He said it was a Valentine's Day gift, but he never came back."

"He died," I aaid quietly as she handed me the box. I opened it, and there was the ring I couldn't leave the exchange without. The two of us looked at each other with tears in our eyes and she said very quietly, "He's still with you."

That was over thirty years ago. The children grew up, married, had children of their own, and now those children are almost grown. Life went on as life does, with joy and gratitude, and occasional sorrow. I learned that the greatest monument to our loved ones is not a piece of marble marking a grave, but what we make of our lives because we were loved.

Not all ghost stories are scary, not all are chilling. Not all speak of spirits bound to this earth in an angry, unhappy search for completion. Some ghost stories bring a settled assurance of remembrance--love stories, speaking of one last kiss and the comfort of devotion that lasts an eternal lifetime.

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