My grandmother died in her bed at our home of liver cancer, in 1959, and I watched it happen. Afterwards I never saw any apparitions or signs, though I lived there for another 10 years.
On the other hand, I always thought the basement of that same house was haunted. I would play down there in the snowy winter, with my Lionel trains, and later my slot cars (c.1962) that were all there on tables.
But I would get cold chills, and a terrible fright, running up the stairs screaming, and often throw myself into my grandmother's arms, while she was still alive. I was very afraid of that basement, and of one place in particular.
A place where I later tried twice to commit suicide, obviously unsuccessfully, and unbeknownst to my family. Following my worst motorcycle accident, which left me disfigured, and mentally impaired, not unlike a stroke victim, which I partially remain to this day. Right afterwards I enlisted in the Army during Vietnam, figuring the Vietcong could do the job I didn't have the guts to do myself, plus I might be remembered as a hero.
Many years later, when I had already retired from the Army in the 1990s, my sister told me about our Grandfather. I'd always been told he died young, at 52, of some form of circulatory failure, in 1947.
Not true, my sister said. He hanged himself, in the basement of that same house, in the very spot where I would get scared, and where I tried to commit suicide myself, that she knew nothing about. He never recovered from being financially ruined during the Great Depression, nor from when his only son, my namesake Uncle, was killed in France during WWII. Shortly after my Uncle's body was "repatriated" from France for reburial in the US my Grandfather hung himself 2 years before I was born, in that very spot that always scared me as a kid.
Can you imagine my shock at hearing this? Talk about spooky!
Well, I dunno. Maybe coincidence, I can't say. I'm not into the supernatural. But it does make me wonder...