Bob Sherman

also writes an educational and financial column for

Thursday after school, I rang the nursing home doorbell and let myself in. Holy horse feathers, you wouldn’t believe the staircase! It’s seriously huge and fills my whole field of vision. If I wanted to look at something else, I’d have to turn my head like an owl. First, you’re standing on a polished marble floor like in a Newport mansion but with carpets, and then you just gawk your eyes out at this colossal staircase with white balusters and dark mahogany railings spiraling up to the second floor. I mean, it was like the graceful arc of a swan’s neck when they’re not squawking or giving you the evil-eye. Then the weirdest thing happened. Someone or something in a white robe glided across the entire length of the balcony without looking up, down, or sideways, then disappeared out-of-sight. I was sure it had to be a ghost, though it being my first, I had little experience by which to judge such things.

from The Train Station by Bob Sherman (North Cove Press)