I am not much of a believer in ghosts but, as I always tell potential interviewees this time of year, I love to hear stories from people who do.

I wasn’t so lucky this year in the story department — and that is not surprising. When I ask people if they know of people who have had experiences with hauntings and the like, most aren’t forthcoming, even if they are believers. They don’t want people to think they’re odd, or they are afraid of their property values plummeting.

So — I was not able to relay any new spooky happenings for this Halloween issue.

However — I do have a story, whatever it might mean.

I live in Osage, in a house built in the 1920s by the town’s then-newspaper editor and publisher. Clint Hill, a respected newsman, was a native of the Mitchell County area, and related to quite a few of the townspeople.

When he died from leukemia in the 1940s, the tributes were long and heartfelt, noting his friendly nature and love of his community.

After several subsequent owners, my husband and I purchased the home about 20 years ago. Although my daughters always thought our dog acted strangely in the home —he had a tendency to bark at corners, which, I agree, was a bit disconcerting — I also knew that Buddy was a bit of a drama queen and acted oddly in lots of different ways. I chalked it up to his general weirdness.

The only other strange thing that happened occurred one night when I was roused from sleep by a chord of music — just one. The chord sounded like it had come from a stringed instrument, as if someone had taken one pass over the strings and suddenly stopped. If it had not sounded so close, I would have thought I had simply imagined it, or that it was part of a dream.

As it turned out, I served as editor of our local paper for a little over two years, following a departure from work at a daily publication in Mason City, Iowa. I was tired of the drive, and thought working in Osage would be easier.

During my last year as editor at the newspaper, I was asked to speak about the newspaper at a family reunion of Clint Hill’s descendants. It was the paper’s 150th anniversary.

I was glad to do so, but I did ask a favor — if the family had any photos of my home, “way back when,” I would love to see them. I invited his grandchildren to a walk-through of my home, if they wished.

As it turned out, they arrived with lots of photos. They came armed with photo albums — both interiors and exteriors of my home from the 1920s and 1930s — and they’re images I will treasure. I pulled out my camera and started snapping photos of photos, delighted at the chance to see the home in earlier years.

But I have to say, there was one photo that gave me pause.

As I paged through the album, I suddenly stopped.

There was a smiling Clint Hill, sitting in a chair — in a corner of the living room, strumming a guitar.

I have to admit, I was a bit startled.

It could have been a coincidence — but … maybe not.

Whatever it was, I’d like to think that the short serenade that brought me out of sleep many years before was nothing eerie — but just a friendly, if musical, “hello.” Just a bit of a leftover good will, still  echoing in the hallways and rooms. From one colleague, to another.

Or, something like that.