The ghost in the cabin

When I first moved to Gerrardstown, a quiet village on the Virginia line, my wife and I bought an old house on the main street near the Corner Grocery. The original part of the house was a log cabin built about 1804. There had been many additions over the years, with the last in the 1860s making it a two story woodframe. But the original log cabin remained as the kitchen with the exposed log walls and original very wide floor boards. When we moved in, we thought the house lovely. But curious things would happen. One night my wife heard the back door -- an old-fashioned affair made of boards and with a cast iron latch -- open with it's distinct metallic snick. She called down the narrow stairs to me -- except I had just stepped out of the shower in the upstairs bathroom. I wrapped a towel around and crept down the stairs with a shillelagh held ready to strike. I saw nothing and heard no one. The back door was closed. I drew the bolt of it shut and put it down to her imagination or the wind or one of the three cats or the dog. Speaking of the pets, there would be times when the animals would all be together in the living room, sitting near us as we read. It could be disconcerting to see all four animals suddenly raise their heads and follow together as if watching something or someone walk across the room without us seeing anything, not even a lady bug flying. A month after moving in the previous owner stopped by with his truck for he was still removing items from the barn. He asked how we liked the house. I told him we loved it, but, in a joking manner, I wish he had told us about the ghost. Instead of laughing, his face drew ashen. "What do you mean?" he asked. So my wife and I told him of the events I related above. He told me he and his wife always had a feeling the house was haunted. He said they heard strange sounds on occasion and other occurances, but he did not go into specifics. But he did not joke about the house being haunted.