By Rosemarie DiCristo

At the stroke of midnight, I sat with my nose pressed against the window of Gran’s bedroom, watching Elvira glide out of our house and into the snow-draped beauty of Buffalo’s Delaware Park.

Gran saw her, too, and shouted, “No, sweetie, come back! He’s not there. He’ll never be there!”

Gran rarely got out of bed now, but the sight of Elvira—her sister—always made her rise to peer out the window and shout those words, or similar ones. Then she’d sink down, laying limp against the pillows when Elvira didn’t stop.

Elvira couldn’t. Because she was a ghost.

I’d never met her when she was alive but saw her plenty of times after she was dead. Elvira would appear at the stroke of midnight every time it snowed, reenacting the night he abandoned her.

March 15, 1956. The night Elvira froze to death, waiting to elope with a man who never came.

Gran never talked about what happened, but I’d pieced together bits of the story­—and his name, Peter DiVincenzo—from listening to Gran’s sobbing appeals for Elvira to stop going out into the dark, snowy night. But her sister couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hear.

As a little kid, I covered my eyes every time Elvira flitted into the park. Later, I watched in fascination. Now that I was eleven and grown up, I vowed to be the one to stop Elvira’s roaming.

The second Elvira crossed Nottingham Terrace and started down the tree-lined path into the park, I sped after her, just as I’d done every time it had snowed.

As usual, it was easy to catch up. Even though Elvira floated quickly, she stopped under a particular white pine, where the path turned into the woods, waiting to meet Peter.

She always wore the same outfit—a black chiffon skirt that flared out to her ankles, a deep-red jacket that flared at her waist, and totally inappropriate red satin pumps with pointy toes and teeny-tiny heels. And, as always, she looked at me with a face whiter than the snow, her sad, dark eyes probing mine.

It was then that I’d confront her.

“He’s not coming, Elvira. Go home.”

“He’s abandoned you. Abandon him.”

“Why are you even here? It’s not that day, just an ordinary snowy day.”

“Don’t you know you’re dead?”

She never responded. She just continued to relive that night: getting colder, shivering harder, waiting forever…

I always took off running before the end came.

Last night, though, was a little different.

Peter DiVincenzo. The name was all I had, and I’d vowed to prove to Elvira he was a stinking rat fink who didn’t deserve her going out to meet him forever. But when I found Elvira’s online high school yearbook, it was loaded with photos of her and Peter, in newspaper club, performing a show called My Sister Eileen, at homecoming. They always looked ecstatic… and totally in love.

Why did he leave her? Gran never answered that. Would Elvira?

I confronted her with the printouts as the frosty air swirled around us.

“I know you loved him. I guess maybe he loved you,” I said to her blank eyes and cold, white face. “What happened?”

No reaction.

“That was seventy years ago. Forget him.”

Silence.

Gran’s frail voice drifted out from behind us. “Sweetie, stop this madness, so when I die, I’ll see you in Heaven, not trapped on Earth.”

If Elvira heard her, she didn’t act like it.

“If you won’t stop roaming for him, do it for Gran!” I screamed. “Don’t you care this is killing her?”

Same blank face, but there was a tiny flicker in Elvira’s eyes, like she’d finally heard and, maybe, understood.

Then she turned from me and the shivering started.

Crying for her and Gran, and maybe even for me, I ran back into the house.

Today, I searched like crazy, checking microfilm and yellowed, bound newspapers, Googling constantly, hoping I could find a Peter DiVincenzo alive somewhere and ask him why he deserted my great-aunt on the day they were supposed to marry.

Then, finally, I saw it.

Something caught my eye, part of a name. His name. I scrolled back.

“DNA Testing Solves Decades-old Mystery.”

A cold case, one that had tormented traffic cop Vincent Rodriguez ever since he’d found a man who’d been killed in a hit and run one snowy night in March 1956, was solved last month when a genetic profile developed by researchers identified the man as Peter DiVincenzo…

What? But the newspaper was the Toronto Sun.

I scrolled down, reading hurriedly.

… scientists, using forensic evidence found at the scene…

… results led investigators to possible relatives in Waukegan, IL…

… samples were collected…

… positively identified…

Positively.

Identified.

Peter had been in a hit-and-run on a lonely Toronto street, and apparently he’d had his pockets picked while he lay there, because there was no wallet or ID. But the article continued. “Whoever robbed DiVincenzo neglected to find the diamond engagement ring hidden in a zippered compartment in his belt…”

Holy Moly!

I printed the page and showed it to Gran, but she was so weak it didn’t register.

I had to tell Elvira.

As flurries flew, I raced out after her, shoved the printout into her face, and shouted, “He was coming here with your diamond ring when he was killed! He didn’t abandon you.”

There was a pause, a flicker… and then, a smile.

Then Elvira’s form shimmered and disappeared.

When I got home, I found Gran pressed against the window. “My sweetie’s at peace,” she whispered. Then Gran settled back against the pillows and was at peace, too.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ghost stories scare Rosemarie DiCristo. But she’s pretty sure she’s encountered several real ghosts over the years: in the house she lived in as a teenager; in the second floor hallway of her high school; in the office building where she currently works (it’s built on an old graveyard); and most notably, in the Omni King Edward hotel in Toronto where, among other things, she saw a white film-y object float past early one morning.

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