Here is a real ghost story from Brooklyn Beat. His blog, Deep in the Heart, of Brooklyn has lots of great stuff to read.

Back in the day, well, sometime in the 1980s, when Reagan was as far-out and far-right a reaction to the Jimmy Carter years that the human mind could contemplate, you could still afford to rent your own apartment in Park Slope
even though you were neither the employee nor scion of a hedge fund.
Anyway, I lived on 7th street between 5th and 6th avenues. It wasn’t a
fancy hipster neighborhood, and as hard as it is to believe, we were
were young once too and were probably the hippest things happening, but
there was El Faro and Polly-O and Save on Fifth, and I was just leaving
a public affairs and marketing writing job at a local hospital (then
known as "the Body Shop"), and taking up freelancing for a number of
film and trade mags, so I guess essentially life was good. I was living
in the first floor of a brownstone; the owners, an older Italian
American couple and their grown sons, lived in the upper floors. The
husband of the couple grew his tomatoes and enjoyed his occasional
chianti which reminded me alot of my maternal grandfather who had
passed away shortly before I moved to this new place.

Once day, after I was living in the building for a year or so, the
elderly husband himself passed away rather suddenly. My girl friend at
the time, the Art Director’s Daughter, and I had spoken to the sons
earlier in the day. It was the first night of the wake, the family left
in the early afternoon and informed us that they would not be returning
until much later in the evening. We were planning to pay our respects
the following night. Anyway, at around 7:00 PM it
started. Footsteps. Nothing but footsteps, loud and clear, walking the
length of the brownstone apartment above. A constant pacing that
started near the front door, walked to the opposite end of the house,
turned and walked back to the door. Slowly, methodically, but
unmistakably.

At first, I believe the radio was on, I could hear this strange
pacing only intermittently (they had no dogs or pets of any kind) ,
until it finally made its way into our consciousness as the Art
Director’s Daughter and I made dinner. I turned off the radio. Then,
when it was very quiet, a chill went up and down my spine as I listened
to the mysterious, relentless pacing.Finally, I went upstairs to knock
on the door, but of course no one answered. I could not see or hear
anyone (or anything) through the door. Since it was clear no one was
ransacking their apartment, there was nothing much else to be done. But
when I returned downstairs, there it was again. We turned on some
music. The Art Director’s Daughter (who was a Red Diaper Baby) was a
big fan of the Weavers and Pete Seeger,
so we cranked up some of that beneficent, positive vibe, good time
hammer and sickle music, and had another glass of wine. I guess between
the clomping, and the wine, and the Weavers, we distracted ourselves
until it either stopped or we took less and less notice of it.

A few hours later, when the family returned from the first night of the
wake, I decided to throw caution to the wind and mention the strange
noises, just in case someone had in fact broken in through a window.The
older son looked at me quizzically but went upstairs first to look
around before his mom got out of the car. Nope. Everything was as it
should be. "Maybe it was a sound from next door through the walls" he
offered good naturedly. We apologized for bothering him, but he said,
no, don’t worry about it, I am glad that you let me know.

But, just as brownstone walls are thick, and floors in old houses can
creak when you walk on them, I was sure that the old man had returned
for a final visit, and was looking to see where his wife had hidden the
chianti.

-By Brooklyn Beat