MORE TOP RANKED STORIES WE THINK YOU'LL ENJOY:
- The Ditch ★ 9.54 Rating (13 votes)
- Come and Play ★ 9.53 Rating (17 votes)
- Colorado Fishing Trip ★ 9.5 Rating (20 votes)
- Creak ★ 9.5 Rating (14 votes)
- The Maid ★ 9.47 Rating (15 votes)
- Ubloo, Part Five ★ 9.47 Rating (15 votes)
- Human Nature ★ 9.44 Rating (50 votes)
- Bedtime II: The Aftermath ★ 9.43 Rating (21 votes)
- Scratching ★ 9.43 Rating (21 votes)
- Nihil ★ 9.42 Rating (12 votes)
This really did happen to me, and although I’m not haunted by the memory, it still freaks me out and I’m pretty much out of rational explanations. I don’t know if this is going to be freaky to any of you, but I can tell you that my irrational paranoia of the dark worsened after this.
So, as a kid, I was always afraid of the dark and I still am, however it was a pretty insane fear when I was younger. I didn’t really believe in ghosts or whatever they’re correctly called, and I still am sceptical now, but this one prominent incident has made my perspective change from on the fence to experienced.
I was eight years old, and every night was a struggle for me to go to sleep. I would get scared of every little noise, and if I was fast asleep I would wake up from every little noise, too. I used to have a single bed that was placed directly in front of my door, which I always leave open when I sleep.
I remember waking up in the middle of the night and just sitting upright (with my legs still stretched out, though) and rubbing my eyes. Obviously, my room was pitch black and I couldn’t see anything, however, this time I did see something. After rubbing my eyes I was surprised to find what I automatically assumed was my mother sitting at the end of my bed. The reason why I assumed it was my mother, was because ‘it’ had the same curly hair, wore the same type of pyjamas that my mother would wear, and wore glasses…like my mother always did–however, she looked extremely pale, and more like the colour of a dead corpse that you’d find in an ocean. She was not facing me, but I could see her side-portrait as she was sitting extremely still and silent and facing another wall. Obviously, I had no clue why she was just sitting at the end of my bed in the first place.
Being the considerate child I was, I asked her what was wrong. She did not blink once, and she did not move at all…she was still facing the other wall and I immediately got a bit heated as I thought my own mother was ignoring me. So I asked her the same thing, and got the same response. I reached out to her thigh and tapped it, trying to get her to face me, and at the same time I touched my ‘mother’ I asked her again what was wrong…but I received a response I did not expect.
As soon as I touched her, she whipped her head around me extremely fast and faced me with wide eyes and stared at me with her mouth gaping…then she started screaming while jumping off the bed and pulled my arms off of her. I obviously screamed from instinct, and tried to bring the covers over my body to ‘protect’ myself. I then heard footsteps from the hallway and faced the door in my room, and the lights turned on and it was my mother with a scared face and she asked me worriedly why I was screaming and what was wrong. I just sat there…shocked. I looked around my entire room and that thing that I thought was my own mother wasn’t there. I told my actual mother that it was nothing and tried to get back to sleep, but I obviously couldn’t.
Many years later, my mother and her sister were looking through old photos of their lives and I decided to sit with them. The house that I lived in when that incident happened has been there long before I was born, and my mother had in fact growing up lived next door to it while it was being built; and she wasn’t the first owner. My mother was telling me about the times when this house was being built, and who the first people who lived in it were. They were a mother and daughter, and they both died too early. The mother died of cancer, and the daughter died in her young-adult years from a drug overdose.
My mother then showed me a photo of the daughter, her name was Rachel. And I remember a terrible feeling forming in my stomach. I took the photo from my mother’s hands and looked at the photo more closely. Curly hair, glasses…but this time she wasn’t in pyjamas, but in casual clothes. It was her, the woman that was on my bed, it looked exactly like her, and that incident that happened when I was eight will make me always remember her face.
I don’t know how Rachel, if it even was her, got into my room that night or if I even fully believe that it was a spirit or anything…but someone was there, whether human or not. I saw her, felt her, and heard her, and I will not believe that it was my imagination.