I was about 14 years old, and it seemed like odd occurrences were a part of my life. Despite my family’s skepticism about ghosts, I found myself spending two nights at my friend Sarah’s house for a birthday celebration. Her residence, a relic from the late 19th century, was old, chilly, and oozing with character. I had expected a bustling and chaotic stay, given her numerous siblings, but what unfolded took place in the eerie stillness of the early morning.
The house had a peculiar layout. Upon ascending the stairs, you’d encounter a window, adjacent to the conservatory. This window lacked glass, offering a view into the adjacent room, although it wasn’t typically used as a door. My assigned room faced this peculiar window.
As I drifted off to sleep, I awoke in the middle of the night, around 2:00 AM, finding my covers slipping off me. Unable to return to slumber, I lay there, scanning the room and the dimly lit landing outside. The only source of illumination was the soft glow from a lantern in the backyard, filtering through the glass on the opposite wall. There was another presence, but I hadn’t registered it initially. For about 45 minutes, I had been awake, and all the while, she had been there, watching me. It finally dawned on me.
My gaze locked onto a tiny child, appearing around 5 or 6 years old, standing there in the darkness. She bore an expression of sheer terror—frozen, pallid, with her mouth agape, as if on the verge of tears or a scream. As the realization hit me, I couldn’t comprehend who she was or how she had entered the room. All I knew was that she looked lost and petrified.
My instinct kicked in, and I swiftly crawled over to the door, slamming it shut. With trembling hands, I flicked on the lights and reached for my mobile phone, desperate to connect with a friend who might be awake. It was my go-to strategy for comfort in moments like these, a glimmer of familiarity in the face of the inexplicable.