The Man and the Child

None of us actually remember seeing them.
My mom told us about it years later—at least a decade after it happened.

Apparently, when we were really little—around three to five years old—all three of us kids saw the same thing: a man and a child.

Different years.
Different rooms.
Same description.

We each had our own separate sighting, then never mentioned it again. It wasn’t until much later that Mom told us what had happened—and how each of us, on different occasions, described the same two figures.

Three separate sightings.
Three kids.
Same ghosts.

And it freaked my mom the hell out.

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Skepticism in a Haunted House

Now, I’ll be honest—I don’t really believe in ghosts.
I wanted to when I was younger (I mean, look at me—my whole aesthetic practically lives in a haunted house).
But if ghosts were real, you’d think someone like me—someone open, curious, and admittedly eager for proof—would’ve had more encounters by now.

Especially after my Grams died.
I have no doubt that woman would’ve haunted me until I had my first baby.
That was her unfinished business.

Still, I can’t explain this one.
If ghosts are real, I do believe kids are more sensitive to them.
How else do you explain three separate children, in the same house, seeing the same figures—years apart, before they ever compared notes?

Mom told each of us to tell them to go away.
And apparently, we did.
And they never showed up again.
One sighting each.
Then nothing.

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Graves and Giggles

There’s a cemetery not far from my childhood home.
I never did go investigate whether there was a man and child buried there—but part of me still wonders.
If they’re connected, I’d imagine they share a last name, side by side, waiting for someone to notice.

Maybe that’s all they ever wanted.

Now, though, it’s Evie who’s got me questioning things again. She’s at that age where kids start seeing what adults can’t—or won’t.
Every now and then she’ll wake up in the middle of the night, point to the ceiling corner, and cry hysterically.

Not ideal when I’m the only adult living here.
And if that is you, Grams—get off the ceiling before you break a hip. 😂

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Maybe there’s a logical explanation—residual energy, memory, sleep states, or something the mind does to make sense of the unexplainable.
Or maybe that house really did have a ghost who was just curious about the family living next door.

Either way, I’ve never forgotten the story.
Not because it scared me, but because it reminded me that not every mystery is meant to be solved—and not every haunting is a bad one.