Just in time for Halloween, a real-life ghost story from author Sherrie Rose

I know there are probably those of you who have something so weird happen in your lives that you hesitate to tell it, because you know people will give you that, "yeah, right!" look, and then you’ll feel stupid for mentioning it at all.

Well . . . I’ve got one of those stories, and although I’m older now, I still believe this really happened. I can’t believe I dreamed it, because it’s still so very clear in my mind.

I was about eight years old, and my family had just moved to Michigan into a two-story house. Not long after we moved in, our neighbors told us someone had jumped from the two story window. A suicide, I think. I don’t know if that gruesome fact had anything to do with what I’m about to tell you, but I thought I’d let you know so that you can decide.

Anyway, I was the youngest of the school-age kids, so I always had to go to bed first, upstairs … all by myself … in the dark, and … okay, okay! I was a complete coward when it came to dark rooms and being alone. I guess my parents didn’t really believe me when I told them I was scared, because I always had to go to bed anyway. Well, one night I was upstairs alone, crying because I didn’t want to be by myself.

I opened my eyes and standing in front of me were two beings. They were short, one taller than the other, but both about my height at that age. I couldn’t see their faces because it was dark, but I could see their outlines and they both had big round heads. I was so petrified I couldn’t move, and like most kids, I believed (had to believe to remain sane) that if I pretended I was asleep, they wouldn’t get me. As I lay there with my eyes tightly closed, hardly daring to breathe, one of them lifted my arm. I felt a stinging sensation on my wrist. If an eight-year-old can have a heart attack, I’m pretty certain I came close.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t open my eyes.

When I did open my eyes again, it was morning. I immediately remembered what had happened. With my heart in my throat, I lifted my arm and looked at my wrist. There were two puncture wounds, clear as day, already forming a scab on my wrist. I ran downstairs, screaming for Mom. I told her what happened. She told me I must have been dreaming.

I’ve told the story a dozen times since then, and nobody believes it. I mean, they don’t always say they don’t believe me, but I can see it in their eyes and in their expressions. But I believe it, because I was there. I don’t know who they were or what they wanted or why one of them bit me on the wrist, but I know that it happened.

Now you know why I scare myself writing ghost stories!

Read about another haunting in A Girl, A Guy & a Ghost.

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