Ghost Stories & Paranormal Encounters

I grew up an only-child, in a lonely old house in the country; my father often away on business, my mother sickly and unable to attend.

But, the funny thing is, I’ve never felt alone. That’s because I wasn’t alone – even though there were no other children in the house – I always had someone to play with. There was a little boy, an older boy that was his brother, and a little girl that looked quite a bit like me.

The girl’s name was Abigail – and she and I were the best of friends. There were a good number of other children too, but these children – Abigail, the little boy Michael, and the older boy Johnathan – were the ones I played with the most.

My mother often told me that I should stop playing with my imaginary friends; it made her uncomfortable; but she didn’t see them herself.

Abigail was a ginger, like me, blue-gray eyed, and she wore clothes that I already owned. The boys were wearing ugly coarse things that were out of fashion. The funny thing is, in my isolation, I never did stop seeing Abigail and the boys until I left the house – the year my mother died of a heart attack. She had always avoided questions about why she hadn’t given me any brothers or sisters to play with, but it was on that day that she finally saw Abigail.

We were sitting in the kitchen, and my mother looked from me to Abigail, dropping the dishes that she held in her hands – and sinking into a seat – the one farthest from Abigail and I – since the two of us were still impossible to distinguish from one and other – I was sixteen at the time – and Abigail had aged with me. But, the other children hadn’t – none except Abigail, Michael, and Johnathan – that is.

My mother’s frightened eyes flickered from my face to Abigail’s and then she screamed – bringing my father down the stairs in a thunder of heavy boots. But, he saw nothing at all. My mother kept saying, in this hysteric way, “She’s here, she’s here, oh! I’m so sorry Abigail, I’m sorry Adeline!” And the paramedics took her to the hospital, thoroughly confused, and a bit uncomfortable, with the circumstances of her awful state.

Abigail and I reached across the table, palms pressed together, then hands held tight, clasped together with the other’s – each comforting the other. You see, to me, Abigail was – and still is – very real; just as real as my mother was, and as real as my father is.

The day my mother died was the day I learned of my twin sister – dead at birth.

Sent in by Adeline McBeth, Copyright 2010