I never used to believe in ghosts. Not really. I figured kids have wild imaginations, and that whole ‘imaginary friend’ thing was just a phase. But then my niece, Lily, started talking to ‘Martha’ when she was three. Martha was an old woman who lived in the closet, and Lily would have full conversations with her, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. We all thought it was cute, until one day Lily said Martha was sad because she couldn’t leave the closet, and then she pointed to a stain on the wall that looked like a face. We moved out of that apartment a month later.
Now it’s my daughter, Emma. She’s two, and for the past few weeks, she’s been saying ‘hi’ and babbling to the ceiling in her room, usually right before bed. I’d write it off as a toddler thing, but it’s so deliberate, like she’s actually talking to someone. Last Tuesday, she was in her crib, playing with her stuffed bunny, and she suddenly looked up and said, ‘No, no, no!’ in a clear, loud voice. I rushed in, and she was sitting up, staring at the ceiling, with a scowl on her face. She didn’t even look at me when I came in. It was unsettling.
Then on Friday, it happened again. She was lying down, and I was reading her a story. Out of nowhere, she sat up, looked at the corner of the room, and said distinctly, ‘Hi, Brian. Hi, Brian.’ I froze. That’s my coworker’s name, but Emma has never met him. I tried to tell myself it was just a name she heard somewhere, but it freaked me out.
The next day, we were in the backyard. Emma was on her little swing, and I was pushing her. She was laughing, and then she stopped, pointed at the fence, and said, ‘Brian’s funny.’ I looked, but there was nothing there. I asked her who Brian was, and she just giggled and said, ‘He’s the man who lives in the light.’ Then she pointed up at the porch light, which was flickering, even though it was daylight. I felt a chill run down my spine.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about what she said. I decided to do a little digging. I looked up the history of our house. It was built in the 1920s, and a man named Brian Whitfield owned it in the 1950s. He died in the house, in what used to be a study on the second floor, which is now Emma’s room. The records said he died of a heart attack, but there were rumors he was murdered. I didn’t want to believe it.
A few nights later, I was putting Emma to bed. She was almost asleep, when she suddenly sat up and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes were wide, and she said, ‘Brian is mad. He wants the light to stop.’ I looked at the ceiling, and the light fixture was flickering, casting weird shadows. I turned on the main light, and the flickering stopped, but Emma kept staring. Then she whispered, ‘He’s going to make it dark.’
I tried to calm her down, but she started crying, pointing at the closet. ‘He’s in there,’ she sobbed. I opened the closet, and it was empty, but I felt a cold draft. I closed it, and Emma was still crying. I decided to sleep in her room that night on the floor. In the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of the ceiling light flickering. I looked up, and I saw a shadow move across the ceiling, like a person. I heard a whisper, ‘Leave the light on.’ I jumped up and turned on every light in the room. Emma was awake, sitting up, and she said, ‘He’s gone now. But he’ll be back.’
Since then, I’ve been leaving a nightlight on in her room, and I’ve avoided talking about Brian. But last night, Emma looked at me with a serious face and said, ‘Daddy, Brian says you have to leave, or he’ll take me with him.’ I know it’s crazy, but I’m starting to believe her. This morning, I called a realtor to list the house. I don’t care if we lose money. I just want to get Emma away from here, especially before the ceiling light flickers again.