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Someone to Watch Over Me

Someone to Watch Over Me

Freaky Friday

When my daughter, Sarah, was home from college during the fall, she had an interesting experience in our house. It was mid-morning, she was comfortably dressed, eating breakfast and watching HGTV in our living room.  She heard a delivery truck pull up, heard someone walk up the steps and then, after they placed the parcel on the porch, heard the doorbell ring.  A few moments later, the truck drove off.

Waiting until the truck was gone, Sarah walked over to the front door to retrieve the parcel from the front porch. As she reached for the doorknob, she heard a man’s voice coming from the second floor of our house asking, “Who was at the door?”

Thinking it was her dad or one of her brothers, she immediately responded, “It was the FedEx guy.”

Then she opened the door, picked up the parcel and looked around. She realized there were no cars in the driveway, which also made her realize that she was the only one home. Sarah sat on the front porch for a while, not ready to go back into the house. But, because it was November in northwest Illinois, she soon made her way back in.

She said it wasn’t a scary voice – only protective.  A ghost who watched over her.

I wondered if that happens a lot – so I asked Reddit.

This post is by momsdayprepper:

This is a story I do not often tell. I promise, sincerely, that this has scarred me for life and although I have looked into psychological explanations for what I heard and natural explanations for what occurred, they remain unsatisfactory.

When I was a child, I was scared of the dark. I swore to my mother I heard voices in it. They were not evil, but they were not familiar and so they scared me. It was not uncommon in the middle of the night for me to wake up and hear “whispers” as I would call them when asking my mom. She figured they were just “bumps in the night” and typical kids nightmare material. I tried often to explain to her that it was more than that, that they sounded different from one another the way people’s voices do.

On some nights I would get so scared from these “whispers” that I would sleep in my mom’s bed with her. It was an added bonus that the bathroom was directly outside of her bedroom door for my late-night tinkles.

I should add at this point that when walking out into the hall to go to the bathroom, you looked directly down the stairs that would lead you into my living room on the first floor (as my mom’s bedroom was on the second floor).

On one such night, around Christmas, I awoke and felt the need to relieve myself. I walked out from the door and distinctly heard the phrase “Look!” and to my astonishment, a red light, almost like a spotlight, was cast upon the wall at the very bottom of the stairs. The light had no other source, it was by itself, and I was transfixed by it.

Being a little kid, and it only being a few days from Christmas, I KNEW what this light was. IT WAS SANTA!!! How else could he get into my house to know I was being a good boy. I was so excited I began walking down the stairs to greet him, picking up my pace after the second step as it began to creep off the wall and fade into the darkness in my living room.

That’s when I heard him. A very strong, masculine voice. Different from the first. Not at all like my father’s (not to say he isn’t masculine, it was just distinctly different). It said “Stop! Right now. Go back up those stairs.”

I listened, turned around, and what happened next I am not sure I would believe if someone had told me this same story. After reaching the top of the stairs, I heard a very loud CRASH that sent me running back to my mother’s bed where I jumped straight under the covers and stayed there the whole night.

When we awoke the next morning, the poinsettia lights (little Christmas flower lights that glowed red) my mother had put on the railing down the stairs were pulled straight down to the bottom of the stairs, some broken from what seemed like a forceful tear, laying in a single pile. The dry sink in my living room had fallen from the wall. My mother could not explain it! My father was worried we had been the victims of a home invasion. My sister was crying.

There was nothing missing, nobody had broken in, there did not seem to be any reason this had happened. And then I saw it, and I kept quiet about it because I was so afraid that I could not force words out of my mouth.

There, on the edge of the wooden dry sink which had been facing up, were three indentations where the finish on the wood had been worn, almost as if in a forceful grip. Something down there had GRABBED IT AND THREW IT DOWN. That was what the bang was.

I was mortified. After that day I never heard a single voice again. I do not like to imagine what was waiting downstairs for me that night if it was anything at all, but I can tell you that the reality was that something had physically acted upon two things in my house near the bottom of that stairwell.

After this, I had never heard another whisper again. Which is sad, because in some ways I would have liked to thank the man (masculine energy?) that had stopped me from going down those stairs. This happened when I was 7 (or 7 and a half! as I liked to say at the time).

I am 20 years old now, and because of this incident, I am still afraid of the dark. ESPECIALLY shadowy stairwells.

I really don’t blame her – I would be afraid of the dark, staircases, dry sinks and red lights!

This post was written by altruitis

My daughter was born with mild tracheomalacia (soft windpipe). The only “trouble” it ever caused was that she would make a whistling sound sometimes when she was breathing, especially when she was excited or upset. Fast forward to when she was about 4 months old and fast asleep in her crib one evening. Her older brother had the stomach flu that day and had been throwing up. We thought the baby hadn’t caught it. But a little while after we put her to bed, we suddenly heard her softly sputtering on the monitor, then silence for a few seconds, then a HUGE loud wail, which made both my husband and I run even faster to her room. By the time we got to her, she had fallen eerily quiet again. We saw she was gasping for air, choking, unable to clear the vomit from her throat or get a clean breath. Even after we picked her up and cleared her mouth, she continued to gasp. She turned blue, then grey as I drove with her quickly to the ER. She had partially recovered by the time we got there. They gave her o2, chest x-ray, then a clean bill and we left.

Fast forward about two hours later when I’m back in my bedroom with her sleeping upright in a baby seat next to me on the bed. My husband and I talked briefly about what would have happened had the baby not cried out so loudly. Would we have reacted so quickly? Would she have recovered?

I’m in and out of sleep myself because I kept checking her. One of the times, just before I had fully awoken, I looked out in the hallway and saw my grandfather, who had passed away a few years prior. When he was alive, he was not the most involved granddad. But when he met my husband (my boyfriend at the time) they had an instant connection. When he passed away, his last coherent words were, “I’m not going to make it to your wedding, am I?”

He loved my husband dearly.

Anyway, I see him out in the hall this night. He is just standing there in khakis and a polo with his hands in his pockets. In my dream state, I see all my children, except the baby, pulling at his arms and playing with him. He has a simple smile on his face, he looks over toward the baby’s room and back at me and says, “I’m sorry I made her cry, but I’m glad she’s okay.”

Extra granddad points for him!

This was an anonymous post:

Backstory – my sister married young at 18 and worked 2 jobs to support herself, her lousy husband and my niece Suzy. She left the house at 8 am and returned at 8 pm. She kicked the louse out when she discovered he locked Suzy in a closet with a box of cereal and a diaper and left her there all day. We didn’t know this was happening, …. but that’s around the time when Dissaga came. Suzy’s imaginary friend. She talked about her and TO HER all the time. We asked her many times if she meant Jessica, and she would get mad and say “No! She said her name is Dissaga!”

There are many stories of Suzy and Dissaga talking and playing, some creepier than others, and soon my sister forbid Suzy to talk about Dissaga or for us to talk to Suzy about Dissaga. Suzy revealed the closet secret when she told her mom, “Dissaga is mad at you because you don’t believe she is real. She comes to play with me when Daddy closes the closet door after you leave and lets us out before you come home.”

Creepy, right? Poor kid conjured up an imaginary playmate for the year her dad was supposed to be watching her. Now comes the super creepy part. My sister is now divorced, Suzy is not allowed to talk about Dissaga, it’s been a while since her Dad has lived with them and they are moving out of the house they rented. The sweet old landlord is there to oversee the move-out and he says, “I was always worried about your little girl on those basement stairs. My little granddaughter Jessica fell down those basement stairs, and broke her neck, and died in front of that closet door down there.”

My sister said she got the chills and simply said ” Dissaga.” The old man looked at her and asked, ” How did you know that’s how she said her name? She was 4 and couldn’t say it properly, HOW DID YOU KNOW?”

Sadly, my sister is very good at denial and told him she didn’t know what he was talking about, took the last of her things from the house, and left. Fast forward 20 years, and we are still not allowed to talk about Suzy and her friend Dissaga and I hope she doesn’t see this and recognize her story.  She has also never been informed of the abuse, of what happened to her when she was 5, and we have strict orders to never discuss it with her.

So, this one wasn’t as protective as it was friendly and kept the little girl company – but it certainly was creepy.

I guess you just never know who is watching out for you…or, just watching you.

Happy Friday!!!

Like what you read?  Find more stories by Terri Reid here.

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