Michele King, IL, USA
When I was just ten or eleven years old (I am now 23), I remember cleaning my room after school. It was a crisp, cool, October day in Illinois, in a suburb south of Chicago.
My mom left for half an hour to go pick up my younger sister from her Brownie meeting and my dad was not expected home from work for another hour.
So, being alone and not wanting to clean, I cranked up my radio and opened my closet doors to start picking through things. My closet doors are mirrors, so that gets kind of scary sometimes because I have a very active imagination, but what happened next really frightened me.
I was straightening through things when I thought I heard a very high-pitched voice say something. Thinking maybe my mom and sister had arrived already, I turned off my radio and yelled, "Mom?" There was no answer, so I shrugged it off and turned my radio back on.
Just seconds later, I heard the voice again so I turned off my radio and heard the voice of a little girl, probably six or seven, yelling repeatedly from my kitchen, "Mommy!! Mommy!! Mommy!!"
My room is at the end of the house and the kitchen is in the front (but you have to go around a wall before you can see into it), so I ran through the house as fast as I could and flung open the door. There was no wind at all, but the two garbage cans that were ten feet away from the door fell over, as if they were pushed, toward me. I sat outside for 25 minutes until my mom and sister came home. I didn't tell them what happened until a few years later, but I have seen and heard stuff like this since the age of five. It's hard to tell people when you think they won't believe you and you're just making up stories.