When Your Child Sees Terrifying Things In Your House
“It’s a Running Thing, and if you call it Bobby it will eat you!”
Disclaimer
I’m an avid paranormalist — like Fox Mulder, I want to believe, so you can take this story for what it’s worth.
My paternal grandmother, a woman of cheerful demeanor and dark, brooding Scottish heritage, used to scare us with stories about footsteps in the attic, knives under the porch, and lightning balls in the dining room. Even my father, who was a functional nihilist, grudgingly acknowledged that the house he’d lived in as a teen was haunted.
My sister, my cousins, and I used to conduct seances around 18th-century headstones at the cemetery near my grandparents' home. If any spirits were successfully summoned, they declined to make themselves known, but it was an entertaining effort.
I’ve also met with a few mediums. Most were transparent frauds, except for one woman who was astonishingly, incomprehensibly accurate, even though she had no way of knowing anything about me.
So I come by my spiritualism honestly, but may not be the most objective observer.
The following is true, nevertheless.
New House
When my son Conall was almost two years old, we bought a never-renovated house in Toronto. It was built in 1917, but beyond that, we didn’t know much about its history or who’d lived there.
Shortly after we moved in, Conall started telling strange stories. What follows are my Facebook posts from the actual events, slightly edited for coherence and style, but otherwise unchanged.
We still live in the house.
April 11, 2015 · Toronto ·
When we moved into this house last year, Conall talked a few times about someone called Bob, who apparently lived with us. He hadn’t mentioned him in a while, and we’d pretty much forgotten about it until yesterday. We were talking at dinner about a colleague at my work, also named Bob, who was leaving the company.
Conall’s Mom: “Has Bob been there a long time?”
Me: “No, not really, he…”
Conall: (interjects) “Yes!” (pause) “Upstairs.”
We declined to pursue his assertion and changed the subject.
September 12, 2015 · Toronto ·
Conall just told us about a “Running Thing” he saw going into one of the rooms upstairs. At first, I thought he meant a centipede, or maybe a mouse. He did not.
He was very specific about its appearance — it was as big as daddy, had a face and mouth but didn’t talk, was wearing a shirt and pants — and he was awake when he saw it, not sleeping.
Which observation is fair. He wasn’t in bed, he was playing in his room while his mother was brushing her teeth in the bathroom next door. I was downstairs at the time.
Little kids = scary.
September 28, 2015 · Toronto ·
Update on the Running Thing story — if you don’t follow my ongoing ConallCast™ you can scroll my Facebook page or remain unenlightened: We were in the basement and Conall was talking about monsters. He said if there was one on the couch, the couch would break.
I told him there were no monsters.
Then he said if there were a Running Thing on the couch, the couch would break, so I told him there weren’t any Running Things either.
He gives a big smile and says, “I SAW a Running Thing upstairs, and I thought it was Daddy! And it was Daddy. So there were TWO Daddies in the house, you and a stranger!” Pause. “Let’s go play now.”
Good to have back-up, I guess.
April 11, 2016 · Toronto ·
My 2015 post on “Bob” came up as “share your post from a year ago” and I was going to do that, with a comment that we haven’t heard anything about Bob since then.
Until today.
Conall was playing some sort of game while eating, where he pretended to have a “weapon”, while talking about how you have to shoot monsters, and then you kill them and they break apart. Since that’s not standard dinner conversation, I asked where he’d heard that from.
“Bob”
Me, tentatively: “Who is Bob?”
“He’s the man who… he’s next to us.”
“Where does he live?”
“In the house.”
“Where in the house does he live?”
Pause. “All over the house.”
“Does Bob… talk to you?”
At this point, he must have gotten wind that this wasn’t casual questioning, as he flopped down and said he was tired and wanted to sleep.
So that’s what’s going on here.
March 3, 2017 · Toronto ·
Last night at 3 a.m. I was awakened by a loud noise, like marbles rolling across a hard surface. At first, I assumed it was Wolfie (Conall’s cat), but he was sitting bolt upright on the other side of the bed, looking out the door. I grabbed my bedside Maglite and went to investigate.
I didn’t find anything, but when I looked in Conall’s room, he was sleeping at the very edge of his bed, with one leg half off. I lifted him back to the middle.
A helpful ghost, I guess.
April 14, 2017 · Toronto ·
Conall hadn’t talked about the Running Thing that he saw upstairs or Bob, who apparently lives in our house, for a long time — over a year, I’d say.
Today out of the blue, while going upstairs he turns to me and says, “Watch out for the invisible monster!” which is pretty standard for a four-year-old. Then he continues: “It’s a Running Thing, and if you call it Bobby it will eat you!”
Smiling the whole time. Literally sent chills through my whole body.
On the plus side, he said he only saw it “so long ago.”
November 21, 2017 · Toronto ·
Last night I was sitting in the hall outside Conall’s room so he could see me while he fell asleep. He was taking his time, and my eyes were closed.
As I drowsed, I heard three distinct knocks. I opened my eyes but assumed it was Conall playing around because the cat was beside me.
Conall sat up halfway in his bed. “What was that noise?”
“Ha. I think that was you knocking.”
“No, I heard somebody say ‘hy-ann’.”
“I didn’t hear that.”
“Yes, a voice said hy-ann.”
Trying to think how to manage this without scaring him — or me — further, I improvised.
“Well, I think you knocked by accident and that was the sound. Because Wolfie and I didn’t hear it.”
Although Wolfie had been staring fixedly into the bedroom, I didn’t say.
“So the voice was me knocking?”
“Er, sure. That sounds right.”
Glad I found an explanation that satisfied Conall, anyway.
Epilogue
That was the last apparent ghouling in the house. If I were writing fiction, this story would build to a climax and end in some Poltergeist-style psychic catastrophe. However, because it’s true, there’s no dramatic ending, except that after a while Conall stopped talking about the other people and things in the house.
At nine, Conall no longer remembers anything about Bob, but has a vivid memory of the Running Thing and maintains that it was absolutely real.
And while he no longer claims experiences with the unseen, he won’t go upstairs by himself at night.
I don’t blame him.
Want another ghost story? Read one here.