When my sister was little, she had an imaginary friend called Jackie. One Sunday, my great aunt was over and my sister came in, announced to the room that Jackie fell down the stair and died, and left. My great auntie calmly looked up and said “how did she know about that?” Apparently, my great auntie had a little brother called Jack (her mother, who died a little before my sister was born, called him Jackie) and when he was 7, he fell down the stairs, banged his head and died.
When I was three, I used to tell stories of “past lives.” I always told my mother of my “other family” and I had names and descriptions of where I lived and how I died…
I also had “imaginary friends” that people could see out of the corner of their eyes. I talked to them but I was scared to death because I knew they were dead…
Needless to say my old house was haunted. I’m not even going to sugar coat it.
(Source: gay4britney, via london-at-heart)