My Imaginary Friend Was Real
When I was three, my family moved to an extremely small town. The house was built in the early 60s and was your typical ranch-style home. I was an extremely weird, morose kid who didn’t have a lot of friends—except for the man in the attic. He was very sad, and his skin was burned.
He didn’t like many people, but we were friends. I would talk to him, and sometimes we’d play. It creeped my mom out, but she assumed maybe I had seen Nightmare on Elm Street and was imagining the burnt man. Years went by, and we stopped playing, but I always felt SOMETHING.
A few years later—as an adult—we were visiting with new neighbors who happened to have ties to the community. Somehow the subject of imaginary friends came up, and my mom enthusiastically told the husband about the burnt man. He went deathly pale.
He informed us that the land our house had been built on was the site of an old blacksmith’s shop. The blacksmith had accidentally caught on fire and later passed from his injuries. Needless to say, I felt this in my soul.
After a little research, I found out it actually did happen. Story credit: Reddit / kayladylay88