When I was around the age of 8, I remember that I used to talk to this little girl. I lived with my grandma and my mom. They just brushed it off as me having an imaginary friend. This little girl had light brown hair that she always wore in pigtails and green eyes. She told me her name was Lucy. She told me that she was eleven years old and that this was her home. (The house was a Victorian-style house, and must have been built in the 1800s or something).
I told my mom and my grandma everything Lucy told me. Lucy was possessive. When my mom would call me for dinner or something, she would beg me not to leave. I always told her that I had to go. Later, she’d be pissed at me. She’d throw toys at me, pinch me, and hit me. Once, she even pulled my hair so hard, that she’d pull a fistful of blond hair out. The first time my mom finally became worried, was when she found the bruise Lucy’d given me.
Approaching my ninth birthday, I remember taking a bath. Lucy was mad that day. (I can’t remember what I’d done to make her so angry.) She came in the bathroom, and dunked my head under the water. I couldn’t breathe. (I have asthma) I splashed, and kicked my feet, and eventually, my grandma came in to see what was wrong. She tried to pull me up. Lucy was still pushing me down. My grandma called for my mom, and Lucy’d became so aggravated by then that she let out sort of this horrible screech and cry. She left. My mother called for an exorcist the next day. I can’t remember much of that day. I sort of erased it from my memory. What I Do remember is that right before the priest was about to wash down the house with holy water, I heard this little giggle in my ear. It was Lucy. She whispered, “Goodbye, Becca. It was really fun playing with you. I’ll miss you.”
This post was written by Nadia Vella