This ghost story, posted by howellathemoon in the nosleep section on reddit, has been giving lots of readers chills. Even though we can’t verify if the story is true or not, the rules of the nosleep section are that the tales being shared on the page must be real.
Read for yourself and decide if this is the real thing or not!
I was adopted as a baby. My (adoptive) parents were always very open about it, as they were with my older brother who was adopted as well (not from the same woman). I grew up in a nice house with a big backyard with a family that cared for me, loved me, and let me play, run, dream, and be whoever and whatever I wanted to be. Of course there were struggles and bad days as everyone runs into, but in general I had a happy childhood with great memories.
I was always somewhat curious about my birth mother. I’ve talked to people who were also adopted that struggled with the why- why did my mother put me up for adoption, why didn’t she want me, etc. For me, I struggled with the where — I think I wanted to know where I came from. I would see my friends who look exactly like their siblings and parents and in the back of my mind I wondered if I looked like my mom or dad or when someone would say “I’m Italian and Irish!” or “I’m Scottish and French!”, I would wonder well what am I? I never saw my (adoptive) mom and dad as strangers raising me, they were (and still are) my mom and dad. Troy was (and still is) my brother. But when I turned 18, with the support of my family, I made the steps in contacting with my birth mother. My brother met with his birth parents when he turned 18 and he said it was an incredible experience. He still loved our parents and saw them as his only parents, but it was cool to meet the people he came from and it pieced together some questions he had.
Some time after, I found my birth mother. She was in her 30’s and actually lived in my state. After some phone calls and emails, we planned to meet. Now on these phone calls, she mentioned “my sister.” I asked her if she had another child, and she did disclose that she now had two children, but that wasn’t who she was talking about.
I found out that I had a twin. A fraternal twin. I had no idea I was a twin, and my parents had no idea I was a twin. Like I said, I was always curious about my birth mother, but now that all changed. I was way more than curious. I wanted to meet her ASAP and ask her 800 questions, mostly about my twin. Who was she? Where was she? So, she invited me to her house that was only a two hour drive away.
When I got there, it was actually jarring how much we looked alike. Same blonde hair, same big green eyes, we even had the same button (or as elementary school kids so kindly dubbed it ‘piggy’) nose. She was now married (not to my birth father) and I got to meet her two small children of her own, a son and a daughter. My birth mother and her family were all incredibly lovely to me and I still talk to her occasionally to this day. So basically what I got out of her visit was this: She was a teenager when she got pregnant with her also teenage boyfriend’s babies, she didn’t have the means or support to raise two babies at the time, so she gave us up for adoption. It was a relatively easy pregnancy, not too much morning sickness, she craved sweets a lot (probably where my insatiable sweet tooth comes from). She also told me that because of her lifelong obsession with The Beach Boys (I’m not kidding when I say she had at least 50 pieces of memorabilia and posters around the house), she would play only Beach Boys to us when she was pregnant and even sing “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” at night when she was lying in bed before she went to sleep.
I work at a small inn (it’s not technically a bed and breakfast, but same sort of a feel just for a visual) at the front desk and two days a week. I work the third shift (meaning overnight 11 PM- 7 AM). One of these days is Sunday and in a sleepy small town, not much happens on a Sunday night. Even if there’s a lot of people staying at the inn, everyone is usually in bed pretty early and I don’t hear a peep. Even though it’s a small town with almost nonexistent crime rates, my boss has always instructed me to lock the doors at night because I’m a young woman alone at night. So, I always have. If someone comes to the door, they can ring the doorbell, and I’ll let them inside(usually guests coming back from a wedding, party, etc).
It was a typical Sunday night. Everyone was asleep as I finished the nightly audit reports. It was about 1 AM when someone started banging on the door. I thought it was strange as there’s a sign that says ring the doorbell and no one has ever banged on the door like that. A bit startled, I got up and walked to the front door where a little girl was standing there. At the time, I would have guessed she was probably around 10 years old. A little girl walking around alone at 1 AM is weird, especially for this town. I asked if I could help her and she asked if she could come in. She was very calm, almost like she was sizing me up. Looking me up and down. I let her in, partly because I felt bad for her even though she didn’t seem scared in the slightest and partly because I thought if the off chance this little girl is a psycho I could probably take her.
She came in and sat down in one of the chairs in our lobby. Just like she had at the door, she just looked me up and down, and up and down again, as I walked over to the seat across from her. As I sat down, it was then I also noticed her hair was wet. Not dripping, more like after you towel dry your hair. Her face also looked somewhat wet, once again, not dripping but almost like little droplets on her face. I didn’t want to creep her out (even though I think subconsciously she was sufficiently creeping me out herself at this point) and keep staring at her face. She told me her name was Elle. I gently asked what she was doing alone this late at night and if I could call someone to come get her. She told me that she came to see her sister. I said okay is she a guest here? I asked what her name was and I could call up to her room or bring her there. She didn’t say anything, she just smirked at me and I could see her hold back a laugh, like she was in on a joke that I wasn’t aware of.
She then began to ask me the weirdest questions. She asked me if I had a mommy that loved me, I told her yes, she asked me I had nice toys, I actually laughed at this one because I thought it was kind of cute. I said well I used to, and she asked me what my favorite game to play was. I said at your age I liked playing what time is it Mr. Fox (If you’re not familiar, it’s essentially red light/green light with a twist). At this point, I just wanted to get her to trust me enough to give me a little information here as to why she was walking around alone at 1 AM banging on doors and why she was wet (it wasn’t raining out), so I asked her what her favorite game was. She didn’t answer me, she just sat silent for a few moments staring at her hands until she asked me “Are you afraid of your Daddy?” I felt my stomach sink. She had so much sadness and pain in her little eyes that the confusion, fear, and tension I had before during this little exchange evaporated and it was replaced with only sympathy and a need to protect. I couldn’t explain it but at that moment I felt an overwhelming feeling of overprotectiveness towards her. I told her that I wasn’t afraid of my Daddy, and if she’s afraid of hers, we should call the police and they can help her. At the mention of the police, she cut me off and asked if she could have a glass of hot chocolate. I was apprehensive, but I figured I was making some strides with her. I know, I know, this is the point in the story where everyone goes “WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST CALL THE POLICE?” And I can’t tell you. I had this weird, almost hypnotic, draw towards her and I wanted, maybe needed, to keep talking to her. I think she if she asked me to follow her off a cliff that night, I would have.
When I entered our staff kitchen to make her the hot chocolate, that’s when I heard it. “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys was playing. There’s no radio in the lobby and the TV was not working. As I stood in the kitchen I got this weird feeling of panic and uneasiness. There was no reason for me to be reacting this way, I thought. The little girl probably has an iPhone and was playing it. I did think it was a coincidence because now I couldn’t see or hear anything Beach Boys related without thinking of my birth mother. I went out to the lobby, and as soon as I opened the door, the music stopped. Abruptly. I was making eye contact with the little girl as it stopped and her hands were folded on her lap, with no iPhone or iPod in sight. I asked if that was her music playing, she told me it wasn’t, it was her mommy’s. Her real mommy’s. And my mommy’s too.
I looked at her and for some reason I said “Who are you?”. I didn’t even mean to say it, it just came out. She simply answered “I think you know” in the calm demeanor she kept our entire conversation. That’s when I snapped out of the clear trance I was under, and actually locked myself in my manager’s office. With shaking hands, I hovered over the buttons on the phone telling myself that I should call the police, I needed to call the police, but something was stopping me. I felt like I knew this girl. I felt like I should protect her in some way. After several minutes of calming myself down, telling myself that this was just a weird coincidence, and even if this who I thought she was, why would she be a little girl? She’d be my age. I finally mustered the confidence to go back into the lobby, and she was nowhere to be found. The only thing left was a little puddle in the seat she was in. As gross as this is, my first thought was “Oh great, she peed the seat.” But upon further inspection, no pee. Just water. I looked all through the inn, and she was gone.
I did call the police. The police came, took my statement, looked in and around the property, and couldn’t find her. I left out the Beach Boys part and the “your mommy” comment, but everything else I did tell them. They left and told me to give them a call if she comes back.
When I got home in the morning, my journey began to find my twin sister. I won’t tell you the details of that process, but some time later (after telling my friends and family the story and being told I’m nuts), I found out my sister’s name. Eleanor. After trying to find Eleanor’s address, I found she died when we were 12. She went missing one Summer day and they found her body a few days later in a river near her house. They originally thought she drowned, but after an autopsy, ruled it was a homicide and also found (new and old) bruises all over her body and signs of sexual abuse. Her father admitted to killing his daughter, my sister, and was arrested. He explained to police his wife died when Eleanor was 3, and he began abusing her shortly after that and snapped one day and ended up taking it “too far” (his words). When she didn’t get back up, he put her body in the river.
I mourned for my sister. While my imaginary monsters disappeared the second my dad checked my closet and turned on the nightlight, my sister’s very real monster wouldn’t go away with a simple switch.
But, now I really needed reassurance that I hadn’t actually met my dead twin sister and I was just crazy. One day, I found her picture from an old article in their town newspaper, and I thought I was going to go into cardiac arrest right then and there. Looking back at me in the photo was Elle, the little girl from the inn. The little girl that had come there to see her sister. That sister that was in fact me.
In hindsight I wish I talked to her more and didn’t run away, and I’ve never seen her again since that one night at the inn.