In our house there seems to be a relationship between this date and children’s hospitals. Last year it was the 2-year-old eating washing machine liquid tabs. He burped bubbles for hours but was fine. The previous one was painfully memorable - a stitch between the toes for our 4-year-old. Her foot slipped when cycling in bare feet (in the house). Ouch.
Growing up I was never ultra superstitious. Now I’m respectfully so. This is why...
We had found our first flat in a house near Ballsbridge, one of those old, large four-storey ones. It was the garden flat. After hours and hours of cleaning, we fell into bed on the first night. This was also to be our last.
Sometime during that night I woke up. I don’t know why. It was still dark. But there, facing me where the wardrobe had been earlier, against the wall, was a little boy, maybe about five or six, dressed in Dickensian-type clothes with cap and short trousers, holding a package of books tied up with string. He was smiling. His eyes were watching me and I knew he wasn’t trying to scare me. But he was.
I screamed and screamed - ‘Get the little boy away from me. Get the little boy away from me’.
I screamed for the third time and the little boy began to dissolve back into the wall.
And then he was gone.
And so were we.
We rang our landlord the next day and said we had to leave. No reasons asked for or given. Our deposit was returned. The date on the cheque was Friday the 13th.