When I was 12 years old I lived with my dad in Jennings, Michigan during school nights and my mom in Cadillac, Michigan during weekends and school breaks.
One night in December I woke up by falling out of my bed. When I looked up I saw a little boy. He had to be about six years old; he was very pale and was wearing what looked like a sailor suit. He reminded me of a picture my grandfather use to show me of a boy he took a picture of back in the early 40's.
The little boy just looked at me and said "Get out of the House"; I was so scared that I started to cry. I cried so much that my dad drove me the thirty minute drive to my moms at two o'clock in the mourning. The next night my father's house caught on fire. Sadly enough my older brother passed away in the fire.
A couple of years later I asked my grandfather about the picture and he told me it was his first son who died. I told my grandfather about my experience and he just held me and cried. The little boy holds a special place in my heart.
My father rebuilt on the same piece of land, and life went on, but I never saw that little boy again, but I think about him often and wonder what would have happened if he hadn't woke me that night.