Harry

Harry is a scary story about a woman whose young daughter has an imaginary friend. It is based on a classic ghost story by Rosemary Timperley.

Such ordinary things make me afraid. Hot, sunny days, dark shadows on grass, children with red hair and the name “Harry”.

My daughter Christine was five years old. It was a hot, sunny day and she was playing alone in the garden. I overheard her talking to someone. I went outside to see who it was, but there was nobody there. I was puzzled.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked.

“Harry,” she replied.

“Harry who?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Just Harry,” she said.

That evening, when my husband came home from work, I told him about it. He said it was normal for kids that age to have imaginary friends. I tried to put it out of my mind, but something about that name… Harry… sent a shiver down my spine.

The next day, Christine was playing in the garden again while I was in the kitchen. Again, I heard her talking to someone. When I looked out the window, I thought I could see a dark shadow on the grass. It looked like a person, but maybe it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. I tapped on the window and told Christine to come inside for dinner.

“Can Harry come too?” she asked.

“No!” I said. “Harry has to stay outside.”

“But he’s hungry,” she whined.

“Who is Harry?” I asked.

“He’s my brother,” she replied.

“But you don’t have a brother,” I told her.

“Yes I do,” she said. “His name is Harry.”

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“Harry told me,” she said.

My daughter spent every day in the garden, talking to her imaginary friend. After a while, it began to worry me, so I took her to see a psychiatrist.

“All children need friends their own age,” the psychiatrist told me. “If they don’t have friends, they invent them. It’s a normal part of childhood. As soon as she starts school, she will forget all about it.”

Talking to the psychiatrist reassured me, but I couldn’t help feeling nervous.

A few days later, Chirstine started school. I dropped her off in the morning for her first day. I kissed her on the forehead and waved goodbye, then watched as she walked up to the front door of the school and went inside.

There was something I had to do. I took a bus into the city and made my way to a large grey building. It had been four long years since I visited the building. It was the orphanage where we adopted Christine.

The woman who ran the orphanage opened the door and invited me inside. I told her I needed to know about Christine’s history. Who were her birth parents? Where were they now? Had they died and if so, how had they died?

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We have strict rules about divulging such information.”

I told her it was very inportant. I begged and pleaded. I got down on my knees. Eventually, the woman gave in.

“Very well,” she said. “But this must remain stictly between the two of us… Christine was born into a very poor family. Her parents didn’t want her. They were drug addicts and they neglected their children. The house they lived in was in terrible condition. One night, the mother and father got into a violent argument. The father grabbed a knife and ended up stabbing his wife to death. He cut off her head. Then, he attacked the children.”

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed.

“When the police arrived it was all over. They found Chistine in the garden, clutched in the arms of her brother. She was unharmed. Her brother was dead. He had been fatally stabbed and as he was dying, he managed to grab Christine take her to safety. They found their father and mother inside the house. The father had taken his own life.”

My eyes were welling up with tears. “What was his name?” I asked in a trembling voice. “Her brother… What was his name?”

“His name was Harry,” she replied.

I stumbled out of the orphanage in a daze. I wandered through the streets with no idea of where I was going. The name “Harry” was floating around in my brain. I felt like I was in a nightmare. I was so frightened, but I didn’t know why.

Then, I looked at my watch. It was after 3 o’clock. I had to pick up Christine from school and I was already late. I hopped on a bus and eventually, I arrived at the school. I walked down the hallway and went into the classroom, where I found the teacher gathering up her books.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I gasped. “Where is Christine?”

“Christine?” the teacher said. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” I cried, aghast.

“Yes. Her brother picked her up a few minutes ago.”

My heart sank in my chest. Without another word, I ran outside and started shouting my daughter’s name. I was running down the street searching for my daughter, screaming and crying hysterically. It was no use. She was gone.

I spent the next two weeks in bed. The police searched for Christine, but they never found any trace of her. Her picture was in the newspaper. Her face was on milk cartons. Everybody was looking for her, but it was as if she had disappeared into thin air.

After a while, people lost interest and the search was called off. It remained just another unsolved mystery. Years have passed since then, but the pain in my heart never goes away. The fear never ends.

Such ordinary things make me afraid. Hot, sunny days, dark shadows on grass, children with red hair and the name “Harry”.