By Wanda Fraser

The Hatman and the Little Girl

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I grew up in a small, old house in a rough neighborhood on the north side of town. The area was notorious for its crime, and we who lived there were often referred to as “the northerners”—a label that carried more disdain than pride. The neighborhood was no stranger to tragedy. I vividly recall more than one occasion when unfortunate souls were taken away, the grim procession of police, ambulance, and coroner followed by a still figure on a stretcher, draped in dark velvet. I was relieved when the opportunity finally came to move, but it wasn’t until a murder occurred just two doors down that we made the decision. I was glad to leave.

This tiny house had been home to my three siblings, my parents, and the occasional visitor escaping their own circumstances. While I don’t know if my brothers and sister experienced anything unusual, I do know my mother did. Objects would move on their own, disappearing and reappearing in odd places. She struggled to sleep, her mood often weighed down by a deep, pervasive sadness. It was a hard place to live.

My room had a window at the far end of the bed, and even with the curtains drawn tight, a small sliver of light would always filter through. One night, I woke suddenly from a deep sleep to a deathly silent house. I still don’t know what startled me awake, but whatever it was jolted me upright. As I lay there, peeking over the covers, my gaze landed on the window—and I froze.

There, standing tall and imposing in front of the window, was the silhouette of a man. He wasn’t dressed like anyone I’d ever seen—he wore what appeared to be a collarless cape or robe, and on his head was a wide, triangular hat. I couldn’t make out any details, just the shadowed figure of this man, his form perfectly still. Paralyzed with fear, I scrambled out of bed and fumbled for the light switch. The moment I turned the light on, he was gone.

This figure—the “Hat Man”—appeared again and again over the next few weeks. Each time, he seemed to be standing closer to the end of my bed. And each time, the terror I felt was more intense. The last time I saw him was the most horrifying of all. I awoke to find him hovering right over my feet. This time, I could make out some details—the folds of his clothing, and beneath the brim of his hat, what looked like glowing red eyes. As I stared, frozen in terror, he suddenly fell toward me. I screamed, raising my arms to block him, and then—nothing. The light came on, my family rushed in, and I told them it was just a bad dream. Deep down, though, I wasn’t sure if it had been a dream or something else entirely.

After that night, the Hat Man never returned. But the strange occurrences in the house didn’t stop. Not long after, I began to see another figure—a little girl.

She would appear at the far side of my room, just standing there, quietly watching me. She looked to be about eight years old, with light brown hair in two braids draped over her shoulders. I remember the details of her outfit vividly—a white shirt, a red and black kilt, and oddly mismatched orange socks. There was something sad about her, but she didn’t scare me the way the Hat Man had.

I confided in a friend about the little girl, and she in turn told her mother. The response I received was unsettling. Her mother said it could be one of two things—either I was having a nervous breakdown, or I was seeing a ghost. She also gave me a stern warning: if I wanted to help the little girl, I had to talk to her. I had to tell her to leave and go home.

The next time the little girl appeared, I worked up the courage to do just that. She was standing by my bed, looking at me with those sad, silent eyes. I sat up and smiled at her, though my heart was racing. I asked her why she was here, but she said nothing. So, I told her I thought she would be happier if she went home, and that it was okay to leave. I waited, but she didn’t respond. Eventually, I whispered good night and fell back asleep.

That was the last time I saw the little girl. I never saw her again, and for that, I’m grateful.

I moved away from that house shortly after, and though I’ve had many strange experiences since, nothing has ever compared to what I witnessed in that small, old house on the rough side of town.

This story was featured on the Ghost Story Guys Podcast – Ep. 43 Oct. 16 2018

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