The Boy in the Closet With Blue Eyes
In the beginning of February of 2008 we moved into a new house. My daughter was six and my son was three, almost four. Soon after we moved in my son started acting weird. He would get up shortly after I put him to bed and say, "I am afraid we are all going to die in this house." I just thought he was having a bit of anxiety about being in a new place and having his own room for the first time. So I assured him that would not happen and put him back to bed. A few days later he would get up and tell me about a little blond haired boy with blue eyes in his closet. I started to get a bit concerned as a believer in the paranormal and ghosts, but I still reassured him he must have been having a dream (not wanting to scare my child more) and I would put him back to bed. This continued every night for about two weeks.
On February 18th 2008 I had my nephew over for a play date. While they kids were playing I decided to start supper. Then I did the dumbest thing I have ever done. I put a pan of oil on the stove to heat up to fry chicken breasts and went and took the laundry out of the dryer. Just that quickly, my brain changed channels. I forgot all about the pan, the oil, the chicken, and I went to the living room tuned on the television and began folding laundry. After a bit I began to hear a popping sound. I thought, "Shit! The grease is on the stove!" I never expected to see what I saw when I ran into the kitchen. The whole pan was on fire. The flames were about four feet high and they were over the range hood and burning the cabinets. Just then my kids and my nephew run into the kitchen. I tell them to run outside and go across the street to the neighbors. I go to run with them and I see my neighbor outside and yell for her to call 911. I then, turned back around and go back into the kitchen. Having lost a house to a grease fire as a child I did not want that to happen again. I knew what would happen if the fire burned through the ceiling and into the rafters. I also knew how to put it out but I did not have anything like baking soda or flour, and I figured it the fire was passed the point of being able to smothered it out. I tuned to just run out the door when I heard a voice in my head say, "Grab the pan and throw it into the empty sink. I promise it will be okay." I know that sounds insane, and what I did was even more insane. I grabbed the pan by the handle, (which should have been about 400 degrees at the time) picked the pan up, took a few steps and tossed it and ran out the door.
When I got outside I sat down on the porch, I vaguely remembered spilling some oil on my right foot in the process of throwing the pan. I looked down and was shocked to see it. It was red and parts of it were turning white. My neighbor came over running and saw my foot and got a wet towel from her house to wrap it. I kept saying, "It's out, it's out. The fire is out." Even though at the time I had no idea if that was true. The police and the fire department showed up and yelled for us to get away. So I told them not to worry that I already put the fire out. The officer and one of the firemen went in and inspected the house while the other fireman tended to my foot and called for an ambulance. He also called my husband at work to let him know that I was being taken to the hospital and he needed to get there. The two men who went into the house came out and asked me, "What did you do?" With confused looks on their faces. So I told them what happened, (Minus hearing the voice). I said, "I picked up the pan and threw it in the sink." They just kept looking at me. I said, "What?" They told me that there were scorch marks on the floor and you could see the outline of my foot. The range hood was almost completely melted and the cabinets were burnt so bad they would need to be replaced. The blinds in the kitchen were also melted, and the counter was scorched. By the scene they said at the very least my hands and face should have severe burns. At the worst being that I spilled the grease on myself the heat should have been enough to engulf my whole body in flames. In others words, I should be severely burned or even dead. My foot was only burned because the oil spilled on it. That's the only reason.
Being loaded in the ambulance was awful. Seeing the looks on my kids faces. Seeing them scared and crying. I could not cry in front of them and told them that I would be okay, and to be good for their aunt. In the ambulance the paramedic noticed my clothing. It was covered in oil, so he examined under my shirt and cut my pant leg to examine me for more burns. I had one teeny tiny burn on my left thigh. No different than a benign burn someone would get while cooking.
At the hospital I was diagnosed with second and third degree burns and given morphine. My husband showed up and I immediately burst into tears. He was teary eyed and relived that it was only my foot, and that I was okay. They they wrapped up my foot, gave me a prescription for pain meds and an appointment at a burn center for the next day. My husband took me home, helped me bathe, get into clean clothes, got the kids supper, and put me to bed. The next day at the burn center I had to have surgery to clean the burns of my foot, and they put cadaver (dead people) skin on the burns to help my foot grown new skin and prevent infection. I went to the burn center once a week for four weeks. It was the worst experience of my life. The center was for adults and children. Seeing all those burned people, most of which were way worse than me was awful. It made me feel guilty that somehow I was spared from burns that bad.
At home I was on crutches, and taking care of my home and children, and having to get a ride two hours to the burn center once a week (I could not drive and my husband had to go away from training. There was literally no choice) was a challenge but I made it work. After four weeks they removed the cadaver skin. They told me I still may need a skin grafts taken from my hip to put on the part of my foot near my toes. I went back next week and was told no skin graft was needed. So I never went back to the burn center again.
Still, I healed relatively quickly and was very very lucky. One night after I was healed up and our lives had returned to normal I was tucking my son into bed and he was staring at the closet. Through all the hospital visits, my surgery, and everything I forgot about the boy in the closet and the "voice". So I asked my son if he still saw the boy. He said, "Yes. Sometimes" I asked him, "Do you think the boy is a ghost?" My son answered, "yes". I then asked him, "Is he a good ghost, or a bad ghost?" And my son said something I will never ever forget. He said, "Oh, he's definitely good, he's the one who made the pan cold."
After that night my son never talked about the blonde boy with blue eyes in his closet again. To this day when I think about this, I wonder who the boy could be, why they decided to warn a little boy of something bad that would happen, and why he decided to help me.
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© 2017 MacAllister Bishop