When my brother was two we would catch him in our attic playing with his trains and talking with someone. We thought it was an imaginary friend. We began to worry, as he would say he was in our closet, at the foot of the bed, and at the top of the stairs. One night, my mom had friends over while my dad was out of town. Connor walked down the stairs and told my mom and her friends that, "Mommy! The boy is at the door! Can I play with him?" My mom looked out the door and saw no one.
We checked out the history of the house and found out that a young boy fell down the stairs and died in 1957.