• So I live in this town called Plymouth, where the Plymouth rock (obviously) is, where the pilgrims landed, and where many ghosts happen to live...
    I have some photographic evidence for those non-believers out there, but I must say it is wayyyy easier to see them in real life.

    The first story I do now remember is the first actual story I have heard. It is about a disabled boy from the 1800s. He is commonly reffered to as the boy of the haunted pram. You probably are thinking what a pram is, so I shall tell you. A pram is like this odd combination of one of those ancient, black baby carriages mixed with the mobility functions of a wheel chair. So this boy, name unknown, was disabled with something like down's syndrome and he was taken where ever his parens would allow, like up the stairs, down the stairs, and not much anywhere else. He was a neglected child, a child who did not get much attention because of the deformities he had, which were also in the face. He was not allowed out of the house for long. One day he rolled up to the edge of the staircase by himself and thinking that he would be able to go down the stairs, he fell down the stairs instead. Now he was not just paralized below the waist, he had snapped his neck during this plummet to the ground, and became paralized below the shoulders. If anything is fractured on the spine anything below that fracture will not work. And so...his heart stopped beating, he began to draw smaller breaths, and in a matter of moments, he was dead. After that day the pram that he had laid in for so many years began to move on its own. It moved all over the house. It moved on its own, but it did not seem to look as if it was being pushed or pulled by anything. As a matter of fact it moved around so casually that it almost looked as if it was just what a wheel or ball would naturally do on a hill: roll down it. Even though it seemed this way, the house it was in was not built on a hill. Now a century later and a few generations sooner, this pram was given up to a museum that was not very far from the Plymouth rock monument. And this museum was on a hill, and yes, even though the pram was away from its home, it still rolled around on its own. It rolled around not just down hill; in fact it is still in that museum and it still moves from time to time. It moved from time to time, not occasionally or frequently, but often enough.
    One day I took a picture of the museum that held this certain pram, expecting nothing to show up in this picture, but i was wrong. In that picture I saw that little boy's ghostly face looking at me in the bottom left window, like he was asking me to just pay attention to him; to pay him the atttention that a child would have wanted. Like he at least wanted to be noticed. I have felt sad for him ever since I saw that broken hearted face. I think his spirit still dwells here on this earth because he never got to be noticed like he should have been.

    If you wanna hear more stories, I suggest turning your criticizing pupils to the next pixel formed webpage of my little series...