On Christmas night in 1994, we were in my grandma's house. All the family was gathered there. I was in the kitchen, drinking some coke. When I turned around towards the door, I saw a little kid walk by. He was wearing a white shirt and red pants. He must have been 2 years old. I was like 'Wait a minute. I've never seen that kid before'. So I went to the door and looked to the hallway and my mom was coming from the direction the little kid had taken. I asked my mother if she knew who that kid was and she said she didnt see any kid like that. I thought I was seeing things. Later in the night, my cousin began to cry. I asked him what was wrong with him and he told me that he missed his brother (his brother died in the crib when he was a baby). I was talking with my aunt, telling her about what my cousin had told me, and then I told her what I had seen earlier in the night. She then told me that her dead son was buried wearing a white shirt and red pants. How it changed my life:I wasn't scared. I just wondered 'Why me? Why me and not my cousin?'
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