I Don’t Believe in Ghosts (But My Toddler Does)

The toddler is not sick. The house is not haunted. I am not okay.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

Which, now I think about it, is exactly how every good ghost story begins.

But this one doesn’t start with a creaky attic or an icy hand brushing my shoulder at midnight. No. This begins, as all truly haunting tales do, with a toddler mid-regression.

She’s 2.5, which means she’s currently possessed by the spirit of pure chaos. She’s got the energy of someone who’s never paid a gas bill and it shows - displacing furniture, logic, and my will to live. Just last night, she chewed up her dinner and dramatically spat it onto the kitchen door. I tried to turn it into a gentle life lesson: “Okay darling, we don’t do that, let’s clean it up together?”

She nodded (very) sweetly… and then f*cking launched the food across the room like a deranged little trebuchet. At the cat.

This is the demon I live with. (And yes, I adore her. She’s wonderful and clever and hilarious!)

But the ghost thing. Well… That’s new.

It started a few weeks ago. She asked me to draw a baby and a ghost. “Baby cry,” she said, all serious. Then, every night:

“I scared.” “Ghost.”

Excuse me?

Now, we don’t talk about ghosts in our house. It’s not October (yet). There’s no spooky TV. I even coiled into nursery all casual-like: “Heyyy quick one, you guys reading Paranormal Activity for Toddlers or…?”

They looked confused. “No… no ghosts here.”

Brilliant.

Now, I don’t believe in ghosts. But our house is… how do I put this… vintage. Parts of it are from the 1400s. It creaks, it moans, it’s charmingly lopsided. If you were casting a quaint-yet-unnerving setting for a ghost movie, this place would get the part.

But I’ve never felt scared here. Not even on the darkest of night feeds. I love this home. It feels safe - warm, even.

Unlike, say, my parents old house.

Now that place? Fully haunted.

I once sat in their kitchen and saw a woman in the corner. Just for a moment. I brushed it off. Then my mum, without prompting, said, “Funnnny. I think I saw someone there the other day too.”

Oh. Okay then.

And it escalated. The dog started growling at the exact same spot. The TVs turned on by themselves. One night, a radio (unplugged) started blasting white noise like it was trying to summon Bloody Mary via Smooth FM.

Eventually my mum shouted, “ENOUGH!” and, weirdly, that worked. The ghost packed its bags and left.

Now back to my daughter: in addition to the nightly ghost updates, she’s also saying “I sick.” But she’s not. She’s fine. Warm and sweaty, yes. Like a living hot water bottle who demands cuddles, snacks, and several blankets while watching Bluey for the 89th time.

So I’m stuck in limbo trying to decide:
Do I call the doctor… or a medium?

Honestly, it’s probably a growth spurt. Or a leap. Or a regression. Or a poltergeist. Who even knows anymore.

All I do know is that I love a ghost story - I just don’t want one living in my daughter’s wardrobe, disrupting my sleep and throwing invisible balls across the room.

And no, the ghost still hasn’t returned my calls.