Creepypasta #1255: My Daughter Had An Imaginary Friend
I’ve always found imaginary friends creepy. You hear these stories about children having imaginary friends that are the ghosts of confederate soldiers, or children who point to pictures of dead relatives and say, that’s grandpa, he plays with me every night. I hate those stories. I always hoped my own kid would not have the necessary imagination – but when we moved into the townhouse, it turned out she did. A few weeks after the move, she loudly declared the existence of her imaginary friend at the kitchen table.
“I played with the clown last night, mommy!”
“The clown?” I frowned. She didn’t have any clown toys. I had seen It at an impressionable age, and my relationship with clowns has been strained ever since. No clown toys were allowed to enter the household.
“The clown came to my room and played with me after you went to sleep!”
Oh god, I remember thinking, why did it have to be a clown?
“Was the clown nice?” I asked carefully.
“Very nice. He gave me chocolate!”
I frowned, but a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Of course her imaginary friend would give her chocolate. She loved chocolate.
“Sweetie, you know you’re not allowed to eat chocolate, right?” I smiled at her.
She giggled. “But it was magic chocolate! The kind you can eat and eat and eat and eat and never get a tummy ache!”
“That sounds like really good chocolate!”
I reasoned that the move had triggered the need for an imaginary friend. It wasn’t surprising; our old apartment was in a building with a few other kids, while our neighbours at the townhouse were all older. There were certainly kids in the area, but none would play in the adjacent yards. Instead, we had an elderly couple on one side, and a slightly younger widower on the other. Neither had grandchildren that came to visit, so the yards were empty.
So Ellie made up an imaginary friend. It wasn’t too strange, I just didn’t understand why on earth she had to go and make up a clown.
It went on for years.
I learned that the clown lived in her closet, that he was very nice, and that he would give her magical chocolate sometimes.
At one point she stopped talking about him, and I hoped it would be the end of it. I asked her about it.
“So you don’t play with the clown anymore?”