Tag Archives: childhood memory

Arctic Fox

The Story:

“When I was in third grade, I moved to a different part of the city and changed schools. The first book we read in class was The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Our teacher used an origami activity to tie into the book and taught us how to make origami foxes. In the class, we used orange origami paper, but since that class I have made the origami foxes out of whatever resources I had around- like i did in class on Thursday!”

Reflection:

Reflection:

The informant’s story was a good example of folk art when mixed with personal memory and communal creativity. The emphasis on the folk art being created with “whatever resources I had around” is an example of making do with whatever is at hand. This draws back to the importance of folk art, since it essentially is the presentation of messages or historical context via a multitude of mediums. Furthermore, the folk art and its prevalence in the informant’s life shows how the folk art, despite the material used to make it, will always carry the historical and contextual significance when being recreated and taught onto other individuals. The story exemplifies the folkloresque of the integration type. The origami fox activity is an attempt at a connection between book and another tangible media form, yet seems folkloric as it allows the opportunity for the children to form shared connected ideals and emotions of the origami.

Thunder Explained to a Child

Text:

“The angels are bowling”

Context:

“The angels are bowling,” my mom use to tell me when I was a child. I was so afraid of thunderstorms, so my mom told me that thunder was just the angels in Heaven bowling. I stopped being afraid of thunder then and would just complain that the angels always had to go bowling when I was trying to fall asleep.

Analysis:

In order to help me overcome my fear of thunderstorms, my mother constructed a legend – a story set in the real world and told as if it was true. Now, I asked her if she came up with the legend on her own, and she tells me she’s not sure. She may have heard it from somewhere else or come up with it on the spot. My family and I are Christians, so my mother used emic, or insider’s, language when discussing that thunderstorms are just angels bowling to esoterically communicate to me that I had nothing to fear.

Perry in the Book

Age: 19

Context:

This story was told to me by my friend during a hangout in their dorm a few weeks before finals. They recalled a childhood storybook about Perry and connected it to knocks they heard during their summer family visits to their lake house. The memory remained vivid because of how long the noises continued and how closely they seemed tied to the story.

IL:

“So every summer, my family would go up to our lake house in the mountains for a few weeks. We’d been doing it ever since I was a kid, and I always stayed in the same room upstairs. It was kind of old and creaky, but I loved it.

One summer when I was ten, I got there and noticed there was this new book on the bookshelf in my room. I swear it hadn’t been there before. It was this children’s storybook about a ghost named Perry. The cover was creepy as hell, like this little white ghost smiling in front of a bedroom door.

My mom read me the book before I went to bed, and the story was about Perry going around at night knocking on doors and hiding under beds. And in the book, it said that if you heard three knocks in the middle of the night, you’d know Perry was there.

That absolutely freaked me out, but I kept going anyway. I think because I wanted to know what happened. And then, like two nights later, I woke up in the middle of the night and heard it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three knocks. Slow and spaced out. Right on my bedroom door.

I literally froze. I just stared at the door and pulled the covers over my head. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I was so scared it was actually Perry.

The next morning I asked my parents if they had knocked on my door, and they were like, no? Why would we do that? And I didn’t even tell them why because I felt stupid.

But then it kept happening. Not every night, but for like a week that summer.

Always three knocks.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

And it was always late. Like after everyone was asleep. I remember lying there waiting for it because I was so scared, and every tiny noise in that house started freaking me out.

One night I finally got brave enough to open the door right after I heard it, and there was nobody there. The hallway was empty. My parents’ room was down the hall and their door was shut. My little brother was asleep. There was just… nothing.

After that week, it stopped. Completely. No more knocks for the rest of the summer.

And the weirdest part is, the next year when we went back, the Perry book was gone. I looked for it because I wanted to prove to myself it was real, and it just wasn’t there anymore.

So yeah, logically it was probably just the house settling or something because it was old, but… hearing three knocks exactly like in the story for a week straight? That still creeps me out.”

Interviewer:

“Do you think reading the book made you notice sounds you normally wouldn’t?”

IL:

“Probably. I mean, I was ten and terrified. My brain was probably connecting everything to Perry. But the fact that it was always three knocks is what gets me. Like if it had just been random noises, whatever. But three? Exactly how the book said? That’s weird.”

Interviewer:

“Would you read the book again if you found it?”

IL:

“Absolutely not. No shot. I am not risking hearing three knocks again.”

The Informant’s Thoughts:

He finds this story unsettling not because he truly believes a ghost was knocking on his door, but because of how perfectly the events lined up with the book. At ten years old, hearing exactly three knocks, the same warning described in the story, felt too specific to dismiss in the moment. Even now, he recognizes there was probably a logical explanation, like the house settling or tree branches hitting the walls, but the timing still lingers in his mind.

What disturbs him most is the strange appearance and disappearance of the Perry book itself. He remembers finding it on the shelf that summer as if it had always been there, only to never see it again the next year. Looking back, he wonders if he simply forgot what the cover looked like or imagined parts of it through fear, but he cannot shake the vividness of the memory.

To him, the experience feels like one of those childhood moments where imagination and reality became tangled together. He does not fully believe it was supernatural, but he also cannot hear three knocks in a row without immediately thinking of Perry.

My Thoughts:

I think the setting contributes significantly to the story’s believability. A mountain lake house in the summer already feels isolated and unfamiliar compared to everyday life. Old houses make noises, hallways seem darker, and the quiet of the mountains amplifies every sound. In that environment, the line between natural and supernatural becomes easier to blur.

The disappearing book adds another layer of mystery. Whether it was misplaced, thrown away, or simply forgotten, its absence transforms the memory into something harder to verify. Without the physical object, the story becomes less about evidence and more about memory, what was real, what was imagined, and what fear may have altered over time.

As a piece of folklore, this story is fascinating because it demonstrates how ghost stories can create their own “evidence.” After IL learned the rule of Perry’s three knocks, every similar sound became part of the legend. In that way, the story itself almost functions like a haunting, shaping the way reality is interpreted long after the book is gone.

The Girl with the Red Thread

Age: 18

Context:

One evening, while walking on campus with my friend, we began sharing spooky stories. She suddenly recalled something that had haunted her for years — a strange experience she had as a child, which had blurred the lines between dream, memory, and legend. This is the story she told me.

The Story:

When she was around 7 or 8 years old, she lived in a home with a study room that had a bed but was rarely used. One night, after waking from a nightmare, she found herself in that very study — a place she never usually slept in. She remembered lying beside her mom, both of them facing the wall, and gently shaking her awake out of fear.

She asked her mom to tell her a story because she couldn’t sleep. Strangely, her mom — who was known to strictly avoid ghost stories or anything scary — agreed. What happened next would stay with her for life.

Still facing the wall, her mom began to tell a ghost story. In the story, a nurse was working the night shift at a hospital. One evening, while heading out from the first floor, she took the elevator — but somehow, the elevator inexplicably descended to the 4th basement level instead, a floor used as a morgue.

This floor had no button, no lights, and no one should have been able to access it. But the elevator stopped there, the doors opened, and the nurse saw a little girl standing silently in the dark. The girl got into the elevator with her.

As the nurse glanced over, she noticed a red thread tied around the girl’s wrist. In Chinese superstition, red thread on the wrist is sometimes associated with the dead. The nurse was so frightened she reportedly died on the spot.

What terrified my friend wasn’t just the story itself — it was the realization much later in life that this was a widely circulated urban legend. Many people she later met had heard it before. And yet, she had never heard it before that night, and neither had her mother — who later insisted, repeatedly and sincerely, that she had no memory of telling the story, or even of waking up that night.

My friend later searched the story online and found that it had indeed been turned into a movie, or at least referenced in popular media. This deepened the mystery: how could a widely known ghost story have been told to her by someone who had never heard it — someone who vehemently denied ever telling it?

To this day, my friend remains disturbed by this experience. She remembers it vividly. Her mother, however, insists it never happened.

The Informant’s Thoughts:

She finds this story creepy, not because of the ghost itself, but because of the contradiction between her clear memory and her mother’s absolute denial. She believes the most chilling part of the experience isn’t the plot, but the uncertainty of how she ever came to hear it.

Years later, when telling others the story of the girl with the red thread, people would say, “Oh, I’ve heard that one!” But she hadn’t. Not before that night. Not ever.

My Thoughts:

What makes this story so compelling is not just the content of the ghost story, but how it plays with memory, belief, and reality. The idea that a story could be “implanted” through a moment that no one else remembers adds an eerie, almost psychological horror element to the tale.

It made me question how many of our memories are truly our own — and how stories that seem personal might actually belong to something much larger, floating around in the cultural subconscious, waiting to find a host.

The repetition — her telling the story to others, retelling it to her mother, and hearing denials each time — builds a quiet but powerful kind of fear. Over time, the story’s scariness comes not from the ghost, but from the accumulated sense of being haunted by a memory no one else shares.

As a piece of folklore, it’s fascinating because it shows how legends can find their way into our lives, not just through media or hearsay, but through deeply personal and unexplainable experiences.

The Shadow Behind the Curtain

Age: 18

Context:

This story was told to me by a Chinese international student at USC, whom I’ll refer to as SG. We were sitting together in one of the quiet study lounges at Parkside after midnight, discussing the kinds of ghost stories we’d heard growing up in China. That’s when she told me something she had never written down or shared publicly—something that happened to her in her childhood that she still remembers with frightening clarity.

The Story:

When SG was 10 years old, she lived with her grandparents in Harbin, a city known for its long, dark winters. Her grandfather had a habit of rising very early, often before sunrise, to boil water and do light chores. Their apartment had large, thick curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

One early winter morning, just before 6 a.m., SG woke up suddenly. She had heard soft footsteps and assumed her grandfather was up again. Curious and still sleepy, she wandered out to the living room—only to find it completely dark, with no lights on. She paused at the doorway.

That’s when she saw it: a silhouette of a person standing perfectly still behind the curtain, as if staring out the window. The form was unmistakably human—tall, slightly hunched, and entirely motionless.

Thinking it was her grandfather, she called out to him.

No answer.

She approached slowly, heart pounding. The air felt wrong—too still, too cold, as if the temperature had dropped. When she finally touched the curtain and pulled it aside—

There was no one there.

No one in the room. No sound of footsteps. No open windows. Just the snow falling silently outside.

Terrified, she ran back to her room and hid under her blanket. She didn’t tell anyone for weeks.

Informant’s Thoughts (SG):

SG says what disturbed her most wasn’t the sight of the shadow, but the fact that she saw it so clearly, and yet her grandfather had still been asleep in his room the whole time. Years later, she still isn’t sure if it was a dream, a hallucination, or something else.

What unsettles her most is that she continues to experience the exact same dream every few years: waking up in a different place, walking into a dark living room, and seeing a shadow behind a curtain.

Each time, she says, she wakes up before pulling the curtain open.

My Thoughts:

To me, what makes SG’s story haunting isn’t just the visual horror of the silhouette—it’s the way it has embedded itself into her memory and dreams, repeating like a ritual.

I’m struck by how familiar this setting feels: cold northern apartment, heavy winter curtains, the eeriness of early morning silence. Even though nothing explicitly supernatural happens, the ambiguity makes it even scarier.

It also makes me think about how many ghost stories we hear as children in China are tied to domestic spaces—kitchens, hallways, staircases—not abandoned mansions or graveyards. They are ordinary spaces made terrifying by something just a little out of place.

This story lingered with me long after she told it—not because of a ghost, but because of the uncertainty that still follows her.