When I was 10 years old, I lived in a house built by my dad with him and my mom. Before that, we'd lived in a trailer on the same property since I was 3 years old. I don't know any history about the land, such as who lived there before us, but there was always a creepy feeling around the general area. Not really scary, just, um, I don't know, different. A few things happened while I lived there with my mom and dad. It seemed like other kids and myself were the only ones who felt as if the area was creepy. My mother and father never let on that they felt any particular way about it. One night, though, we all experienced something strange.
The house had an upstairs and a downstairs. The living room, kitchen, one bathroom, laundry room, dining room, and my bedroom were located on the lower level. Upstairs was my parents' bedroom, another bathroom, and another sitting area. In our living room, we had a couch and a loveseat. Sometimes my mom and I would sleep in there, me on the loveseat and her on the couch. My father would just go on up to bed without her.
The night we had the uninvited visitor, my mom and I fell asleep watching T.V. and Daddy went on up to bed alone. I'm a really light sleeper. It always seems that I'm never fully asleep. Very frustrating. Makes me tired all the time. Anyhow, when my mother tapped me on the shoulder that night I figured she was trying to urge me into my bed.
I was sleeping with my face pressed against the back of the loveseat, one leg slung up and over the back. It was my favorite way to sleep, all hugged up to the couch cushions. I didn't even turn over to look at her. I just mumbled that I would stay where I was. I was very much awake after she tapped me on the shoulder and I could feel her standing over me. She didn't say anything, and after a bit, I didn't feel her near me anymore. I assumed she had gone upstairs to sleep with my father. Unconcerned, I remained on the loveseat until the next morning. Much to my surprise, when I woke up and rolled over, she was on the couch, just as she had been when I had gone to sleep. I didn't say anything at the time. She could have stayed downstairs with me, or she could have come back down some time during the morning. It wasn't a big deal.
As I was walking by her on my way to the kitchen, she opened her eyes.
"Morning," I mumbled.
I trudged into the kitchen to find my father sitting at the island counter. He looked up when I entered the room, smiling a greeting. I plopped down on a stool next to him. My mother came around me and moved toward the fridge. As she began to gather supplies for breakfast, my father asked her, "Why did you come back down?"
She looked over her shoulder at him, a frown on her face, and said, "What are you talking about?"
His smile was strained as he explained, "You came upstairs last night, sat right on the bed, but when I talked to you, you didn't say anything, and then you went back downstairs."
She drew her eyebrows together in consternation, "I didn't come upstairs. I slept on the couch all night."
I decided to add my two cents. I shook my head. "No, I think you did go upstairs. You tried to wake me up and make me go to bed. You grabbed my shoulder."
My mom by this time was looking more and more puzzled. She dropped the milk onto the counter with a thud that made me jump. She turned around and pinned me with her stare. "No, I didn't. I actually thought you tried to wake me up. I felt someone touch my shoulder."
"Nuh-uh," I protested, shaking my head. "I didn't get up at all last night. I didn't even turn over. I swear, you tried to wake me up. I told you I wanted to stay where I was. Then you ... Well, I just thought you went upstairs."
We all stopped and looked at one another. Daddy's mouth was hanging open and Mama was looking really perplexed, and a little angry.
"So, you really didn't come upstairs?" Daddy asked. When Mama shook her head, he continued, "I felt the bed sag under your weight. I heard your footsteps. I talked to you. I know you were there . . . or someone was there." Again, silence as we all stared at each other. Then my mom shook her head.
"We probably just imagined it all," she offered, frowning.
"I was wide awake, Eva," my dad insisted. "I didn't imagine it."
"Was it a ghost?" I asked excitedly.
"No, it wasn't," my mom snapped.
My father looked like he wanted to press the issue. I just shook my head. I knew how my mother could get when she didn't want to talk about something, especially if the topic made her uncomfortable. This conversation was clearly making her uncomfortable. She turned her back to us and began to make breakfast. Her shoulders were stiff with tension. I exchanged a look with my father, who changed the subject to something a bit more mundane.
The incident was mentioned only a few other times after that; usually with me bringing it up. Mama didn't like to talk about it and Daddy just got quiet. So, was it a ghost? Or did my mother sleepwalk? Or was it just our imaginations, like Mama said?
I just wonder what we might have seen that night had any of us turned over and opened our eyes ...
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Editor's Note: Author C.E. Stinson kindly agreed for her work to be published in this collection. You may also find the original publication of this story on her profile.
