I broke out into a cold sweat, pressing my eyelids tighter.
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The deliberate, heavy footfalls continued into the room and around to my side of the bed. I tried to will whoever it was to go away, but it didn’t work. When they’d reached the doorway of my room. It was the distinct sound of boots plodding along on the wooden floor. And they didn’t sound like my grandmother’s petite slippered feet. They weren’t coming from the direction of the bedroom my grandmother had selected. Until the footsteps started from down the hall. And with just an overgrown field beyond the window in the room, there was no noise to speak of except for the katydids.Īs I settled under the covers, I breathed in my grandmother’s perfume on the pillowcase and the plastic pillow protector underneath crinkled in my ears. I waited for my eyes to adjust, but there was nothing to make out. She chose my mother’s old room just down the hall for the night.Īs soon as I’d yanked the chain on the overhead light, the enveloping darkness nearly suffocated me. My first night there, my grandmother insisted I sleep in her room because she thought the bed was the most comfortable one of the four bedrooms. The evening before my weekly day off my aunt and uncle would pick me up and deliver me to the big red house on the hill. I was working as a camp counselor at an all-girls camp on a picturesque pond about twenty minutes away from my grandmother’s house. It was the summer before my junior year of college. That changed abruptly when I was in my late teens, the first time I stayed there without the rest of my family. But these were just fascinating tales they never happened to me. Over the years my parents regaled me with their experiences of seeing the spirits of family members long since passed. She was the inspiration for Amelia, the sweet grandmother in my Coastal Maine Precipice Series. We visited every summer on family vacations, and I absolutely adored being there with her. I grew up fully aware of the spooky stories associated with my grandmother’s creaky old house in Maine. The stillness pulsing in my ears grows louder, as if there is no such thing as complete silence. It’s often late at night when the blackness that surrounds can’t possibly get any more oppressive.
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It always seems to be quiet when it happens, when no one else is around.