Woken by my daughter early this morning, unable to get back to sleep so I head downstairs to sit in the predawn dark, looking up from my book from time to time as little beads of shadow stream across the floor like dark mercury.
An hour or so later, I hear footfalls overhead.
They move through the laundry room to the back stairs. But they do not descend.
Later that morning, I ask my wife if she got up earlier. She did not.
As I came into the laundry room this morning, a shadow moved in the dim light from right to left — coming from the hallway and passing through the closed and locked door at the top of the back stairs.
The shadow was large, as wide as a refrigerator though not as tall. It has a solid mass to it, depth even.
I did not at any point feel afraid.
This is just another episode in a growing list of sightings here in The Last House — shadows mostly, sometimes dark and sometimes pale, moving up and down those back stairs.
Pushing through the soft fuzz of the baby monitor, my daughter’s cries jolts me awake: “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”
I’m up and across the hall before I have a chance to clear the mist from my head. Standing over her crib, I pat her back and tell her it’s okay. Once she settles down I head back to bed.
I make the mistake of checking the time. 5am.
Just enough time to slip back to sleep before it’s time to get ready for work.
My wife curls around my back — familiar and comforting, this shape we make together.
Just as I’m drifting off, I hear my daughter again, fainter this time: “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”
I raise my head and listen.
Silence.
Then, again: “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”
I sit up, my wife asking me what’s wrong.
I can hear her calling faintly, as though from a distance . . . as though she’s moving further away.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy…”
The light on the monitor is dim. No sound but the white noise buzz.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy…”
Faster now across the hall, at her crib in an instance.
She lies there asleep, content. Safe.
I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the faint cry that still pierces in the air, just barely audible.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy…”
My wife asks me what’s wrong. I shake my head, embarrassed and apologetic for disturbing her sleep. She puts up with so much of my insanity. Too much.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy…”
I get up and go to the little window, just open a crack to let in the hint of spring.
Outside a bird calls, lonely in the early morning dark: “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”
I shake my head, kiss my wife, and head downstairs to get ready for work.
Waking up in the winterdark, I head downstairs. Cold floors and echoes of early morning dreams.
I pass by the front door and see someone out on the sidewalk, a dark shape bundled up against the cold.
Halfway to the kitchen, I stop.
The dark shape picking its way along the crust of snow, another echo in the back of my head. Old, old feelings.
The shape, slightly too tall . . . too tall and too dark.
Not a person, no.
Back at the door, I look one way and then the other. Up and down the street, far as I can see.
Nothing. No one.