I must have been twelve or thirteen years old when I heard the footsteps. Mom and Dad were in the front yard visiting with some neighbors one late afternoon while my sisters rode their bicycles up and down the sidewalk. I had gone inside to get a sweater which was, of all places, under my bed. I know that I was alone in the house.
On my knees on the far side of the bed from the bedroom door, I dug through toys and books and just plain old kid junk, looking for the sweater. But for the sounds I was making, the house was dead quiet.
Someone walked into the bedroom. You know that soft stealthy sound that occurs when someone walks across a low-pile carpet. It can’t be mistaken for anything else.
I rose on my knees to see who was coming into the room. There was no one. The steps continued slowly, rhythmically, moving down the far side of the bed.
Now this was a fairly new house. We were the first owners. It was late afternoon and sunlight was pouring through the window. There was no way I couldn’t have seen someone walking on the other side of the bed in my small room.
Cold gripped me but did it come from my own fear or from some external force? All I know now is that I was alone in my bedroom and yet I wasn’t. I sat back against the wall, drew up my knees and covered my face with my hands.
The footsteps moved around the bed and along the end. I remember focusing intently on the sound as whatever was in my room moved nearer. The cold intensified and I was unable to call out. The steps rounded the end of the bed and moved toward me.
Whatever had entered my bedroom stopped right in front of me. I pressed my fingers tight against my eyes, terrified. But I needed to see. I needed to know who—or what—stood before me.
I relaxed my fingers, parted them, peered through them. Nothing stood in front of me. The room felt expectantly silent. And then the cold lifted and I was alone. I never heard those footsteps again.
What do you think it was? Share your theories and stories.
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