During the Fall of 1994, the beginning of my freshman year in collage, one afternoon while studying home alone, I heard footsteps upstairs. I listened. The sound of the foot fall upon the ceiling and pattern of the steps was distinct. There was someone one upstairs. My mind raced. How did they get in? Was the sliding door to the balcony of the master bedroom unlocked? The footsteps left the master bedroom and began to make their way down the hall, to the stairs. My heart leapt to my throat. I quietly got up and went for the first thing that came to mind; a kitchen knife. I slipped it out of the wooden block and waited. The steps began to descend the stairs. Shit. Should I make a break for it out the back door? The steps descended, one by one…into silence. I stood frozen to the ground. I continued to listen but heard absolutely nothing but the sound of my own heavy breath.

I looked out of the kitchen to the stairs; no one was there waiting. I grew braver and walked into the living room to get a better view of the stairs. Affirmation granted; no one was there. Did they sneak back up stairs? I walked to the bottom of the stairs and listened. Nothing. Now confused, I was unsure of what to do. Was I crazy? Hadn’t I just heard someone walking around upstairs?

Pride took over. I needed to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Slowly, I ascended the stairs to the hallway. Nothing. First thing I did was lay down on my stomach because, there in the hallway at the top of the stairs, one could have the vantage point to any of the three bedrooms. I looked, able to see under each bed; no one.

The next quickest hide away would have been the bathroom. A-ha! I thought, they’re hiding in the shower. I leapt up and slashed the knife through the plastic shower curtain…twice. Nothing.

What the….??

I did a careful search through each bedroom, each closet, under each bed. I even scanned the the carpet in each room looking for a shoe print. Still nothing.

I went back down stairs and put the kitchen knife back into its block. I half chuckled at myself and marveled at the perspiration that had gathered upon my brow. What was going on?

Then it clicked. The pattern of the steps had been in the master bedroom, where my grandmother had also slept. When she’d make the bed, she’d go from side to side, pulling up the covers, back and forth until the bed was made. Then she’d walk from the master bedroom down the hallway, to the stairs….

My grandmother had been dead for over a year.