Shrugging it off, I went to the bathroom

When I was ten, I spent the night at my grandma Linda’s house. She had gone out to pick up my cousin, leaving me alone for a while. It was no big deal—I’d stayed there plenty of times before.

I was getting ready to take a shower when I realized I hadn’t grabbed my pajamas. So I walked back to my room, and that’s when I noticed something strange. My bedside lamp, which I had left on, was off. I frowned but figured maybe I had forgotten to turn it on. I flipped the switch, and the light came back.

Shrugging it off, I went to the bathroom and started the shower.

As the warm water ran over me, I heard a noise. A soft creak, like a door opening. My stomach tightened. “Grandma? You home already?” I called out.

No answer.

I listened for a few more seconds. Nothing. Just the water running.

I tried to shake it off, but then—swish.

The shower curtain moved. Not a little. It swayed, as if someone had brushed against it.

My breath caught in my throat. “Grandma?” I said again, but my voice barely made it past the rush of water.

Then it happened.

The curtain ripped open, yanked so hard it almost tore off the rings. At the same time, an invisible force shoved me backward. I lost my balance and crashed against the wall, then slipped. My leg slammed into the metal grab bar Grandma used to help herself up.

Pain shot through me, sharp and burning.

I scrambled out of the tub, my heart pounding, my body shaking. Blood dripped from my leg, pooling on the tile. My breath came in short gasps as I darted my eyes around the bathroom.

No one was there. But I knew—I knew—something had been.

Grandma found me minutes later, pale and trembling. She rushed me to the hospital, and I needed stitches. To this day, I still have the scar.

But that’s not what scares me the most.

What scares me is that, sometimes, when I visit Grandma’s house, I swear I still hear that same soft creak.

Like a door opening when no one is there.