I spend most of my time in a small city apartment with my father. It feels safe and cozy. But on weekends, I stay at the old house on Maple Lane where my mother lives. The house is large and full of empty rooms, which makes me feel uneasy.
Strange things have been happening there lately. Last Saturday, I was heading to the kitchen when I clearly heard the sink faucet turn on in the laundry room. I called out, thinking my mother was home early, but when I looked inside, the room was dark and empty. The faucet was off.
Later that evening, I was reading on the sofa. The door to the basement, which is always kept shut, slowly swung open. I thought it was the dog, but then I saw him sleeping soundly at my feet. As I watched, the door gently closed itself again. A cold feeling settled in the room, and I knew I wasn’t alone.