The Saturday Morning Visitor

I was eleven. It was a quiet Saturday morning in our small house. My dad was in the kitchen, humming along with an old song on the radio before he went to take his shower.

I stayed on the living room floor, feeling a sudden chill. I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall, thinking it was my dad. I didn’t look up. But the footsteps passed right by me and faded. When I finally turned, the hallway was empty.

I went to the kitchen and saw the shower was still running. When my dad came out, I told him what I heard. His face went pale. ‘That’s strange,’ he whispered. ‘I saw a dark shape move past the foggy glass.’ We both just wanted to leave for my grandmother’s house.

As he was getting dressed, the radio still playing, we heard the screen door creak open and then shut with a loud bang. A deep, unfamiliar voice called out from the front of the house, ‘Don’t stop now, that’s a lovely sound!’ We rushed to the door together, too frightened to be apart. Peering down the hall, we saw a tall, dark figure moving toward us.