For all my childhood, our home in Maple Creek felt watched. Odd events were a normal part of life there.
One night, when I was fifteen, I was asleep in my second-floor room. A sudden pressure dipped the foot of my mattress, like a person gently sitting down. I thought it was my brother, coming to borrow my headphones from the nightstand. I kept my eyes shut, hoping he would leave if I pretended to sleep.
A short while later, the weight lifted, and the bed creaked softly. I got up and went straight to my brother’s room to get my things back. He was in a deep sleep, his quiet breathing filling the dark room. I returned to my own room and saw my headphones were still on the stand, untouched.