Scared of the Dark

There was a nightlight in the little room with pale pink walls. Plugged into the east wall, I insisted that it be turned on each night after mom lovingly tucked me in, always with a sweet hug and kiss goodnight.

“I don’t get you,” she once told me. “When we go camping in the mountains, sleep in a tent, where wild animals roam around in the dark and you can’t see your hands in front of your face, there--of all places--you fall asleep instantly!” She could not understand why her little girl had such a phobia in the safety of her own home, when she was not scared of the dark out in the wilderness.

Before an extra bedroom was built in the basement, my brother and I shared that little pink room. Well, it wasn’t pink at the time, more a turquoise color as I recall. We had bunk beds in a cute colonial style, the kind you could take apart and make into separate beds if needed. When the basement bedroom was complete, the bunk beds came apart. Ted got his own room: The Middle Bedroom.

That’s how they were known, much like in Goldilocks: The Little Bedroom, The Big Bedroom, and The Middle Bedroom, which was located straight down the hallway from the living room.

My nightlight was on that night, but as usual the shadows cast eerie shapes here and there. The wind was blowing. I listened to the metal threshold plate on the front door screaming in the wind, a frightening sound peculiar to our house.

When I could take no more, I crept into The Middle Bedroom and woke my brother. “Can I sleep with you?” Ever the protector, he always agreed.

Now, I don’t know why he had his bed facing straight out the door and down the hallway. I would never have set it up that way, much too spooky. I sandwiched myself between my brother and the wall, and promptly fell asleep.

Later, after midnight, we both woke to hear the hardwood floors creaking and groaning. Soft footsteps. A sound near the front door. What’s that? It was unspoken but we shared those silent words. Two little heads popped up from the pillow, eyes big as saucers, peering into the darkness down the hall.

And then, just then, we saw a figure in white gliding across the end of the hallway from right to left. Our hearts began pounding in our chests.

Another noise quickly followed, that of a chair being kicked, its legs scraping across the wooden floor, followed immediately by the thundering low, loud sounds of the bass keys on the upright piano.

“Dammit!” The kitchen light flicked on, followed by muttered words and the sound of a match.

This was no ordinary ghost. It was mom, pacing in the middle of the night, checking to make sure the front door was locked, indulging in a bit of late night worrying over one last cigarette. She had tripped over grampa's chair near the kitchen entrance and slammed her hand into the piano keys.

Phew. We were safe. At least for one more night…

The inspiration for this story came from a writing prompt: Spooky Story, by San Diego Momma. Thanks for the idea!