When I was about eighteen years old, I had to live on my own as my stepfather asked me to leave. (In truth, I was happy to go because it meant I could focus on my studies.) He did this because my homework was taking up too much time (seventeen hours one weekend, for example).
To pay the bills I worked part-time at a grocery store, and my stepfather supplemented the rest. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Anyway, the place I stayed in was a bed-and-breakfast. I had the attic all to myself, and I enjoyed it. It was a full bedroom up there. There was a door that one would open, which led to stairs. Walking up to them, one would see the bedroom.
Like most people, I kept the lights off when I went to bed. That night was no different. Some time had passed by, I don’t know how much, and I drifted into a deep slumber.
It was about 3 am when suddenly I woke up by the terrifying sound of footsteps running up my stairs. The noise was loud, and the rush had me jumping out of bed and reaching for the light. As soon as I did, the sound stopped.
I slept with the light on for the rest of the night.
