"The Summer That Stole Sylvia":
It was the summer of 1965, and Indianapolis felt like it was holding its breath under a heavy, sticky heat. I was 14, a gangly kid with sunburned cheeks and a bike I rode up and down East New York Street until the streetlights flickered on. Our neighborhood was alive with the sounds of kids shouting, sprinklers hissing, and radios blaring from open windows. Next door, Mrs. Baniszewski’s house was the place to be. She was a wiry woman with sharp cheekbones and a voice that could cut through a crowd. Her place was always packed—her own kids, plus strays like me, drawn by the chaos and the fact that she didn’t care if we snuck her cigarettes or sipped flat beer from cans she left in the fridge. It felt like freedom, like we were untouchable. Then Sylvia and Jenny Likens moved in, and that summer turned into something I’ll never shake.
Sylvia was 16, with long, wavy hair that shimmered in the sunlight and a smile that made you feel like you were in on a secret. She had this way of tilting her head when she laughed, like she was savoring every second. Jenny, a year younger, was quieter, her steps uneven from an old injury that left her with a brace on one leg. Their parents were carnival workers, always on the road, and they’d paid Mrs. Baniszewski to watch the girls while they traveled. At first, it was like they’d always been part of our crew. We’d sprawl on the patchy grass in her backyard, spitting watermelon seeds into the dirt, or pile onto bikes and race to the park, Sylvia’s laughter trailing behind us. She’d tell us stories about the carnival—bright lights, cotton candy, and rides that made your stomach flip. I thought she was the coolest girl I’d ever met.
But by mid-July, something shifted. I started noticing Sylvia looking worn out, like she hadn’t slept. One day, I saw her rubbing her arm, where a bruise bloomed like a dark flower under her sleeve. We were sitting on the Baniszewskis’ sagging porch, the air thick with the smell of cut grass and gasoline from a neighbor’s lawnmower. “Sylvia, what’s with your arm?” I asked, keeping my voice low so the other kids wouldn’t hear. She tugged her sleeve down fast, her fingers trembling. “Oh, you know me, always tripping over my own feet,” she said, forcing a smile. But her eyes darted toward the house, and I saw fear there, quick and sharp. I wanted to ask more, but Mrs. Baniszewski’s shadow passed by the screen door, and Sylvia clammed up.
Things got bad fast. One sweltering afternoon in early August, I was in the Baniszewskis’ kitchen, the linoleum sticky under my sneakers. Sylvia was at the sink, scrubbing dishes in water so hot it turned her hands pink. The radio was playing some twangy song, and a couple of kids were sprawled on the floor, flipping through comics. Mrs. Baniszewski burst in, her face red and twisted. She held up an empty coffee can, the kind she stashed loose change in. “You little thief!” she screamed at Sylvia. “You took my money, didn’t you?” Sylvia dropped a plate, and it clattered into the sink. “I didn’t, Mrs. Baniszewski, I swear!” she said, her voice high and desperate. “Don’t lie to me!” Mrs. Baniszewski grabbed Sylvia’s hair, yanking her head back so hard I flinched. She dragged her to the living room and shoved her into a corner. “Stand there and don’t move. Not a word, you hear me?”
Sylvia stood like a statue, her shoulders hunched, for hours. The other kids avoided looking at her, and I felt my stomach churn. I wanted to say something, but Mrs. Baniszewski was pacing, muttering, her eyes wild. She scared me—scared all of us. That night, I heard shouting through my bedroom window, and the next day, Sylvia wasn’t at breakfast. I found Jenny in the backyard, picking at a dandelion. “Where’s Sylvia?” I asked. Jenny’s face went pale. “Gertrude locked her in the basement,” she whispered. “Said she’s gotta learn her lesson.” I peeked through the basement window later, just a slit at ground level, and saw Sylvia sitting on the concrete floor, her knees pulled up, staring into the dark. I felt like I was choking.
The basement became Sylvia’s world. Mrs. Baniszewski said Sylvia was “trouble,” and we were too afraid to question her. One day, she gathered us in the kitchen, the air heavy with sweat and cigarette smoke. Sylvia stood in the middle, her arms shaking as she held a bulky radio above her head. Her face was pale, sweat dripping down her temples. “If she drops it, you hit her,” Mrs. Baniszewski said, passing out belts to me, Ricky, and a couple of her own kids. Ricky, my best friend, leaned close, his voice barely a breath. “This is messed up, man.” But when Sylvia’s arms buckled and the radio dipped, Mrs. Baniszewski snapped, “Now!” I swung the belt, the leather cracking against Sylvia’s thighs. She gasped, tears streaming down her face, but we kept going, each hit making me hate myself more. Mrs. Baniszewski stood there, arms crossed, a sick smile on her lips. Sylvia’s cries followed me home that night, and I threw up in my bathroom, the taste of bile burning my throat.
By September, the house felt like it was rotting from the inside. The summer heat hadn’t let up, but the laughter was gone. Sylvia was rarely upstairs, and when I saw her, she was a ghost of herself—skinny, with red burns dotting her arms and legs, her hair matted. I heard whispers from other kids that Mrs. Baniszewski had burned her with cigarettes, saying it was “discipline.” Worse, they said she’d taken a hot needle and carved “I am a prostitute” into Sylvia’s stomach. I couldn’t bring myself to look, but one day, I saw Sylvia limping across the hall, clutching her side, her face twisted in pain. Jenny wasn’t spared either, though it was never as bad. I caught her alone by the fence one evening, the sky streaked with pink. “Jenny, why’s Gertrude doing this?” I asked, my voice shaking. She wiped her eyes, her brace creaking as she shifted. “It started ‘cause she thought Sylvia stole. But now? It’s like she enjoys it. She makes us watch, says it’s to teach us.” Her voice broke. “I’m scared she’ll kill her.”
I talked to Ricky that night, sitting on my front steps, the air buzzing with crickets. “We gotta do something,” I said, my fists clenched. “Sylvia’s dying in there.” Ricky’s face was tight, his eyes on the ground. “I know, but Gertrude’s unhinged. You saw what she did to Sylvia for talking back. What if she turns on us? Or our moms?” I wanted to be the hero, to march in and save Sylvia, but fear was a weight on my chest. One night, I saw Sylvia try to escape, her thin frame slipping through the back door. She was so weak she could barely stand, her bare feet catching on the grass. Mrs. Baniszewski caught her before she reached the street, dragging her back by the arm. The screams that night were different—raw, like something breaking. I hid under my covers, my heart pounding so hard I thought it’d burst.
October came, and Sylvia vanished from sight. Mrs. Baniszewski said she was “sick,” but her voice was flat, like she was reading a script. The house smelled wrong, like damp and decay, and I couldn’t shake the dread crawling up my spine. I had to know. One afternoon, when Mrs. Baniszewski was at the store, I snuck in through the back door, my sneakers silent on the creaky floor. Upstairs, in a cramped bedroom, I found Sylvia on a mattress stained with God-knows-what. She was barely human—her body skeletal, skin covered in sores, bruises, and burns. Her face was swollen, one eye nearly shut, her lips cracked and bleeding. “Sylvia?” I whispered, my voice catching. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. “Help… please,” she rasped, so faint I barely heard it. I stumbled back, my chest tight, and ran home.
I grabbed the phone, my hands shaking so bad I dropped the receiver twice. “Police, you gotta come,” I stammered when they answered. “Sylvia Likens is at the Baniszewski house, and she’s hurt real bad. I think she’s dying.” They told me to stay put, but I went back, hiding across the street until the cops pulled up. They carried Sylvia out, her body limp, and I knew before they said it—she was gone. She died in the ambulance, too broken to hold on.
The neighborhood exploded. Police swarmed the house, and Mrs. Baniszewski was arrested, along with some of her kids and a few others, even kids I’d played tag with. The trial was like peeling back the skin of our street, showing the ugliness underneath. Three months of torture—beatings, burns, starvation, all because of a woman who turned her hate into a game. I had to stand in court, my voice shaking as I admitted I’d hit Sylvia, too scared to say no. Mrs. Baniszewski got life, though I heard she got out later. The kids got less time, being young, but it didn’t feel like justice.
That summer is a scar I carry. I see Sylvia’s smile in my dreams, hear her cries when it’s quiet. I was just a kid, but I should’ve been braver, done more. Evil isn’t always loud or obvious—it can be a neighbor’s house, a place you thought was safe. I tell Sylvia’s story now, my voice still shaky, because she deserves to be remembered. Maybe it’ll make someone else speak up, stop something before it’s too late. That summer broke me, but it made me promise to never look away again.
"Summer of Shadows":
I’m Sean, and the summer of 1985 was my first as a police officer in Kansas City. I was 23, fresh from training, and the city was like a furnace, the heat so thick it clung to your skin. The streets pulsed with danger—sirens, shouts, and shadows that hid trouble. I was paired with Joe, a veteran cop with a weathered face and a voice like gravel. That summer was a string of moments so terrifying they still creep into my thoughts, waking me at night. This is my story, real as it gets, no ghosts or magic—just the raw fear of the job.
It started on June 10, my first day. The air was heavy, like breathing through a wet cloth, and my new uniform was already damp with sweat. At the station, Joe sized me up, his eyes sharp under his cap. “Ready for the real world, kid?” he asked, his grin half-teasing, half-serious. I nodded, my stomach churning like I’d swallowed a stone. I’d trained for this, but nothing prepares you for the real thing.
Our first call came before noon—a fight at a house on Elm Street. The place was crumbling, its white paint flaking like dead skin, one window boarded, another cracked. Angry voices spilled out, sharp and loud. A woman answered our knock, her cheek swollen purple, her eyes darting like a trapped animal’s. “He’s in there,” she whispered, pointing down a dim hallway. Her hands shook as she hugged herself. Joe led the way, his hand resting on his holster, his steps sure. I followed, my pulse hammering in my ears.
In the living room, a man loomed, broad-shouldered and red-faced, clutching a beer bottle. The room smelled of stale smoke and spilled liquor. “Who called you?” he bellowed, stepping closer. Joe stayed calm, his voice low but firm. “Sir, let’s take this outside and talk.” The man laughed, a harsh, ugly sound, and tossed the bottle onto a stained couch. “You got no business here,” he spat, moving toward us. I tensed, my hand twitching toward my gun, but Joe didn’t blink. “Outside, now,” he said, sharp enough to cut. The man glared, his jaw tight, but he shuffled out. We cuffed him on the porch as he muttered complaints, his breath sour. The woman stood in the doorway, tears streaking her face. “You okay, ma’am?” I asked, my voice softer than I meant. She nodded, barely, her eyes on the ground. I felt unsteady, like the world had tilted. Joe clapped my shoulder. “First one’s always rough, Sean. You’ll get the hang of it.”
A few weeks later, in mid-July, we got a call about gunshots on Oak Avenue. It was past midnight, the heat still oppressive, streetlights casting weak yellow pools on the pavement. The radio crackled: “Man down, 2300 block. Suspect fled.” We raced over, sirens wailing, the city a blur of dark buildings. On the sidewalk, a young man lay sprawled, his white shirt dark with blood, his hands clutching his side. His eyes were wide, glassy with panic, darting between me and the sky. “Help me,” he gasped, his voice thin, his fingers grabbing my sleeve. Blood smeared my hand, warm and sticky. “They ran… that way,” he said, pointing to a black alley. Joe scanned it, his flashlight cutting through the dark, but it was empty, just trash and shadows. “Hold on, man,” I said, pressing my hands to his wound, my voice shaking. “Help’s coming.” His grip weakened, his breaths shallow. The ambulance arrived, paramedics rushing in, but his terrified face burned into my mind. We searched the alley later, finding only a dropped shoe, no shooter. I kept seeing his eyes, like he knew he might not make it.
Early August brought a call that still turns my stomach. A neighbor reported a foul smell from a house on Maple Street. The air was so thick it felt like wading through syrup, the sun baking the cracked pavement. The house was a wreck—sagging roof, windows boarded with warped plywood, weeds choking the yard. The smell hit us at the door, a wall of rot so strong my eyes watered. Joe grimaced, pulling his collar over his nose. “This is bad, kid,” he said, his voice muffled.
Inside, the house was a maze of clutter—stacked newspapers, broken furniture, and sticky floors that crunched underfoot. The air was stale, mixed with that awful smell, growing stronger as we moved. Flies buzzed, thick and lazy. The basement door was ajar, a black gap swallowing the light. My flashlight trembled as we descended narrow, creaking stairs. At the bottom, rats exploded into motion, their claws scraping concrete, their bodies a writhing mass in the shadows. I gagged, my throat tight. In the corner, lit by my shaky beam, was a body—shrunken, decayed, impossible to identify. Maggots crawled over it, white and pulsing, like the corpse was alive with them. The smell was a physical thing, coating my tongue. I stumbled back, but Joe grabbed my arm. “Focus, Sean. Call it in.” My hands fumbled with the radio, my voice cracking as I reported it. Later, we learned it was an old man, dead for weeks, forgotten by the world. I still smell that basement in my nightmares, feel the rats’ eyes watching me.
Mid-August, we chased two guys who hit a gas station on 7th Street. It was dusk, the sky a deep red, the air still hot. The radio buzzed: “Armed robbery, suspects fleeing.” We spotted them darting into an alley, two figures in dark hoodies. “Police! Stop!” Joe shouted, his voice echoing off brick walls. They kept running, footsteps pounding. I sprinted, my lungs burning, the world narrowing to the guy in front of me. I tackled him, hitting the ground hard, gravel biting my knees. “Get off me!” he yelled, twisting under me. I cuffed him, my hands shaking, adrenaline buzzing. As we hauled him to the car, I glanced across the street. A man stood there, lean and still, watching us. His smile was slow, cold, like he was memorizing my face. My skin crawled. I blinked, and he was gone, melted into the crowd. “You see that guy?” I asked Joe. He frowned. “What guy?” That smile haunted me, like a warning I couldn’t read.
Late August, a woman called, sobbing about her brother. The house was small, its yard a jungle of tall grass, the paint chipped to gray. She met us at the door, her face streaked with tears. “He’s in the basement, tied up!” she cried, clutching my arm. We followed her to a door, the air turning damp and sour. The basement was a pit—dark, with a smell like wet earth and rot. My flashlight caught rats, dozens of them, scurrying over crates and pipes, their eyes glinting red. In the far corner, a man was bound to a chair, duct tape over his mouth, his face pale and sweaty. His eyes locked on mine, wide with terror. Joe cut the ropes, his knife flashing, while I stood guard, gun drawn, watching the stairs. “You’re okay now,” I told the man, my voice thin. He nodded, trembling, unable to speak. The woman’s ex had done it, she said, out of spite. We arrested him later, but the memory of those rats, their claws clicking, and the man’s helpless eyes stayed with me.
In September, the heat still lingering, we got a call about a guy on a bridge over the river. It was night, the water below catching glints of city lights. He was young, maybe my age, standing on the edge, his shoulders hunched, tears shining on his cheeks. Joe hung back, but I stepped closer, my boots loud on the pavement. “I’m Sean,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “What’s your name?”
“Mike,” he said, his voice breaking, hands gripping the rail. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“I hear you,” I said, my heart racing. “It’s heavy, I know. But you’re not alone. Tell me what’s going on.” His eyes met mine, raw and searching. I talked—about the humid night, my long shift, a diner I liked—anything to keep him there. For 20 minutes, I kept going, my voice steady even as my hands shook. Slowly, he stepped back, his shoulders sagging. Joe moved in, guiding him down, and we got him to a hospital. I felt a rush of relief, but also fear. What if I’d said the wrong thing? That moment stayed with me, fragile and heavy.
By summer’s end, I was different. Tougher, maybe, but fear was a constant shadow, trailing me on every call. Joe saw it. “You held up, kid,” he said one day, tossing me a cold soda from a corner store. “But it don’t leave you.” He was right. Every dark alley, every sudden radio call, felt like it could be the end.
That summer taught me fear isn’t just a gun or a chase—it’s the weight of what you see, the faces you can’t forget. I still hear the rats’ claws, see that man’s creepy smile, feel Mike’s despair. I’m telling you this like I’m sitting across from you, because it happened, and it’s part of me.
"Eyes in the Vent":
It was the summer of 1995, and I was ten years old, sprawled on the living room floor of our small suburban house. The air was heavy, so thick with heat it felt like breathing syrup. My T-shirt stuck to my back, and the old oscillating fan in the corner just pushed warm air around, its hum blending with the distant chirp of crickets outside. The windows were wide open, sheer curtains fluttering lazily, letting in the faint smell of cut grass and barbecue from somewhere down the street. My little sister, Sarah, seven years old, was curled up on the couch, her blonde pigtails messy, clutching her favorite Barbie doll. She was half-asleep, her eyelids fluttering as the TV played a rerun of some cartoon about talking dogs.
Mom and Dad were out at the neighbors’ barbecue, just a few houses down. They’d left me in charge for the first time, which made me feel grown-up but also a little scared. “You’re a big girl, Emily,” Mom had said, tucking a strand of my brown hair behind my ear. “We’ll be back by nine. Call Mrs. Larson next door if you need anything, okay?” Dad had handed me the cordless phone, pointing at the emergency numbers taped to the fridge. I nodded, trying to look confident, but as their car pulled out of the driveway, the house felt too big, too quiet.
I tried to focus on the TV, the colorful characters yapping away, but my eyes kept wandering around the room. The living room was cozy, with a worn plaid couch, a coffee table covered in Sarah’s crayon drawings, and Mom’s collection of ceramic figurines on a shelf. Above me, in the ceiling, was a big metal vent, part of the air system that ran through the attic. It was old, its slats rusted, and sometimes it rattled when the air conditioning kicked on. But the AC was off tonight—too expensive to run all the time, Dad said—so the vent was silent. Or it should’ve been.
Around 7:30, as the sky outside turned a deep orange, I heard a sound—a faint scratching, like fingernails dragging across wood. It came from the ceiling, right above the vent. I sat up, my heart giving a little jump. “Probably a squirrel,” I muttered to myself. We’d had one get into the attic last spring, and Dad had to set traps. I glanced at Sarah, who was still dozing, her Barbie slipping from her hand. The scratching came again, sharper, like something bigger than a squirrel shifting around. I stood, brushing my hands on my shorts, and stared at the vent, squinting to see into the dark slats.
“Sarah,” I whispered, nudging her shoulder. She groaned, rubbing her eyes with a fist. “Wake up. Do you hear that?”
She blinked, sitting up slowly. “Hear what?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
“That noise. It’s coming from the ceiling.”
We both tilted our heads back, staring at the vent. The scratching stopped, and for a moment, the only sound was the fan’s steady whir and the cartoon dog barking on TV. I let out a breath, thinking maybe I’d imagined it. Then I saw something that turned my insides to ice. In the vent’s slats, where the dim light from the living room lamp barely reached, there was a glint—like eyes catching the glow. My breath caught, and I stepped closer, my bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. I climbed onto the coffee table, careful not to knock over Sarah’s juice cup, and peered up.
That’s when I saw them: a pair of human eyes, wide and unblinking, staring straight down at me. They were bloodshot, set in a pale face half-hidden by shadows. My scream ripped through the room, loud and sharp, and I stumbled off the table, landing hard on my knees. Sarah woke fully, her eyes wide with panic. “Emily, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?” she cried, clutching her doll to her chest.
“There’s someone in the ceiling!” I gasped, my voice shaking so bad I could barely get the words out. My heart was pounding, like it wanted to burst out of my chest. I grabbed Sarah’s hand, yanking her off the couch, and we ran to the kitchen, my socks sliding on the floor. The kitchen was open to the living room, no door to close, but it felt safer somehow, farther from that vent. I snatched the cordless phone from the counter, my hands trembling so much I fumbled the buttons, misdialing twice before getting 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice answered, calm and steady.
“There’s a man in our house!” I blurted, tears burning my eyes. “He’s in the ceiling, in the vent, watching us! Please, you have to help!”
“Okay, sweetheart, stay calm,” the operator said. “What’s your name?”
“Emily,” I said, my voice cracking. Sarah was pressed against me, sobbing into my side, her Barbie dangling by one leg.
“Alright, Emily, where are you right now?”
“In the kitchen. My sister’s with me. Our parents aren’t home.”
“Do you know your address?”
I rattled off our street name and house number, my mind racing. I kept glancing at the living room, at the vent, expecting to see those eyes again—or worse, a face pushing through. “He’s in the attic,” I added. “I saw his eyes through the vent.”
“You’re doing great, Emily,” the operator said. “I’m sending police to your house right now. Can you stay where you are? Is there a door you can lock?”
“No,” I said, my throat tight. “The kitchen’s open. There’s no door.”
“That’s okay. Just stay on the phone with me. Are you and your sister safe where you are?”
“I think so,” I whispered, but I didn’t feel safe. Sarah was shaking, her breath hitching. “Is he gonna get us?” she whimpered, her big blue eyes searching my face.
“No,” I said, squeezing her hand, trying to sound sure. “The police are coming. We’re gonna be okay.” But my stomach was twisting, and I couldn’t stop picturing those eyes.
“Emily,” the operator said, “can you still see the man? Is he still in the vent?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not in the living room anymore. But I saw him. He was looking right at me.”
Before the operator could reply, a new sound made my blood run cold—a low, raspy voice, coming from the direction of the vent. “Emily,” it said, slow and deliberate. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I dropped the phone, a scream catching in my throat. Sarah wailed, and I pulled her down behind the kitchen counter, my heart hammering so loud I could hear it in my ears. The phone skidded across the floor, the operator’s voice faint now. “Emily? Emily, are you there?”
“He knows my name,” I whispered, my whole body trembling. How did he know my name? Had he been listening to us? Watching us for days? The thought made my skin crawl, like bugs were skittering over me. I grabbed Sarah tighter, her sobs muffled against my shoulder. “Shh, Sarah, we have to be quiet,” I whispered.
I reached for the phone, my fingers shaking as I pulled it back. “He’s talking to me,” I told the operator, my voice barely audible. “He said my name. He said he’s not gonna hurt me.”
“Stay hidden, Emily,” the operator said, her voice still calm but firmer now. “The police are almost at your street. They’ll be there any minute. Just hold on.”
Those minutes felt like years. Sarah and I crouched behind the counter, the linoleum cold against my legs. I kept waiting for the vent to creak open, for footsteps to thud above us, for that voice to call my name again. The cartoon was still playing in the living room, the cheerful music so out of place it made everything feel like a bad dream. I clutched the phone, listening to the operator’s steady voice. “You’re doing so well, Emily. The police are pulling up now. You’ll see their lights soon.”
Finally, I heard sirens, faint at first, then louder, cutting through the summer night. Red and blue lights flashed through the kitchen window, painting the walls with color. There was a loud knock at the front door. “Police! Open the door!” a man’s voice shouted.
I scrambled to my feet, dragging Sarah with me, and ran to the door. My hands were so sweaty I could barely turn the lock. When I swung the door open, two officers stood there, their flashlights bright in the dusk. One was tall with a thick mustache, his badge glinting. The other was shorter, with kind eyes and a gentle voice. “Hi, Emily,” the shorter one said. “I’m Officer Davis. This is Officer Thompson. Can you tell us what happened?”
“There’s a man in the ceiling,” I said, pointing toward the living room. “In the vent. He was watching us. He knew my name.”
Officer Davis nodded, his face serious. “Okay, you and your sister stay here with Officer Thompson. I’m going inside to check it out.” He pulled out his flashlight and stepped into the house, his radio crackling as he called for backup.
Officer Thompson knelt down, his mustache twitching as he smiled at Sarah. “You girls are safe now, alright? We’re here.” Sarah nodded, still clutching her Barbie, but she didn’t stop shaking.
We stood on the porch, the warm night air wrapping around us, as more police cars pulled up. Neighbors were starting to peek out, their silhouettes dark against porch lights. I heard shouting inside, then a loud thud, like something heavy hitting the floor. My stomach twisted, and I gripped Sarah’s hand tighter. A few minutes later, Officer Davis came out, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We got him,” he said. “You’re safe now, Emily.”
They brought out a man in handcuffs, and the sight of him made my breath catch. He was skinny, almost skeletal, with matted hair and a scruffy beard. His clothes were filthy, stained with dirt and sweat, and his eyes darted around, avoiding us. He looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks. The officers led him to a police car, his hands cuffed behind his back, and I heard one of them say, “Found him in the attic, hiding in the insulation.”
Officer Davis knelt in front of me, his voice soft. “He was living up there, Emily. Looks like he’s been in your attic a few days. You did the right thing calling us. You’re really brave.”
“How did he know my name?” I asked, my voice small. The question had been burning in my mind, making my skin prickle.
Officer Davis sighed, glancing at the police car. “He probably heard you and your sister talking. Maybe heard your parents call your name. We’ll find out more when we question him, okay? But he’s not coming back here.”
Mom and Dad got home minutes later, their car screeching into the driveway. Mom’s face was white as she ran to us, dropping her purse on the grass. “Emily! Sarah!” she cried, pulling us into a hug so tight it hurt. “Oh my God, are you okay?” Her voice was shaking, and I felt her tears on my cheek.
Dad was talking to the police, his hands clenched into fists. “How did he get in?” he kept asking, his voice loud. Officer Davis explained they found a loose board in the attic access, hidden behind some boxes in the garage. The man had been sneaking in and out, using our attic as a hideout.
Later, they told us more. The man was homeless, moving between houses in our neighborhood, crawling into attics to sleep and steal food. In our house, they found a tattered sleeping bag, empty soup cans, and a few of Sarah’s missing hair ties stashed in a corner of the attic. He’d been watching us through the vents, listening to our conversations, learning our names. The police said he’d done this in other houses too, but we were the first to catch him.
That summer changed everything. Mom and Dad installed new locks and a security system, and Dad nailed the attic access shut, swearing he’d never let anyone in again. They didn’t leave us alone at night for a long time after that. But even with the locks and alarms, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I stopped sitting in the living room, avoided looking at the ceiling. At night, I’d lie in bed, staring at the vent in my bedroom, wondering if I’d see eyes again.
For months, I had nightmares—those bloodshot eyes staring from the dark, that raspy voice saying my name. I’d wake up screaming, and Mom would rush in, holding me until I calmed down. Even now, years later, a strange noise in the house makes my heart race, and I’m ten years old again, standing on that coffee table, staring into the vent on a sticky summer night, realizing someone was staring back.
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