I told my mom about the footsteps and she said that I was just imagining things I persisted enough that she blasted my ears with water from a turkey baster once just to placate me, since I thought that would help. This, coupled with the fact that, due to the nature of our house, there was a fairly large crawlspace underneath, filled my mind with imaginary monsters and inescapable scenarios which would consume my thoughts when I was awoken by the footsteps. There were a lot of woods surrounding the neighborhood that I would play in and explore during the day, but at night-as things often do to a kid-they took on a more sinister feeling. We lived in the kind of house you see being transported in two pieces on the interstate, but my mom took good care of it. As a kid, the muffled, rhythmic beats sounded like soft footsteps on a carpeted floor, so as a kid, almost every night-just as I was about to drift off to sleep-I would hear these footsteps and I would be ripped back to consciousness, terrified.įor my entire childhood I lived with my mother in a fairly nice neighborhood that was in a transitional phase-people of lower economic means were gradually moving in, and my mother and I were two of these people. ![]() In a quiet room, if you press your ear against a pillow, you can hear your heartbeat. ![]() I've never had to tell this story with enough detail to actually explain it all the way, but it is true and it happened when I was about six years old.
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