The Man On The Second Story

It was my 18th year. I had finished my first year of college at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, Arizona and found myself back at my parents' home for the summer, being completely taken advantage of in a ridiculous retail job, and missing my friends up north. About mid summer my parents decided to take a trip away together and I was left in charge of the brood. There were five of us (There still are. Don't worry - nobody dies in THIS story.) Shortly after my parents' departure I received a phone call from my old college roommate, begging me to come up for a visit over the weekend. I decided my siblings were old enough to care for themselves and I took off.

Two days later I headed home, the realization of what I had done hitting me hard. I took my father's new truck without asking and I hadn't been in contact with my siblings, my charge, for two days. I knew the consequences could be severe and that this could potentially be the end of my life, but I had to face it, so I drove home as quickly as I could to assess the damage before my parents' return.

It was about 10:00 PM on a Sunday night. As I pulled onto my parents' street, the sight had me worried. The streets were half lined with unfamiliar cars and trucks and a small crowd was gathered in my parents' driveway. I slowed the truck to a crawl and inched my way through the parting crowd. As I slid out of the driver's seat onto the pavement, my brother approached me, shouting, "Where have you been?"

"What's going on?" I shouted back, irritated.

"Someone's in the house!" he shouted excitedly.

"What? What do you mean? Who's in there and how did they get in?" I placed my hands firmly on my hips and scowled at my brother, thoroughly annoyed - mostly because this was probably going to get me busted more than I realized. I quickly panned the crowd and saw a teenage boy marching toward the house with a shotgun in hand. "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!"I shouted and threw my hands to either side, pushing through the crowd as quickly as I could toward the wannabe Rambo. "What in the world do you think you're doing?" I shouted, half terrified, half enraged.

Everyone started shouting excitedly all at once. I couldn't understand what they were all saying, but I did catch the words, "man" and "upstairs window". I stepped back onto the street and gazed up at the two windows directly over the garage. They looked like eyes to me and the garage was like the mouth.

My sister walked toward me then and explained the situation. Apparently everyone had gone out for the evening and when they returned, my brother or sister had seen a man peeking out from the curtains in the upstairs window above the garage.



It spooked them because nobody should have been in that house. They thought it was a robber, so one of their friends ran home and retrieved his father's shotgun without permission - a major disaster just waiting to happen. I was so glad I had arrived when I did and realized the trouble we all could have been in. Long story short - we all entered the house and inspected it together with the two guys holding weapons leading the crowd - one with a bat, one with a shotgun. We found nothing. We spoke of nothing. Whatever it was, it was gone and we just wanted to forget it.

Now, let's move ahead two years. I had married and moved out of my parents' home. Unfortunately, that marriage ended in divorce and I was back at my parents' home with my toddler son, trying to figure my life out. Eventually I discovered the world of medical transcription and embarked on a career in that field. It allowed me to work from home, so my parents helped me set up an office....in the room above the garage.

I found that typing early in the morning and late at night worked best so that I could spend time with my son during the day and do most of my work at night. The first few nights were uneventful. I basically typed until I was falling asleep in my chair at which point I would shut down my computer and drag myself down the hall to bed.

By about the fourth night, the disturbances began. The room had one wall lined completely in mirrors. It was a model home and the designer had decided to make the room above the garage a "ballet room" because, you know....so many people I know just want to be able to practice their plie's and turn outs in the comfort of their own home. Anyway...

My desk faced the wall between the two windows looking out over the street and the wall of mirrors was off to my right, just in my peripheral vision.

The hour was late. The house was dead quiet. I sat there typing feverishly, just the clicking of the tape machine and the keys on the keyboard. Suddenly I felt a chill. I stopped typing briefly and looked at the wall above my monitor. "What was that?" I thought to myself. I drew in a deep breath, heaved out a sigh and continued to type. I suddenly had the feeling someone was looking over my shoulder. Again I stopped typing. I gritted my teeth and suddenly flicked my head toward the wall of mirrors, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. Nothing. But I clearly felt someone behind me. I decided I must be dead tired and quit for the night.

The next night I found myself up at a ridiculously late hour, the only one awake, typing furiously in an attempt to complete as much work as possible while my son slept. It was only a matter of moments before I felt a presence again. I felt a cold breath on my neck. It tickled. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I lifted my hand behind me and slapped the back of my neck. "Stop it", I said aloud. I scowled at my monitor and let out a frustrated sigh. Then I went back to typing. As the nights continued on, the disturbances continued on. Each week they would become a bit more aggressive until at one point I actually felt a hand on my shoulder. It was cold. I lost it right there. I jumped up out of my seat and said aloud, "I'm tired. I have a lot of work. You need to leave me alone!" Just then the light in the room flickered and dimmed. My heart leapt in my chest and I held my breath. I gritted my teeth and stared at the lights above - frozen. Just then it stopped and the lights returned to their full strength. I released the air burning in my lungs and ran from the room, throwing the switch off as I left.

I tried explaining this story to my family, but it was met with laughs and comments like, "You're such a drama queen". I knew my story was unbelievable, but I also knew it was really happening to me. I felt scared and alone. I made the decision to quit typing late at night. When the last person in the house was going to bed, I would too. Whatever it was, it didn't bother me during the day.

All disturbances stopped. All was well.

Or so I thought...

Several weeks later I went through the usual bedtime routine with my son. I dressed him in pajamas, helped him brush his teeth, read him a bedtime story, knelt by the side of his bed with him and helped him pray and then tucked him in. I then turned out the light and knelt by the side of my bed, silently uttering my own prayers. My son was young, but he knew the routine. It was the same thing every night and I had schooled him long enough in the practice, so he was well aware that when the lights went out, all would fall silent until my prayers were finished and then I would sing him to sleep from my bed. On this night, as I knelt in prayer, I suddenly felt a warmth brush up against my side. I stopped the prayer in my head and froze. I could hear my son's breath and could feel it on my arm. I opened my eyes in the black of the room and saw well enough to see he was by my side.

"John, what are you doing, honey?"

"I just wanna be by you, mom", he replied.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark of the room, I could see that he was staring at me wide-eyed. Just staring. But then I realized it wasn't at me that he was staring, but beyond me.

"Honey, I'm saying my prayers still. Go get in bed and I'll sing to you when I'm done", I ordered.

He shook his head 'no' and I sighed a frustrated sigh and said, "Fine. Then just stay quiet for a moment while I finish my prayers". He said nothing and I closed my eyes and began to pray again in my head. Within seconds my son tapped my arm with his little hand. I ignored it. He tapped again, harder. I ignored him again.

Finally he whined, "Mommy". I huffed loudly and looked up, "What? I'm saying my prayers and you need to let me finish!" I scolded.

"Okay, mommy, but who's that man behind you?"


I froze! I all but jumped up and ran out of there screaming. I realized that I had to be brave for my son and I was so thankful the room was black and he couldn't see the look of terror on my face.

"Who is it, mommy?" he asked again. I couldn't even speak. I couldn't find my voice. I knew every tiny little hair on my body was standing on end at this point and my hands and feet went ice cold.

"There's no man, baby." I weakly attempted to explain away what he thought he might be seeing.

"But he's looking at you, mommy. He's right behind you and he's looking at you".

I didn't know what to do. It was a bit late this night. The house was completely silent. I knew everyone was in bed and I knew that nobody would appreciate being awakened by me and my "dramatic, irrational" fears.

"Wanna get in bed with mommy?" I managed in heavy breaths.

"Uh huh", he nodded as he spoke.

"Okay, baby. Come on." I pulled him into bed with me, refusing to let any part of my head turn for fear of catching a glimpse of 'the man'. I curled my body around my son's and faced the wall, keeping my back completely to the rest of the room. I reached down without looking and pulled the covers up to my chin. I began humming a happy tune and squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could stand to. In my head the same thought recurred over and over "please don't let me see it. Please don't let me see it". I said a silent prayer in my head as I continued to hum quietly. "Please. Whatever that thing is. Don't let it touch me. Don't let it talk to me. Make it go away." I don't remember much else after that. Somehow I managed to eventually fall asleep.

I moved out shortly into my own place, but my son never said anything again about 'the man'.