My son came home from school with a super scary library book. I don’t mind a good scare every now and then, but one evening, several years ago, the scare was all too real.

It was 1995 and I was in high school. My bedroom was in the basement and my parents were two floors up. I was pretty tired that evening and I easily drifted to sleep. Around 11:30 p.m. I heard a few steps creak. It sounded like someone was coming downstairs but was trying to step lightly. My bedroom was at the bottom of the stairs.

I assumed it was my mom coming downstairs to check on me. I rolled over so she would think I was asleep. I could hear my bedroom door slowly open. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to sleep, waiting for her to go back upstairs — satisfied that I was in bed.

Instead, I felt her sit down on my bed, her back touching the lower part of my back.  I thought, She wants to talk. I’m too tired to talk. I just want to sleep.

I waited. But she didn’t say anything. I waited some more. My tired, grumpy self said, “Mom! What do you want?” Silence. “Mom!” More silence. It wasn’t my mom.

My back started to break out in a sweat. I could still feel her (someone? something?) leaning against me. I was too scared to open my eyes. I laid completely still trying to wish the person away.

After what seemed like an eternity, the presence either stood up or disappeared. I was still too scared to look around my room. I kept my eyes closed and listened for the footsteps to go back up the stairs. There were no more footsteps. I eventually drifted off to sleep.

The next morning I looked around my room. Everything was in place. My bedroom door was open just a crack.

I went upstairs for breakfast and saw my mom in the kitchen. I asked her, “Why did you come to my room last night?”

“I didn’t,” she said.

“You didn’t come into my room and sit on my bed?”

“No. Why?”

“Someone did.”