The visitor

I returned home today to find my TV on. Just the set and not the cable. Odd. I can't remember the last time I watched TV. I certainly have turned it on during this past week, but I can't remember the most recent time I was using it.

Seconds later, I heard footsteps and carpet creaking above me. Was he back? The one from before? The following children's poem leapt into mind:

As I was walking up the stairs,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
I wish I wish he'd go away.

I crept up the dark stairway to the third floor. I was just there about three minutes ago showering. Was he there the entire time? Since I'm home alone these days, I've picked up the habit of not closing doors when I relieved myself on the john, when I showered, when I changed, etc. Was he watching me?

First I entered the master bedroom, wielding my cell phone as a flashlight. I checked under the bed. Checked behind the bed. Checked the master bathroom, the one I was just in. The walk-in closet was the only remaining space a man could hide. A shiver seized my heart as I wrapped my cold fingers on the icy doorknob. No one uses the walk-in closet, even though it was packed with clothes. I slowly opened the door and peered inside. Just clothes. Nothing stirred. I looked up at the tiny trapdoor that led to, in my mind, without any factual basis of where it truly led, the unexplored attic. I closed the door to the closet.

I doubt he's up there, but the thought of the contrary remains.