After Mrs. Gilbert’s husband died, the house that had once been full of conversation, music and laughter seemed hollow. Her two daughters were both married adults with busy and active lives. They were worried about her, she knew that, but there was little they could do except to call her on the telephone once a week.
Before he died, Mrs. Gilbert’s husband had spent his days and nights in a hospital bed. The bed was still in the spot where once there had been a dining room table. Each time she passed that empty bed she felt the stark reality that Howard had died. Oddly she also felt his presence and so she refused to have the bed removed.
Just up the hill from her house was a seminary. “Mom, why don’t you inquire if there are any students who need housing in the area?” one of her daughters suggested. She rather liked that idea; it would give her joy to share her home with someone studying for the ministry.
What Mrs. G. did not expect was that two women, one studying for a master’s degree in Divinity and one studying for a master’s degree in Library Science, would ask if she might rent them both rooms. “Why not?” she said, “One of you can sleep on the third floor and one on the second. That still leaves me two spare bedrooms.”
I was the woman studying to be a librarian. We moved in, relieved to be out of the basement studio apartment in the city that a friend had generously invited us to share temporarily. We felt incredibly lucky to have found such a charming and inexpensive place to live.
In early November, Mrs. G. informed us that she would be visiting her daughter for several weeks in December. She was glad that we would be keeping an eye on things in her home.
The first night after she left for D.C., I awoke. I could hear distinct footsteps coming up the stairs from the first floor. Gripped by fear I lay as still as I could, hoping the intruder wouldn’t notice that I was there. The footsteps went past my door and directly to Mrs. G.’s empty bedroom, then down the stairs again. I never heard the door to the outside open or shut. I decided it was best not to investigate until sunrise.
In the morning when I got up for breakfast there was no evidence that anything was disturbed, no broken windows, no unlocked doors, nothing seemed to be missing. When it happened the second night I began to question my hearing.
“Did you hear anything last night?” I said tentatively to Robin.
“You mean the footsteps?” she replied.
After several nights of interrupted sleep, I decided to take action.
When I heard the first creek on the staircase, I said loudly, “Howard, she is in D.C. visiting your daughter, Madeline. She’ll be back soon.”
I never heard those footsteps again.
My Turn 