Narrator: Amber R. | Tennessee, USA
My granddad put an extra bowl of stew on the back steps of his cabin every evening. I thought it was for a stray animal. He said it was for somebody who didn’t like company.
When I was sixteen I took the bowl away as a joke. I hid behind the screen door, expecting a raccoon to appear and look offended.
Something climbed the steps. I could hear the boards giving under it, one at a time. The porch light showed empty air.
The door shook once. The screen pushed in against my stomach. I was too frightened to move, and a finger began tracing the outline of my face through the mesh. It went round my ear with awful care.
Granddad came out carrying the bowl. He didn’t shout. He told me to stand back and put the stew down outside.
The pressure left the screen. A spoon in the bowl turned over. Granddad closed the solid door and sat with me until I’d stopped shaking.
He never explained it. He also never made me feel stupid for being scared. When he died, I was offered the cabin at a price I could have afforded. I said no before my aunt had finished asking.
