It’s a little before ten o’clock in the evening when I arrive home after a long day. I’ve had the whole house to myself the past several weeks, with the boys and husband spending time in Europe. I love them dearly, but I also relish this time of solitude, without the boisterous, noisy energy of a house full of family. It’s an opportunity to recharge my batteries in the quiet of this empty house.

I pull into the garage, turn off the car, and step into the kitchen. The house is dark.  I flip on a light switch, and then I freeze.

I hear something, coming from the living room.

Why is the television set on?

I take slow steps toward the living room, which is lit by a dim, flickering glow. I am absolutely positive the TV was not on when I left this morning. The TV hasn’t been on for days.

I stand there in front of the screen. Cartoon characters are bouncing around, making noises at each other. Some kid’s TV channel. The remote control is quietly sitting on a stack of books on the coffee table.

The TV was definitely not on when I left this morning.

Is there anybody else in the house? I glance up at the dark stairwell, behind the television. Other than the kitchen light and the TV flashing in front of me, the house is essentially black.

While I’m standing here, contemplating this, my mind turns to Poltergeist, the horror film full of ghosts that I watched when I was far too young for such scary movies. I remembered that little blonde girl in her nightgown, with her hands pressed against the flickering television screen, being lured by evil spirits. Throughout my childhood, after watching that movie, I would lie in bed, imagining that sinister things might be waiting for me in the dark, hiding under my bed or in my closet. Although I eventually outgrew those fears, here I am now, in this empty house, staring at the television set with this unsettled feeling in my bones.

Shit.

I turn around and flip on every single light switch on the wall. Click click click click. The living room and stairs are now lit.

I then hurry back toward the kitchen, passing the downstairs bathroom, turning on its light as I go by. Click.

Now the kitchen and back room light switches. Click click click click click. Okay, all the downstairs lights are on.

I return to the living room and pause to gather my thoughts. I notice the doors of the closet and storage room. Both are closed shut.

What if I’m not alone?

Okay, I can do this, I try to convince myself. The living room feels less menacing with the lights on. But this is not good. The cartoon characters continue jabbering at each other.

I start with the closet. I step forward and put my hand on the handle. I jerk the door open. Empty.

I exhale and turn around toward the storage room under the stairs, next to the TV. A space where someone could easily hide.

I whip open the small door, bend down and dart my head in far enough to look inside. Empty. I switch on the storage room light. Click.

Standing upright, a sinking feeling grows in the pit of my stomach.

I realize that, if I want to get some sleep tonight, I’m going to have to go upstairs. I will need to go into every dark room up there and turn on every light.

I notice I’m still clutching my purse, my damp fingers wrapped around the handle. Do I bring it with me, to swing at anything that might be hiding in the shadows? No, too heavy and clumsy. I put the bag down.

I consider bringing a kitchen knife. No, that feels like overkill. What if it were used against me if I panic? If there’s something waiting for me upstairs, I decide I’ll run away fast.

I start ascending the staircase. The light hanging above the stairwell is the only one turned on. Nothing else beyond it is lit.

At the top step, I pause and decide to turn toward the darkness of my right hand side, rather than the darkness of the left. Going left takes more courage, more steps down a long dark hallway, more places somebody could be hiding.

I’m at the laundry room. I lean my shoulder against the door. It clacks against the ironing board on the wall behind it, instead of making contact with something that feels more human. My hand reaches through the doorway for the light switch. Click. Empty.

My younger son’s room is next. I feel against the wall to turn on the light switch. Click.  Empty. My son’s stuffed bunny, Dodo, is sitting on his bed just where I had left her, after I was missing the boys one afternoon, wanting them near me. Her little eyes look up at me, trying to give me some quiet assurance. But there’s the closet to check. I pull the accordion doors open. Empty. I exhale, but I need to keep moving.

On to my older son’s bedroom. Click. Empty. I scan the lit room and see his guitars, the record player, stuffed sharks gathered on the bed. Things that feel familiar and safe. I turn to open the closet doors. Empty.

I face the hallway again. From where I’m standing, there’s some light here, but beyond that is a long stretch of dark rooms. My mind is so full of dread as I step into the dark that I forget to turn on the hallway lights. My mind is focused on the bathroom, a few steps away.

I use my toe to nudge the bathroom door toward the wall, hoping it doesn’t brush against something that shouldn’t be there. When my boys were little, this space behind the door used to be a hide and seek spot. The door bumps against the wall. My hand enters the bathroom next, fumbling for the light switch. Click. It looks empty, but there’s one more place I need to check, a second bathroom doorway. Another hiding place, next to the toilet. I peek around the corner. Empty.

Okay, now the office. I click on the lights, check the closet. Empty.

Now I reach our bedroom. The last area to check.

I hesitate. Backlit by the lights on behind me, the room appears even darker. Cavernous. Menacing. Oh god, I have to go in here. The house’s best hiding places are in here, the bathroom, the small room where the toilet is, the walk-in closet.

I hear the cartoon noises chattering from the TV, drifting up the stairs. Every cell in my body is pleading, do not go in the bedroom.

I squeeze my face muscles tight, and step through the doorway. I smack and swat at the switches until the lights come on. I see our bed, the chair, the paintings on the wall. I don’t feel the same relief as I did earlier, though, because I know that whatever might be waiting for me would be around the corner, in the last remaining dark rooms of the house. The worst has been saved for last.

I step forward toward the bathroom and reach my hand around for the light switch. Click. The tub, the sink, my toothbrush, everything is as I left it this morning. I lean forward and use my elbow to open the door to the small room where the toilet is. The door swings open and bounces back, as I whip my hand in to flip on the light. Click. Empty.

I slowly turn around and face the walk-in closet. The walk-in closet. If I were going to wait for me in the dark, that’s exactly the hiding space I’d choose, tucked behind the door, quietly panting. The rest of the house is fully illuminated, but that dark hole, that closet, feels blacker than black. The closet is waiting for me. I hold my breath, straining against all my resistance, and step through the doorway.

…

Since you’re reading this, I obviously survived the night. The closet was empty. No ghosts, no demons, no masked man dressed in black, holding an axe.

It was just me, standing there in this empty closet, in this empty house, all lit up now. Exhaling, and somewhat marveling at my inner grit and courage. The childhood fears never left, but I was a grown-up now. I’ve faced many moments of fear since then, none of them involving things that go bump in the night. I’ve raised children of my own. I’ve had to become the strong one.

And, so, on that evening I made up my mind that, if I was going to go to bed and get some sleep, I would have to walk through the darkness of the house to confirm that I was all by myself. And so I went, room by room, light switch by light switch.

I returned downstairs to start turning off all the lights. As I made my way past the downstairs bathroom, I realized I didn’t check behind the bathroom door (another favorite hide and seek spot). I gave it a little kick, just to make sure. It bounced back after bumping against the wall.

After turning off the kitchen lights and making my way to the living room, I stopped in front of the television again. I still do not know why it was turned on when I came home late in the evening, tuned to some cartoon station that I would never even watch.

I sighed. I needed to go to bed. The little blonde girl in her nightgown with her hands pressed to the television screen came back to my mind. I pushed this thought aside.

I am brave and strong, I reminded myself. I picked up the remote control and turned off the TV.

Click.