I even made a show of it the second night, moving carefully so he could see me being thorough. I opened the closet wide enough to show him the hanging shirts swaying slightly from my hand.
I got down on my knees and looked under the bed, where I found two missing socks, a comic book, and a stale cracker. I checked the window latch twice. I tested the bedroom door and the back door. Everything was exactly as it should be.
Still, Sam slept with his fists clenched under his chin.
I even tried sleeping in his room one night.
Nothing happened.
I lay awake on a spare pillow beside his bed, listening to the old hum of the air conditioner and the occasional groan of the house settling.
Every sound seemed louder because I was waiting for something to explain his fear. But the night passed quietly. No footsteps. No whisper of a door. No strange movement in the dark.
In the morning, I expected him to be relieved.
I thought he would laugh it off, embarrassed maybe, and we would move on.
Instead, he stood at the kitchen table while I packed his lunch and said in a whisper, “He only comes when you’re not here.”
