I squeezed my eyes shut to keep myself from seeing the shadowy figures the moonlight cast through the lace window curtains. Every creak and slight settling in the house sent chills up my spine. All I could do was hunker deeper under the blanket as the sound of the wind whistling through the tree branches outside lit up my imagination like a dry weed catching fire.
Then I heard footsteps. And they were getting closer.
I held my breath. There’s no such thing as ghosts was on repeat in my head, despite the evidence shuffling my way.
By this time, it was well past midnight, and I was now convinced that the restored 1862 house where we were staying in the historic mining town of Gold Hill, Nevada, was the new Amityville.
“Hello?” I finally croaked, startled by the sound of my own voice.I was met with an immediate but tentative “Mom …?”
I flipped back the covers to see my Jack, then 9, as well as Kate, our brave teenager, standing over me, eyes as wide as saucers. “Can we sleep in here?”