When I get home after work, my youngest daughter meets me at the door. I’m late and phoned ahead to say they should start dinner without me.
A plate of half-eaten food waits at my wife’s place at the same able. But she is nowhere to be seen.
“Mama went upstairs,” our daughter tells me.
After a few minutes, my wife comes downstairs. She takes me aside.
“Just before you came home, there was this huge crash from upstairs. But it wasn’t like the knocking from before. It was like someone just dumped an armful of books onto the floor right overhead. And it was fucking loud. ”
She is rattled, just a bit. I wait for her to go on.
“I went up and Vincent” — that’s one of our cats — “Was sitting on our bed, frozen. His eyes were fucking huge.”
She couldn’t find anything out of place in our room, nothing to explain the noise.
I go up to check and, yeah, there’s nothing.
Later, she notices that a framed photo on a high shelf behind our bed is laying flat on its face.
It’s a photo of the two of us.
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