The next incident happened when I was fifteen.
Because of a tragic automobile accident that left my mother paralyzed, (from the neck down) my father decided to rent out our house and move me to my sister's house until he figured out what to do.
Rather than moving all our stuff into storage, he got the idea to partition off one half of the garage.
On a bright Saturday morning, while I was staying with my grandmother, I walked over to our house and went into the garage to collect a few more of my belongings.
As I rummaged through various boxes, I could hear a low conversation in the kitchen; while the cabinet doors were opening, closing, opening, closing. More conversation. More banging of the cabinets.
I guess a realtor is showing the house, I reasoned.
The banging and the conversation continued even as I was leaving the garage through the side door on the West.
After I collected the last of my stuff, I walked outside to the driveway expecting to see the realtor's car.
There was no car. There wasn't anybody. No one was in the house. I had been alone the whole time.
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