Grandma’s Last Warning

I found my grandmother's diary in the attic last week. The last entry was dated yesterday.

But she died ten years ago. The handwriting was shaky, desperate.

It said she'd been trying to warn me about the thing that's been standing in my bedroom corner

every night. The thing I thought was just my coat rack. I checked my bedroom.

The coat rack wasn't there anymore. And then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

Slow. Deliberate. The same rhythm grandma used to walk with.