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The sounds of the old floor boards in the house creaked; as he stealthily walked to the cellar where the eerie sounds came from.
It was a old farm house with the dilapidated unused, side porch in view of our kitchen. The weed overgrowth was tangled and the vines grew uncontrollably up the sides.
We entered the house from the summer kitchen on the other side. The front entrance was in bad shape. The front door was for the most part unhinged and the porch was missing wooden planks.The winding wooden stairway from the front entrance was unstable, but sliding down the banisters was a great past time.
My sisters and I laid in our beds and watched his shadow and the gun he carried in his hands.
Earlier that evening we watched as he sit at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, depressed, thinking of the tribulations he endured in World War 11. A small glass of wine was in front of him.
He did not drink…something was different.
The house we lived in was huge. In the winter’s the entire bottom floor was seldom used to conserve heat.
On many occasions we witnessed various entities, visitors from another realm. Doors opening, lights flickering and apparitions of persons in flowing white robes.
The gunshot rang out in the silence of the night.
Our minds went haywire thinking of different scenario’s. The after effects.
He had entered the cellar and found where the sound was coming from. The discharge of the gun frightened us. We pulled the covers over our heads and waited, shivering in fear.
What ever it was, no longer existed. Perhaps a squirrel or other rodent that had gotten stuck in the cramped floor boards.
Maybe, it was something else.
Years later the home was renovated and made into apartments. The visitors never left.
They were home.