Once when I was young, my grandma, who I called Nanny, told my friends a creepy story one dark July night. It was a story she said her neighbor, and one of my friend’s moms, had told her and she claimed it to be true. Real quick, to give you an idea of how close this neighborhood was in my childhood I’ll give a brief layout. My dad’s parents lived in a dumbbell shaped cul-de-sac in my extremely tiny hometown. All the houses are set up a few feet apart lining the entire road and we all greeted each other by name. It was that kind of town. There were no strangers in my Kentucky place of birth growing up which is why this tale was, and still is, so chilling.
I was 7 or 8 back in the mid nineties and part of the last few generations to remember a time before home computers and cell phones were a staple. Swimming, biking, and telling scary stories on my Nanny’s front porch under the eerie glow of an orange street lamp was some of our favorite things to do when I visited. This was one I never forgot. After begging her to tell us another, Nanny obliged lighting up a cigarette. She exhaled and said: Rosie told me something weird the other day. She told me she was up late one night watching TV in the living room when she heard a knock at the door. It was about midnight or somewhere in there, so she went to the door thinking one of us might be in trouble.
Just for reference, most of these houses had French doors with decorative glass panes you could semi-see out of and another glass or screen door on the outside. Back to the story.: