36. Carpet Diem
When I was a kid—maybe about 10 or 12. I was home alone while my mom was out doing errands. So, I was carrying a load of laundry upstairs. In our house, we have this weird carpet runner over our hardwood stairs that’s only really attached at the top of the flight but otherwise not fitted or secured to each individual stair.
So naturally, I step on an air bubble of carpet with my vision obscured by the laundry and fall backward while bear hugging a bunch of blankets. I specifically remember thinking, “Well, I guess this is the end,” while almost airborne with just my big toe left on the carpet. Suddenly, I felt it. There were two hands lifting me, one on either side of my shoulder blades.
The two hands gave me a firm shove that launched me back up on the step and diagonally against the stair rail. I assumed mom somehow silently came back early without announcing herself and turned around to thank her while still clinging to the railing, but no one was there. I scurried upstairs to put my things down while calling her name and walked the house afterward to check if any doors were unlocked or if her car was there.
I finally resorted to calling her cell where she told me she was hitting up a few more stores. It still feels like there’s a presence on that stairwell—like someone’s watching but in a protective way rather than sinisterly.