I check on my daughter every night before I go to sleep. She's seven, old enough that she thinks she doesn't need it but young enough that she still reaches for my hand when I come in. It's my favorite part of the day — that quiet minute in the dark, listening to her breathe.
Last night I tucked her in. Kissed her forehead. Stood for a moment in the doorway listening to her settle. Went down the hall to my room.
I was halfway through washing my face when I heard her voice.
"Daddy? Who was that in my room?"
I went back. She was sitting up in bed, completely awake, looking at the doorway. I asked what she meant.
She said someone had come into her room before me. Someone had stood at the foot of her bed. She'd thought it was me. She hadn't said anything because she was still half-asleep and she thought I'd leave if she was quiet.
She said it stood there for a while. She said it leaned down, close to her face.
She said it smelled wrong.
I checked her room. I checked every room. I checked the locks on every window and the deadbolt on the front door. Everything was secure. Everything is always secure.
I sat on the edge of her bed until she fell asleep. I didn't sleep.
I don't have a way to end this that's satisfying, so I'll just tell you what I know: my daughter has never had night terrors. She's not an anxious kid. She doesn't make things up to get attention.
She said it stood over her for a long time.
She said it didn't do anything.
She said that was almost the worst part.