I remember this night like it was yesterday, even though I'm 26 now and it happened when I was 12.

My parents left me home with my 18-year-old brother Zach for the night, and at first I was

excited because it was just me in the big house, which felt like huge freedom at the time.

Zach told me he was going out for a few hours with friends and made me promise not to tell

mom and dad, which I agreed to because I trusted him and also why wouldn't I want the place

to myself.

He would get in huge trouble if my parents were to find out, and he knew that.

At first, I thought it would be fun to be alone, especially on a weekend night.

I ended up in the den where I decided to watch a scary movie.

At that age, while home alone, not the best idea, which I learned the hard way.

I had never been home alone for this long before, especially at night, and honestly,

halfway through the movie, I started getting scared, not entirely because of the movie itself,

but because of the way the house sounded.

The random creaks in the floor, the wind brushing against the windows, even the fridge

clicking on periodically. Every time the movie made a loud sound, I would flinch, and I would

look over my shoulder to behind the couch to the half-light of stairs that led to the main floor,

expecting to see someone there. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore, and I didn't know why I was

subjecting myself to scaring the crap out of myself. I turned off the TV and ran upstairs

to my room like a scared little kid running from imaginary demons that follow you the second

you turn off the lights. When I got to my room, I went into the bathroom that connected

both to my room and my

parents' bedroom, where I brushed my teeth as fast as I could and tried to calm down.

...