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Tonight I have a story to share with you, a tale of haunting mystery.

This is the spirit of fatherhood.

From author Gamal Frank.

You're listening to a knight

by the campfire.

The I don't know who else to tell or what I even expect to happen by posting this.

I can't call anyone.

He's always around.

I'm recording this on my phone, huddled in my closet, hoping the sound of the old house settling will cover the frantic tapping of my thumbs.

I feel like a little kid again, hiding from monsters.

The difference is, this time, the monster thinks it's my dad. Let me back up.

I'm 23. I live with my father. It wasn't the plan, obviously.

College, job, my own place, that was the plan.

But the economy is what it is, and my mom passed away a few years back, and he was getting

on in years. He's retired, and his pension is just enough to keep the lights on in this old

house. It wasn't a bad arrangement. I'd fork my shifts at the warehouse downtown, help him

with the bills, and he'd potter around, watch his old movies,

and complain about his back. We had a rhythm. It was quiet, maybe a little lonely, but it was normal.

The change was so gradual, I almost didn't notice it. At first it was just nice. My dad, who for the last five years, had mostly treated the

armchair in front of the TV as a natural extension of his body, started moving again.

...