Grandpa had been dead for a week, and the footsteps had stopped completely.

It didn't scare us anymore. Not as much as the noises, although mom still had a tough time with it.

More with the memories, though. She was conflicted, understandably so, considering that she was the

only one that chose to move us to come spend his final days

together. I don't know how she knew, maybe a daughter's intuition, if that's a thing.

My sister and I had gotten off school, and she was upset, because she had to skip summer camp

in order to come with us to his house, a large thing that we called a farm, but we knew very well that it wasn't

anymore. Grandpa had no animals or land to tend to. Too old, I assume. I remember trying to

convince my sister that this was better than camp. This was the whole summer of camping, and we could

tell stories late into the night, start campfires, and learn songs.

I shouldn't have suggested that. I regretted it the very first day when she asked me for a story.

When I told her the first one, she asked me questions about it, wanting to make up her own.

It wasn't scary enough, she said. She wanted a really, really scary one.

Mom was doing her best to get us settled, so I helped out where I could. We had brought out two

blankets and two sets of sheets along with our clothes, and the rest of the things we would need,

we would have to scavenge around the huge worn-down house.

Grandpa was sick, but he could still move around and go to the bathroom on his own.

We were supposed to be there just to keep him company, and hopefully convinced him to come live with us closer to town.

We all knew that it was going to be impossible, but we tried, because we didn't know we were going to be among a dead man who would still walk for another 30 days.

My name is Edwin, and here's a scary story.

It was hard to talk about the problems around Grandpa.

I felt like he had pushed himself out of the world on his own.

...