Twelve Footprints Around a Bare Bulb

Chapter 1: The Circle

The first footprint appeared directly above the bed.

It was small, no longer than a man’s hand, and dark around the edges as if the sole that made it had been dipped in chimney soot. The heel pointed toward the center of the room. The toes pointed toward the wall.

There were eleven more beside it.

Together, they formed a perfect circle around the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

I found them thirty years ago in my friend Daniel’s house, and there are mornings when I still wake with the feeling that someone has been pacing above me.

Not in the attic.

Above me.

On the ceiling.

I was seventeen that summer. My father had left home in March, although my mother still set a place for him at dinner until June. She said it was habit. I knew better. Habit did not make someone polish an unused fork or look toward the driveway whenever headlights passed.

Daniel knew what had happened, but he never asked about it. That was one of the reasons I liked him. He understood that silence could be a kindness.