Home Alone… Or Not?

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I am left home alone, eight years of age; the front door is locked from both inside and out and I hear my mother saying “I will be home in half an hour, keep the door locked and do not let anybody in.” For the first time, I have the house all to myself. Yes, three floors, six rooms, and all to myself. I can’t help but be excited. This is what I wanted for a long time, my first step on the journey to independence. Mother isn’t there to scold me for making a mess, being too loud, or being mischievous, as I often am these days. In fact, I am also very restless, and I usually find myself in a state of guilt. I am the she-devil in the family, and nobody can stop me. My brothers moved out almost a year ago, and I own three rooms, three beds, and two televisions, where I can watch all my favourite scary movies.

A few minutes pass, and I am thinking of what to do. I am on the bottom floor, its too quiet, and it’s getting darker outside. I decide to go and switch on all the lights in the house, as I am not so fond of the dark, as most horror stories usually occur in darkness. As I arrive upstairs, loud unfamiliar noises startle me. Whistling sounds coming from outside my window, and violent screams and banging coming from the attic. I remember that in home alone, the boy makes a lot of noise so that the burglars think his family is home, so I decide to switch on the television on full blast, so that I can pretend I am not alone. I walk into my bedroom and I think I see a shadow outside my window. So I shut all the window shutters, lock my door and switch on the television. Great! Nickelodeon, my favourite channel, and ‘Sabrina the Teenage Witch’ is on! If I sit here and watch the rest of the show, time will pass faster than ever and mother will be home just in time for the end. Seconds, even minutes pass, and mum isn’t home yet, I get worried. Its time for a quick phone call, just to make sure everything is all right. Okay, zero, seven, nine, seven, three, eight, two, three, five, six, seven; I remember her mobile number off by heart because I call her so often. The phone rings once, twice, three times, four, and she picks up. I ask if everything is okay, she says everything is fine, she then pronounces that she will be back very soon and to just keep myself occupied until she arrives. I end the conversation telling her I love her, and she ends with a “And don’t be a naughty girl”. This sentence is very familiar to me as she ends almost every conversation with this postscript. As I hang up the phone, I hear creaking sounds coming from the wooden flooring in the neighbouring room. If I go and shut all the doors around the house, I can hear if someone is here and will have enough time to escape rather than be caught by surprise.

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