After remarrying, I moved into a new house with my son. Every night at the same time, we heard a “thump… thump…” from the ceiling above the living room. We checked the wiring and lighting; there was nothing wrong. One night, my son whispered, “mom… I still hear footsteps up there.” Terrified, I called a repairman. He opened the attic, froze, and said, “please… look at this.”
After I remarried, my son Caleb and I moved into my husband Mark Ellison’s house on the edge of town—a neat two-story with a wide porch and an attic crawl space that Mark described as “great for storage.” He’d owned it for years, long before we met. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind where people waved from driveways and the streetlights clicked on at the same time every evening.
