Proof The Bible Is True

Bedtime was miserable for me when I was seven. The attic door just outside my bedroom had an unfriendly habit of creaking open by itself in the night, and I was sure that it was because of some bone-chilling monster on its way out to get me.

“It’s an old house, Lois,” my mother explained as she tucked me in one night. “The hinges on that door are all rusted, and you know how drafty it can get.” But her soothing words were no match for my wild imagination.

“Can you read to me to help me go to sleep?” I asked. Mom sat by my bedside and read me a story, and another, and another, until I finally dozed off, my stuffed tiger, Mumsy, clutched securely to my chest.

During the day, the attic was anything but frightening. The very next afternoon my friends and I ran up and down its steps for fun. First they were a mountain to climb. Then a ship’s mast. Then a magnificent castle staircase.

“See, Mumsy,” I said, climbing over boxes and furniture we’d stored. “There’s nothing scary here.”

But, when night fell, everything changed. The attic’s rough wooden floors and unfinished walls were dimly lit by bare bulbs that made everything look haunted. Those piles of storage boxes and old furniture took on more sinister shapes.

What could be lurking in the shadows of the crawl space? I was terrified I was going to find out.

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