Too Bright to See

The moment he dies, I know. It’s the middle of the night. My eyes open, and I grip the mattress with both hands. I’m suddenly, irrationally convinced that my bed is toppling over. Like it’s unbalanced, perched precariously on the top of a mountain and about to come crashing down. Or like it’s teetering on the edge of a black hole, with nothing familiar on the other side.
Uncle Roderick’s room is at the top of the stairs. Mom’s is at the end of the hall. For eleven years I’ve fallen asleep snug in the middle, their warmth and weight keeping me grounded from both sides. Even these past couple months, when he’s been in the hospital and then the hospice, I could still feel him there, keeping me safe at the top of the stairs. But now I know my uncle is gone.
The stairs creak, sharp and loud. That doesn’t mean anything. They creak all the time. “The house is settling” is what Mom says, and sometimes it might be a harmless ghost. But now I hear the groan of a foot on a step. And then another. It’s like the sound of someone slowly moving up our wide staircase, someone with a heavy tread.