I keep hearing that awful 80′s song by Flock of Seagulls. And I ran. I ran so far.

When I was seven, my mother had my brother Wyatt. When I was eight, she had Wynn. They called them Irish Twins in an ignorant attempt at explanation. I was old enough to take care of myself, so why wouldn’t I be old enough to care for a toddler and a baby? As they laid the emergency contacts on the table, I felt trusted, powerful and maternal. It would be easy, my mother said. They had been changed and fed and held and put down for the night. All I had to do was make sure that the three of us were alive when my parents returned five hours later.

Sometimes, things can be so bewitchingly simple that you believe they are easy. But as all religious and atheist individuals know, that does not make it so.

Obviously there were signs, even to a child, that hinted at danger. But you must understand that we lived in a house that ran on creaking doors and supressed breath. My father loved films, including horrors. He was desperate for a companion to bring comfort and levity to the terror he regularly subjected himself to, and, starting at only seven and five, my brother and I served as a solution. We would be made to sit and watch, without comfort or respite, the worst that Stephen King or the horror director du jour had to offer. And when the trauma ended and the credits rolled, we would be brushed into beds in rooms that were allowed no light.

To a child, a house is very much like a heart: there are many chambers that we know are required to function, but there are far more dark corners that are haunted by The Unknown. After being subjected to gore and death, we were gently pushed into our respective restrooms to brush our teeth and prepare for sleep. Our parents had no time for the frivolity of fear, and the fear of my mother suffocated any imaginary demons. After getting ready, we would go to our rooms. One night, I walked into my room knowing that something was not right. There was a presence. I climbed into bed and looked at the moon, hoping to be somewhere safe. As I began to doze, the impossible manifested.

A single closet door moved ever so slowly but notably towards the wall.

As I gazed at it, I knew that what I saw was not, could not possibly be, right. But despite the string of logic my brain wove, there it was, opening slowly and silently. I knew I could not leave without being eaten by whatever the dark held. After ten minutes, I made up my mind to fight, and I ran. I leaped of the bed and called for my mother. As my tiny hand grasped the doorknob, I felt two massive hands squeeze my ribs and lift me into the air. I screamed, and it was met with laughter....but laughter I knew.

It was my father. He had hidden, as he often did, to terrify us.

It is not a lovely or funny story. I only tell it to you so that you understand what that house was like. It had been haunted by many, but it was haunted most aggressively by the living.

On the night that I was left with my brothers, everything was quiet. There were no storms or power cuts or black cats. It was just a boring, easy night. I was told to look in on them every hour, which I did dutifully. I adored those boys. I adore them now even more.

After approximately two hours, I was downstairs reading Jane Eyre in rare silence when I heard him. It was a sound that immediately inspired panic despite any knowledge. Somehow, I heard a single breath and knew it was my brother breathing his last.

I ran up the stairs and could barely open the door. Wynn was awake and standing in his crib, crying and reaching for his brother. Following his red eyes, I saw. Wyatt was in his crib, blue of face, choking and gasping.

There was no time. There was simply a child that could not breathe. I did not know what I did or why, but I found myself in the street, holding a blue boy, on the phone with first responders, screaming for help. After a few minutes, the adults rushed out of their well appointed homes and took my brother from me. An ambulance came. I remembered Wynn. I ran inside and brought him down, thinking in my infant mind that something might be wrong with our house. I stood there for a few minutes, watching the paramedics check one precious gem as they tried to revive the other. I overheard one say “He isn’t breathing. We have no pulse.”

I ran. I ran so fast and so far. I knew that I had killed my brothers. I had disappointed my parents. I had ruined our home. The ghosts had been a joke, but now I had made two of my own. So in that sable summer night, I ran and I ran until I fell, and more until I was somewhere I didn’t know. I could never go home. I had one job. “Just keep them alive!” my mother had said, her voice like silver against glass. But I hadn’t, so I kept running.

When I awoke, it was to the voice of a neighbor I knew. He picked me up and carried me to my home. I cried as we turned the corner, grieving not only the loss of my brothers but also the loss of my parents’ love. I wept until I slept. As he handed me to my father, he said “She’s been through a lot, but I know she’ll be best at home.” I remember the feel of my father’s big arms and hands as he took me, assuring the neighbor that my brothers and our family was fine.

When I finally woke up, it was to the beautiful glittering sound of babies’ babbling; they were fine. They lived. I kept them alive. But even now, twenty years later....

I run.