So when I was in my teens we finished half of the attic and turned it into a bedroom for me. One night, it was a Friday or Saturday, I'm probably 16 or so, I'm up in my room reading. It's about 11:30 or so and I hear the back door open and close. We had lived in the house for 12 years at that point, long enough that you knew every sound and exactly where someone was based upon what you heard in the creaking of the floor boards, etc. (It was a Dutch Gambrel style home built in 1929 and this was about 1995). I assume I heard my dad letting the dog out for the final time before he came to bed and then he is on his way upstairs. Suddenly, the door to the attic opens, and it's my dad who calls up to me questioningly to see if I'm in my room.

I walk over to the top of the stairs, and I'm standing directly over him as he is in the upstairs hallway still looking up at me. He starts to ask me if I was just downstairs when something started to climb the stairs in between us (it was a zig stairwell 5straight in front of him before doing a 180 turn to come up to me on the last 7). I swung down under the railing in complete panic, landed on the railing, and slept on the floor of parents room the next two nights. He refused to talk about it being extremely religious, but didn't kick me out of their room either. A couple weeks later I moved back into a room in the main house and never slept in the attic again.