Walking in My Sleep
"I see you've been sleep walking, again," my brother said to me.
"Don't shout it about," I said to him. "I'd just as soon no one else knows about it."
My older brother, Tom, shared a room with me on the second floor of our family home. Being the oldest and the biggest, he got the bottom bunk; I had to haul my way into the top bunk by way of a ladder that bruised my feet something fierce.
But tonight my feet already felt battered and sore from whatever rocky pathway I had trod upon in my night time visit across the neighborhood. I decided not to try the ladder for the time being and instead sat down in the chair I claimed as my own.
"Don't worry," Tom said. "I won't tell a soul — as long as you keep sharing the loot you pick up out there."
If you live in the neighborhood, I may some day sneak into your house while sleep walking.
You see, I had formed the practice somehow on my sleep walking adventures of taking along a laundry bag. I would bring it back filled with stuff I found along the way. The items tell the story of where I had been, although sometimes we did not know all the details until reading about them in the newspaper.
A diamond necklace came from the home of old lady Broome, who died of a heart attack the day after I took it. Clayton Sagmore wheezed his last the night I picked up the asthma inhaler from his bedside stand. A full bag of goodies came from the house of Gerald Thunbee, who accidentally killed his wife while shooting at an escaping intruder. Mr. Samuelson tumbled to his death down the basement steps at his house the night I came home with an expensive pair of binoculars; I hope I did not trip Mr. Samuelson
I don't think I could sneak around in people's homes nearly so easy wide awake. But while sleep walking, I have done so time and again. The treasures Tom and I share prove it. If you live in the neighborhood, I may some day sneak into your house while sleep walking. If so, I really hope nothing bad happens to you that night.
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