I was ten when it happened. We had just moved into a new house. Well, new to us; it was really a very old one—the fifth we had been in that I could remember. That was how my parents made their living: buying old houses, fixing them up, then selling them for a bundle of money. It was sort of neat, except it meant we never stayed in any one place very long, the places we moved into were always sort of crummy, and just when they got good, we had to move on.

Anyway, on our third night in the house, I heard a clatter in the kitchen. Now all old houses have their noises, their own personal creaks and groans, and I was still getting used to the sounds of this house. But something about this particular noise didn’t sound right to me. So I grabbed my baseball bat and headed for the stairs.

I grabbed the bat instead of waking my parents because I had been through this before. I was tired of embarrassing myself, so I generally investigated night noises on my own. But I always carried my trusty Louisville Slugger when I did. Just in case, you know?

The floor was cold against my feet.

My door squeaked as I opened it.

Trying not to wake my parents, I tiptoed along the hall, past the peeling wallpaper (roses the size of cabbages floating against gray stripes—truly ugly), past the bathroom with its leaky faucets (I had already gotten used to that noise), on to the head of the stairs.

I paused and listened.

Something was definitely moving in the kitchen. I could hear scrapes and thumps, soft and gentle, but no less real for all that. I was about to go wake my parents after all when I heard something else—something totally unexpected.

I heard a woman singing.

I leaned forward and closed my eyes (I don’t know what good that was supposed to do, but you know how it is), straining to hear. The voice was soft, sweet and sad—almost like someone singing a hymn. I had to go halfway down the steps to make out the words:

“Biscuits, biscuits of glory,

This is my story,

Biscuits of glory. . .”

By now the hair was standing up on the back of my neck. Yet somehow I didn’t think anyone who sounded so sad and sweet could hurt me.

Clutching my Louisville Slugger, I tiptoed down the rest of the steps and stopped outside the kitchen door.

“Biscuits, biscuits of glory,” sang the voice, sounding so sad I almost started to cry myself.

Pushing lightly on the kitchen door, I swung it open just a crack. When I peeked through, I let out a little squeak of fright. There was no one in sight, not a person to be seen.