Mum used to say it was the Borrower and he was nothing like the cutesy little book people.
She said he'd come when we weren't looking and reach through the walls.
He took whatever he needed from us and in return he kept worse things at bay.
These "worse things" were what she called the near misses we faced almost daily.
Like the school flooded the day my coursework was due, the coursework that I'd lost the night before.
Or the time mum "lost" her keys just before a drunk driver slammed right into her car.
Times like that it definitely seemed like somebody was watching out for us, or controlling us.
After I left for university mum would say the house never felt empty.
She said she'd even caught glimpses of the Borrower, sent me a photo of his arm.
It was grey and covered in bleeding lumps with eight-knuckled fingers that ended in inch long nails.
She used to call me once a week with updates on what the Borrower had taken too.
The last call was a month ago.
She said he'd taken all the cutlery in the kitchen and left a note behind with a date.
I've been trying to get ahold of her ever since, called the police too.
They said they can't do anything without proof, called the photo a prank.
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