For months, I lived with an unease I couldn’t explain — like eyes were always following me, like whispers curled through the silence when the house should’ve been still. At night, faint footsteps echoed from the upstairs floor, though I lived alone. Every creak, every soft thud made my heart pound, yet every morning I convinced myself it was only my imagination — stress, exhaustion, maybe even loneliness turning shadows into threats.
Yesterday shattered that illusion. I came home, and my living room was rearranged. Not chaotic — just… wrong. The chair angled differently, books stacked in a neat pile, a tea mug placed exactly in the center of the table. Too intentional to be an accident. Terror clawed up my spine. I called the police, stammering through fear, clutching my keys like a weapon as they searched every corner of the house.
They found nothing — no broken locks, no footprints, no sign of forced entry. Relief didn’t come. Instead, dread seeped in deeper. As the officers prepared to leave, one paused at the door, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Ma’am,” he said slowly, “have you ever checked your attic?” My blood turned to ice.
We climbed the ladder together. The attic smelled like dust and forgotten years — but tucked in the far corner was a makeshift bedding, empty food wrappers, and a small lantern. Someone had been living above me. Watching me. Listening. I moved out that night, knowing some nightmares don’t end when you wake — they begin when you open the door to what’s been hiding right above you.
