I had expected to catch a draft swinging a door, maybe a pet I’d forgotten to lock out, something rational to tame the unease. Instead, the camera showed the attic door opening with deliberate care. A thin figure stepped into the hallway, bare feet touching the same floor I walked every day. They wore one of my old shirts. They moved like they belonged there. Watching them pause, listen, and then slip back into the darkness above my ceiling shattered any comfort I had left in the word “home.”
Even after the police searched the attic and collected the stranger’s makeshift nest, the damage was done. I upgraded locks, added alarms, and double-checked every window, but security hardware can’t restore trust. What unsettled me most wasn’t a ghost or a legend. It was realizing how quietly a real person had invaded my life, turning ordinary creaks into warnings I tried too hard to ignore.
