Nobody Should Be Inside
When I got home, my neighbor confronted me.
“Your house gets so loud during the day,” he said.
The words weren’t shouted, but they landed hard, like an accusation already proven true.
“That’s not possible,” I replied automatically, fumbling with my keys. “Nobody should be inside.”
He didn’t blink.
“Well,” he said, “someone is.”
I laughed—too quickly, too loudly. “I live alone. I work twelve-hour shifts. I barely sleep there.”
Mr. Harlan took a step closer. I noticed then how pale he looked, how the deep grooves in his face seemed freshly carved.
“I hear footsteps,” he said. “Running. Furniture moving. Sometimes… banging. Like something heavy being dragged across the floor.”
“This isn’t settling,” he snapped. “This is living.”
I turned to face him. “If it’s bothering you, call the police.”
“I did.”
That stopped me.
“They came twice,” he continued. “Both times, the house was empty. Lights off. Doors locked. Just like you say.”
“Then why are you telling me this?”
His eyes flicked toward my front door. “Because it starts at nine every morning. And it stops the moment you come home.”
I told myself it was just nerves—an awkward confrontation, a grumpy neighbor with too much time on his hands. Still, I lay awake listening to my house breathe. The soft tick of cooling walls. The hum of the refrigerator. The occasional creak of wood.
At 2:17 a.m., something thumped upstairs.
I sat up, heart racing.
Another sound followed—slow, deliberate footsteps crossing my bedroom ceiling.
I held my breath.
“Hello?” I called.
The footsteps stopped.
I waited a long time after that, staring into the darkness, before convincing myself I’d imagined it. Exhaustion does strange things. Stress too.
In the morning, I left early, skipping coffee. As I backed out of the driveway, I glanced at Mr. Harlan’s house. His living room curtains twitched.
At work, I couldn’t focus. Numbers blurred. Emails went unread. At exactly nine o’clock, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: It’s started.
My stomach dropped.
Me: Who is this?
The reply came instantly.
Unknown Number: Your neighbor. The noise. It’s loud today.
I didn’t respond.
At noon, he sent another message.
They’re running now.
At three:
Something fell. Sounded heavy.
I turned my phone off.
That evening, I walked through my house slowly, every sense tuned sharp. Nothing seemed out of place. No broken furniture. No scuffed floors. No signs of forced entry.
Still, I checked every room. Closets. Bathroom. Basement.
The attic hatch was closed.
I stood beneath it for a long time, staring at the faint outline in the ceiling.
I didn’t remember the house having an attic when I bought it.
The next day, I took off work.
At 8:45 a.m., I sat in my car across the street, watching my own house like a stranger. Mr. Harlan’s window was already occupied—his silhouette rigid behind the glass.
Nine o’clock came.
Nothing happened.
No movement. No sound.
At 9:07, Mr. Harlan stepped outside, scanning the street. He spotted my car and froze.
I rolled down the window. “Hear anything?”
His face twisted in confusion. “No,” he said slowly. “It should have started.”
I smiled. “Guess that settles it.”
I drove away before he could respond.
At work, relief settled in, fragile but real. I’d proven it—to him and myself. There was nothing wrong with my house.
At noon, my phone vibrated.
Unknown Number: It waited today.
My blood ran cold.
That night, I dreamed of doors opening inside my chest. Of rooms I’d never seen before unfolding behind my ribs. In the dream, something moved through them, learning the layout.
I woke to the sound of running water.
The bathroom sink was on full blast.
I stood in the hallway, staring at it, my reflection warped in the mirror above. Slowly, I reached out and turned the faucet off.
The mirror fogged.
A handprint appeared on the glass—pressed from the inside.
I screamed and stumbled back. When the fog cleared, the mirror was clean.
I didn’t sleep again.
I called a locksmith the next morning.
He changed every lock, checked the windows, tested the doors. “Solid place,” he said. “You sure you’re having trouble?”
“No,” I said. “Just paranoid.”
When he left, I noticed something carved into the inside of the front doorframe, hidden behind where the hinge rested.
A series of notches. Count marks.
Dozens of them.
Some looked old. Others were fresh, pale wood exposed.
The last mark was made that morning.
I confronted Mr. Harlan again that evening.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the attic?” I demanded.
He frowned. “What attic?”
“The one above my hallway.”
“There’s no attic,” he said. “This row of houses was built without them. Too expensive.”
My mouth went dry.
“You sure?” I asked.
“I’ve lived here forty years,” he said. “I’d know.”
That night, I brought a ladder inside.
I stood beneath the hatch, hands shaking, and pushed it open.
The smell hit me first—dust and something sour, like sweat trapped too long in fabric.
The space beyond was bigger than it should have been. Not unfinished beams and insulation, but a narrow hallway stretching into darkness.
Wallpaper lined the walls.
My wallpaper.
Same peeling floral pattern I’d stripped from the living room when I moved in.
A light flicked on at the far end.
I slammed the hatch shut and backed away, breathing hard.
Something knocked from above.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
A familiar rhythm.
Footsteps began to move.
I slept in my car.
In the morning, Mr. Harlan was waiting for me.
“You didn’t come home last night,” he said.
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