For months, I felt it—someone watching me. Faint noises at night, small things out of place. Then yesterday, I came home to a living room rearranged like a storm had passed through. I called the police. They found nothing. Just as they were leaving, one officer hesitated.
“Ma’am… have you ever been in the attic?”
I froze. I didn’t even know I had one.
A pull cord above the hallway light revealed a narrow ladder. Upstairs, in the dim attic light, I saw it: a small mattress, blankets, food wrappers, a diary. Someone had been living above me.
The police took evidence and advised me to stay with a friend. My heart raced, my mind couldn’t rest. The mattress had been warm. For months, I’d unknowingly shared my home with a stranger.
Weeks passed. New locks, security cameras, motion detectors. No signs of anyone returning. Life felt safer—but then, a folded note appeared on my pillow:
“I’m sorry. I never meant to scare you.”
The attic remained empty. I moved to a new apartment, but curiosity stayed. I opened the diary.
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