For months, I felt like someone was watching me.
I also hear faint noises upstairs late at night even though I live alone.
Yesterday, I came home to find my living room rearranged.
Terrified, I called the police, but after searching, they found nothing.
Just as they were leaving, one officer hesitated and asked, ‘Ma’am, have you been in your attic lately?’
I froze. The attic? I hadn’t set foot up there in over a year. It was just storage—old boxes, holiday decorations, forgotten things.
“No,” I replied slowly. “Why?”
He exchanged a quick look with his partner. “The hatch is slightly ajar. From the inside.”
Chills ran down my spine.
They insisted on checking it out.
Guns drawn, they pulled down the attic ladder and disappeared into the dark.
I stood below, heart pounding, straining to hear anything.
Then—
“Ma’am, you might want to come see this.”
I climbed up hesitantly. At first, it was just dust and shadows. Then I saw it: a pile of food wrappers. Water bottles. A small flashlight. A mattress. Someone had been living up here.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
Taped to the wall, dozens of photos. Of me. Sleeping. Cooking. Sitting in front of the TV. All taken from just above—through the attic vent.
“We’ll need to dust for prints,” one officer muttered grimly. “Looks like they’ve been here a while.”
I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the corner of my locked bedroom, every creak of the house sending my heart racing.
This morning, I packed a suitcase. I’m not staying another night.
But as I closed the front door, I noticed something tucked under the welcome mat:
A Polaroid. Of me.
Taken last night.