For months, I felt watched, hearing faint noises upstairs at night, though I lived alone. I called the police yesterday. Their search found nothing, but an officer paused, asking about anything unusual. I mentioned misplaced keys, a strange water bottle in the fridge, and cigarette smoke despite being a non-smoker. His expression turned grave. “Leave tonight,” he said. “We’ll check the attic.”
“The attic?” I whispered, chilled—I never went up there. He nodded. At a friend’s house, the officer called at midnight. “Someone was living in your attic,” he revealed. “For months.” Trembling, I realized a stranger had been above me as I slept. I vowed to trust my instincts—danger isn’t always in our heads; sometimes, it’s waiting to be found.
