She was standing there in the dark, too still, too quiet—like she didn’t expect to be seen.
For a second, I couldn’t move. My heart pounded so loudly I thought it might give me away. Then she slowly turned her head and looked straight at my window.
And smiled.
I stumbled back, fumbling for my phone, my hands shaking so badly I could barely dial. By the time I looked again, she was gone.
The police came, searched the yard, but found nothing. No footprints, no sign of forced entry—just silence. They told me to lock my doors and call again if anything happened.
But something had happened.
The next morning, I noticed my mailbox was open. Inside was a single envelope with my name on it, written in her handwriting.
My chest tightened as I opened it.
“You should’ve said yes.”
That was it. No signature. No explanation.
I called my son immediately. At first, he didn’t believe me—until I sent him a picture of the note. His voice changed after that. He promised to talk to her, said there must be some misunderstanding.
But deep down, I knew better.
Because that night, just before I went to bed, I heard it again.
A soft tapping… right at my window.
