For months, I felt it. Eyes on me. Noises upstairs at night. But I lived alone.
Yesterday, I finally called the police. They found nothing—until one officer asked quietly:
“Ma’am… have you noticed anything missing or out of place?”
My stomach dropped. The water bottle I never opened. Keys in the wrong spot. Cigarette smoke in my hallway—though I don’t smoke.
The officer’s face darkened. “You need to leave the house. We’ll check the attic.”
That night, from my friend’s home, the call came:
“Ma’am… someone’s been living up there. For months.”
I froze. The thought of sleeping peacefully while a stranger crept just above my head still haunts me.
Now, I trust my instincts—because sometimes, the danger isn’t in your imagination. It’s right above you.
