The Quiet Presence Above My Ceiling!

For months, an unsettling sensation followed me through the corridors of my home like a cold draft that wouldn’t settle. I lived alone, or so I believed, in a modest house that should have been my sanctuary. Yet, in the heavy stillness of the late-night hours, the silence was frequently punctured by sounds that defied logic. I would hear the rhythmic, soft thud of footsteps overhead—movements so faint they felt more like a heartbeat than a stride. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, telling myself it was the expansion of old wood, the settling of the foundation, or the erratic groaning of ancient pipes.

I was a master of self-delusion until the day the evidence became impossible to ignore. I returned home from work to find my living room subtly, almost imperceptibly, rearranged. A book on the coffee table had been moved three inches to the left; a throw blanket was folded with a precision I didn’t possess. The realization that my private space had been curated by an invisible hand turned my blood to ice. Fear finally outweighed my capacity for doubt, and I dialed the police.