[SPEAKER_00]: Story number one, the woman who was never there.

[SPEAKER_00]: I still remember that night like it was yesterday.

[SPEAKER_00]: The smell of burn espresso, the hum of the coffee grinder, and the faint flicker of a dying bulb near the counter.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was the kind of place that stayed open late, not because there was business, but because the owner didn't care enough to close on time.

[SPEAKER_00]: I used to go there often back then when my mind was dark and my reasons for staying alive were getting fewer by the week.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was winter or close enough to it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of night where the air outside stings your cheeks in the windows fog from the warmth inside.

[SPEAKER_00]: The shop was nearly empty, just an old man near the window reading a paper and the barista wiping down tables out of boredom.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I noticed her, a young woman about my age at the time, early 20s, sitting alone in the corner booth.

[SPEAKER_00]: Her coffee had gone cold.

[SPEAKER_00]: She kept stirring it with a spoon over and over, even though there was nothing left to dissolve.

[SPEAKER_00]: Her eyes were red, and she looked like she was trying hard not to cry.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe I recognized something familiar in that look, like staring into a mirror and seeing your own thoughts reflected back.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't plan on talking to anyone that night, but something made me walk over.

[SPEAKER_00]: I asked if I could sit.

[SPEAKER_00]: She didn't say much, just nodded faintly.

[SPEAKER_00]: We ended up talking for hours, about everything and nothing, the kind of talk that drifts from one topic to another without meaning to.

[SPEAKER_00]: She mentioned feeling like there wasn't any hope left, but never said why.

[SPEAKER_00]: Her voice had this quiet, hollow tone, like she'd been tired for a long time.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to encourage her, told her things would get better, that she mattered, that she wasn't alone.

[SPEAKER_00]: What I didn't tell her was that I was saying those things to myself as much as to her.

[SPEAKER_00]: I had gone there that night to figure out how to die without making a mess.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was tired, not just physically, but in a way that sleep couldn't fix.

[SPEAKER_00]: I thought if I could at least convince one person not to give up, maybe it would mean I still had a reason to stay a little longer.

[SPEAKER_00]: The hours slipped by until the barista finally said they were closing.

[SPEAKER_00]: The girl looked a little calmer, or maybe just quieter.

[SPEAKER_00]: I grabbed a napkin and wrote down my number.

[SPEAKER_00]: Told her she could call me anytime if she ever needed someone to talk to.

[SPEAKER_00]: She stared at the napkin, then looked at me in this strange way, like she could see through me.

[SPEAKER_00]: And then she said something that made the hairs on the back of my next end up.

[SPEAKER_00]: She said everything I had told her wasn't for her to hear.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was for me.

[SPEAKER_00]: That stopped me cold.

[SPEAKER_00]: I hadn't mentioned my plans hadn't given even a hint.

[SPEAKER_00]: I just laughed nervously and brushed it off, but something about the way she said it, calm, certain, unsettled me.

[SPEAKER_00]: She reached across the table, placed her hand lightly over mine, and said I'd be okay.

[SPEAKER_00]: That I'd find my purpose.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then she hugged me, whispered thank you, and walked out.

[SPEAKER_00]: It took me a second to realize she left the napkin with my number on it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I grabbed it and ran out after her.

[SPEAKER_00]: She couldn't have been more than two seconds ahead of me.

[SPEAKER_00]: But when I stepped outside, the street was empty, completely empty.

[SPEAKER_00]: No footsteps, no sound of shoes clicking on pavement, no fading figure in the distance.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just the cold night air and the sound of the coffee shop door swinging shut behind me.

[SPEAKER_00]: At first, I thought maybe she'd turn the corner quickly, so I jog to the end of the block.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I looked up and down the street.

[SPEAKER_00]: No cars, no buses, no movement.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was like she just vanished.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember feeling this weird pressure in my ears like when you're underwater.

[SPEAKER_00]: The street lights buzzed faintly and one of them flickered twice, casting a split second shadow that looked almost like a person standing across the road.

[SPEAKER_00]: But when I blinked, it was gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: I went home that night, confused, but also, lighter somehow.

[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't explain it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The next morning I threw away everything I had prepared for my suicide.

[SPEAKER_00]: It felt wrong to even think about it after that encounter.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself maybe that girl needed to hear those words and maybe fate had put me there to help her.

[SPEAKER_00]: months went by.

[SPEAKER_00]: I never heard from her, but her words stayed with me.

[SPEAKER_00]: I started therapy, got better, rebuilt my life.

[SPEAKER_00]: Eventually I became a therapist myself.

[SPEAKER_00]: I thought of her often, especially when I sat across from someone who reminded me of the way she looked that night.

[SPEAKER_00]: Lost, fragile, almost transparent.

[SPEAKER_00]: But as the years went by, small things started to happen that made me question if that night really happened the way I remember it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The coffee shop closed down not long after that night.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried finding the barista to ask about her, but no one I talked to remembered a young woman sitting there that night.

[SPEAKER_00]: One even insisted the shop had been empty except for me.

[SPEAKER_00]: I thought maybe they just forgot.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then once, while sorting through old things, I found the napkin with my number on it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The ink had bled a little from moisture, but something about it was off.

[SPEAKER_00]: The handwriting didn't look like mine anymore.

[SPEAKER_00]: The numbers were shakier, uneven.

[SPEAKER_00]: Almost like they'd been rewritten by someone else.

[SPEAKER_00]: Another time I was walking home late and passed by the street where that coffee shop used to be.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's an office building now.

[SPEAKER_00]: But as I walked past, I saw a woman standing just inside the glass door.

[SPEAKER_00]: Same coat, same long dark hair.

[SPEAKER_00]: She was looking straight at me.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stopped and stared.

[SPEAKER_00]: The glass had that faint glare from the streetlights, but I swear she was smiling.

[SPEAKER_00]: I blinked and she was gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: That night, my bedroom light kept flickering.

[SPEAKER_00]: The next morning, I found the napkin again on my desk.

[SPEAKER_00]: I had put it away in a drawer months ago.

[SPEAKER_00]: I started telling myself it was just my mind playing tricks.

[SPEAKER_00]: The stress of my job, the long hours.

[SPEAKER_00]: But there's one last thing I can't explain.

[SPEAKER_00]: A few weeks ago, I was with a new patient, a young man in his 20s.

[SPEAKER_00]: He said he came to talk because he was planning to end his life.

[SPEAKER_00]: I did my best to help him see hope.

[SPEAKER_00]: Told him everything I could think of.

[SPEAKER_00]: And when the session ended, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said something that froze my blood.

[SPEAKER_00]: He said everything I told him wasn't for him.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was for me, the same words, the same tone.

[SPEAKER_00]: He smiled faintly and said, I'd be okay.

[SPEAKER_00]: That I'd find my peace.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I looked down for a second to grab my note pad, he was gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just like that.

[SPEAKER_00]: No door opened, no sound.

[SPEAKER_00]: The chair was empty.

[SPEAKER_00]: The front desk said no one had checked in under his name.

[SPEAKER_00]: There was no file, no payment, nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: But I remember shaking his hand.

[SPEAKER_00]: His fingers were ice cold.

[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know what to believe anymore.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe grief and guilt twist our memories into things that feel supernatural.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe I've been carrying the ghost of my own past all these years, and now it's bleeding into my present, or maybe maybe that girl wasn't meant to be helped.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe she was sent to help me, and now that I've found my purpose, she's passing it on to someone else.

[SPEAKER_00]: I keep the napkin framed on my desk now.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes when I come in early before sunrise, I swear I see faint fingerprints on the glass.

[SPEAKER_00]: Smudges that weren't there before, it's probably nothing, but every once in a while when the lights flicker in my office, and the air gets cold for no reason, I can almost hear a faint voice near my ear.

[SPEAKER_00]: Telling me it's my turn to go.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story number two, the man with the blue eyes and maybe a death note.

[SPEAKER_00]: I used to work as a cashier at a Walmart off the highway, the kind that stayed open 24-7 and always had this tired humming emptiness at night.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't unusual to be the only one running a register after 11pm.

[SPEAKER_00]: Most people who came through that late were either truckers, parents grabbing diapers, or the odd drifter looking for smokes or batteries.

[SPEAKER_00]: I got used to the quiet hours, just the sound of the conveyor belt, the beep of the scanner, and the occasional squeak of a shopping card echoing across too much space.

[SPEAKER_00]: That night felt normal enough at first.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was a Thursday, I think.

[SPEAKER_00]: The store smelled faintly of floor cleaner and popcorn from the machine near the self-checkout.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air conditioning had that constant low hum, and the overhead lights flicker just slightly in the far aisle.

[SPEAKER_00]: Something that always bugged me.

[SPEAKER_00]: I had a small line, 5 or 6 people.

[SPEAKER_00]: My supervisor, Kelly, was nearby checking prices on her handheld scanner.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember glancing up as I rang up a woman's groceries.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I saw him.

[SPEAKER_00]: He was standing two or three people down the line.

[SPEAKER_00]: Medium-build, long-ish brown hair that look greasy under the fluorescent light, and those eyes bright blue, but not the natural kind of blue you see on real people.

[SPEAKER_00]: They were almost glassy, two vivid, like the reflection of a flame.

[SPEAKER_00]: Around him I swear, there was this haze, not smoke, not shadow, something darker than the rest of the air around him, like a faint black fog that shimmered and pulsed with his breathing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I froze for a second, thinking maybe I was just tired.

[SPEAKER_00]: I rub my eyes and looked again, but the fog seemed to move with him, like it clung to his outline.

[SPEAKER_00]: The worst part was how I felt.

[SPEAKER_00]: uneasy doesn't even describe it.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and knowing something below was waiting.

[SPEAKER_00]: I kept my eyes on him from the corner of my vision as I worked.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every time I scanned an item, I could feel his gaze on me.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was like someone pressing a cold hand to the back of my neck.

[SPEAKER_00]: I looked up again when I finished the first customer's order, and suddenly he was next.

[SPEAKER_00]: No one else was there anymore.

[SPEAKER_00]: The rest of the line was gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: My supervisor wasn't at her station.

[SPEAKER_00]: The entire front of the store was empty.

[SPEAKER_00]: The beeping stopped.

[SPEAKER_00]: The background music had gone silent.

[SPEAKER_00]: Even the hum of the light seemed to have been sucked out of the air.

[SPEAKER_00]: The man was standing directly in front of me now.

[SPEAKER_00]: His grin stretched just a little too wide.

[SPEAKER_00]: His skin looked too pale under the lights.

[SPEAKER_00]: And his eyes, those electric blue eyes, were locked onto mine like he was seeing right through me.

[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted to say something normal like, can I help you?

[SPEAKER_00]: But before I could get the words out, he spoke first.

[SPEAKER_00]: His voice wasn't loud, but it seemed to vibrate through the space around me.

[SPEAKER_00]: He said he needed a specific brand of cigarettes.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember thinking it was such an ordinary thing for someone so wrong.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I turned to grab the cigarettes from behind the counter, everything went black.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not just dark, the kind of blackware there's nothing, no sound, no sensation.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like I was floating inside my own head, I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe.

[SPEAKER_00]: It felt like my thoughts were echoing off something for a way.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a few seconds, or minutes, I don't even know, I was convinced he was inside my mind that he'd somehow reached in and shut everything else off.

[SPEAKER_00]: When my vision came back, he was still standing there.

[SPEAKER_00]: He was laughing quietly, but I couldn't tell if the sound was real, or if it was just inside my head.

[SPEAKER_00]: The grin never changed.

[SPEAKER_00]: But his eyes seemed to pulse brighter, almost glowing.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then he just turned and walked away down the aisle.

[SPEAKER_00]: As soon as he was gone, everything snapped back.

[SPEAKER_00]: The noise, the lights, the customers.

[SPEAKER_00]: The line was full again.

[SPEAKER_00]: My supervisor was back, talking to someone about a price check [SPEAKER_00]: I blinked hard, looking around, but everything was normal.

[SPEAKER_00]: My hands were trembling, and for the rest of that shift, I couldn't stop scanning the aisles for that man, half expecting him to reappear.

[SPEAKER_00]: When my shift ended, I drove home in silence.

[SPEAKER_00]: The drive felt longer than usual.

[SPEAKER_00]: The streets emptier.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every time I looked at my rear view mirror, I swore I saw a flash of blue light behind me.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself it was headlights or maybe a reflection of a sign.

[SPEAKER_00]: That night I couldn't sleep.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every time I close my eyes, I saw his grin, and those glowing eyes staring at me from the dark.

[SPEAKER_00]: Around 3am, I woke up to the sound of static.

[SPEAKER_00]: My TV had turned itself on.

[SPEAKER_00]: The screen was flickering, cycling through channels by itself, each one cutting to static before I could even move.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air in my room felt cold and heavy, like the air right before a thunderstorm.

[SPEAKER_00]: Over the next few days, little things started happening.

[SPEAKER_00]: My kitchen lights would flicker whenever I walked in.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd hear faint humming from my hallway, even when nothing was on.

[SPEAKER_00]: One morning I found my bathroom mirror fogged up, like someone had taken a shower, but I hadn't used it yet.

[SPEAKER_00]: In the middle of the mirror, there was a handprint.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't mine.

[SPEAKER_00]: The nightmares got worse.

[SPEAKER_00]: In them I was always standing behind my register again, but the store was empty.

[SPEAKER_00]: The man would be there, just standing at the end of the aisle.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every time I tried to move, I couldn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd wake up drenched in sweat, my heart racing.

[SPEAKER_00]: One night I woke to what I thought was whispering near my ear.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was low and drawn out, like someone exhaling words instead of speaking them.

[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't make out the language, but the tone was mocking.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I turned on the light, there was no one there, but my phone screen was on, showing the time, 3 a.m.

exactly.

[SPEAKER_00]: That same week, my smoke alarm went off randomly three times in a single night.

[SPEAKER_00]: Each time I checked, there was no smoke, no fire.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just that same cold heaviness in the air and the faint smell of cigarettes, like someone had just been standing nearby smoking one.

[SPEAKER_00]: By the fifth night I was exhausted.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember sitting on my couch, staring at the blank TV screen and seeing my own reflection twitch slightly before I did.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was so fast that I could almost believe I'd imagined it, almost, and then just like that, it stopped.

[SPEAKER_00]: I still don't know why.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it was because the nightmares faded, or maybe whatever that thing was, decided I wasn't worth the trouble.

[SPEAKER_00]: The lights stopped flickering, the whisper stopped.

[SPEAKER_00]: I slept through the night for the first time in a week, but even now years later, I can't shake the unease.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes when I'm in a store late at night, I'll glance down an aisle and swear I see that black haze hovering around someone.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tell myself it's just fatigue or the way the lights catch the dust in the air.

[SPEAKER_00]: And once in a while, when I'm driving home after dark, a pair of blue headlights will appear behind me.

[SPEAKER_00]: They never get closer.

[SPEAKER_00]: They just follow at a distance until I pull into my driveway.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then they're gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it's nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it's all in my head.

[SPEAKER_00]: But sometimes when the air turns cold and still, I swear I can smell smoke.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story number three, I've never been much of a believer in the supernatural.

[SPEAKER_00]: Things happen, people exaggerate, and memory fills the gaps with imagination.

[SPEAKER_00]: At least that's what I used to think before the hike by the river.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was late September, one of those days where the light feels fragile.

[SPEAKER_00]: Halfway between summer and the great chill of fall.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd take in a familiar hiking trail near the Cascadia River.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's narrow and steep, running along a scree slope that drops about 30 feet before leveling near the river.

[SPEAKER_00]: On the opposite side, a twin trail snakes along the ridge.

[SPEAKER_00]: I could see it clearly from where I was.

[SPEAKER_00]: At one point, as I stopped a sip water, I noticed a man walking there with a dog, a golden retriever, maybe.

[SPEAKER_00]: The man had on a faded blue jacket and a dark beanie.

[SPEAKER_00]: They were just silhouettes against the pale light, but something about how they moved caught my attention.

[SPEAKER_00]: The dog never seemed to move its legs right, like its gate didn't match the ground, and the man's steps looked too even, like he was gliding.

[SPEAKER_00]: I brushed it off as a trick of distance.

[SPEAKER_00]: About 10 minutes later, while crossing a narrow curve of the trail, the ground shifted.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't even have time to shout.

[SPEAKER_00]: The edge beneath my right foot crumbled, and suddenly I was sliding down the loose shale.

[SPEAKER_00]: Rock scraped my arms, grit filled my mouth, and I only stopped when I slammed into a bush clinging to the slope.

[SPEAKER_00]: I just lay there for a minute, dazed, heart hammering, with pebbles rolling past me toward the river far below.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I finally looked up, I saw them again.

[SPEAKER_00]: The man in the dog, this time on my side of the river.

[SPEAKER_00]: They were already halfway toward me, though I never saw her them cross.

[SPEAKER_00]: There isn't a bridge anywhere close.

[SPEAKER_00]: The nearest crossing is a good mile upstream.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to wave them off, but the man was already at the top of the small retaining wall where the trail curved above me.

[SPEAKER_00]: He reached down a hand.

[SPEAKER_00]: I grabbed it without thinking.

[SPEAKER_00]: His grip was strong, but oddly cold, like stone left in shade all day.

[SPEAKER_00]: He pulled me up effortlessly, steadier than I expected from someone so lean.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember mumbling something about being lucky.

[SPEAKER_00]: He nodded, or at least tilted his head, and then just walked off.

[SPEAKER_00]: The dog followed, it's tail not wagging, eyes fixed straight ahead.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a few seconds I stood there catching my breath.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then I turned to thank him again, but the trail was empty.

[SPEAKER_00]: No sound of footsteps, no dog tags jingling.

[SPEAKER_00]: The next bend wasn't far.

[SPEAKER_00]: I should have seen them.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: That was the first thing.

[SPEAKER_00]: The second happened maybe an hour later.

[SPEAKER_00]: The sun was already dropping, making the woods look darker than they should have been.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd plan to take the loop back down, but every few hundred feet, I thought I heard the soft tread of a dog behind me.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every time I turned nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: At one point I swear I heard panting, close, like right by my knee, but the air was still.

[SPEAKER_00]: I picked up the pace.

[SPEAKER_00]: A few minutes later I passed a large pine tree with a broken branch at a shoulder height.

[SPEAKER_00]: Hanging from it was something like a piece of torn fabric, blue, faded.

[SPEAKER_00]: looked just like the color of the man's jacket.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I started feeling that hum under my ribs.

[SPEAKER_00]: The one that tells you to leave, even when there's no clear reason.

[SPEAKER_00]: The trailback down passes an old landslide zone where the slope is bare rock.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's always windy there.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind that whistles through your ears.

[SPEAKER_00]: While crossing it, I stepped on a loose rock that skidded away.

[SPEAKER_00]: And the echo that came back wasn't quite right.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't a single sound, it had layers.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like something else had been standing close behind me, copying the noise half a second later.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I turned, I saw movement in the distance, something pale darting between trees.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe the dog again, but dogs don't move upright.

[SPEAKER_00]: I forced myself to keep walking.

[SPEAKER_00]: My mind kept trying to explain it away.

[SPEAKER_00]: Echo bouncing weirdly off the rocks, optical illusions from the fading light.

[SPEAKER_00]: But as I neared the parking area, things got worse.

[SPEAKER_00]: The wind died completely in the forest went unnaturally silent.

[SPEAKER_00]: No insects, no birds, just the crunch of gravel under my boots.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I heard it, the splash, down by the river.

[SPEAKER_00]: something large moving through the water.

[SPEAKER_00]: I leaned over the edge of the trail and saw ripples spreading out in perfect circles, but nothing in the middle of them.

[SPEAKER_00]: No fish, no branch, no throne stone.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just movement with no cause.

[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know why, but I called out.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just instinct.

[SPEAKER_00]: But the ripples stopped immediately, the surface went smooth, too smooth, reflecting the dim orange sky like a sheet of glass, then something broke the surface.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just for a second, a human head, slick and dark, eyes open, watching.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stumbled backward, tripped on a rock, and ran the rest of the way down.

[SPEAKER_00]: By the time I reached the bottom trail junction, I was gasping.

[SPEAKER_00]: The parking lot was visible through the trees and I nearly cried and relief, but as I reached the last turn, I froze.

[SPEAKER_00]: The man in the blue jacket was standing at the far edge of the lawn, facing the forest.

[SPEAKER_00]: The dogs had beside him, staring straight at me.

[SPEAKER_00]: Its eyes caught the last bit of sunlight.

[SPEAKER_00]: They looked reflective, like glass marbles.

[SPEAKER_00]: I blinked and both were gone, just gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I finally got to my car, there were paw prints on the hood, muddy, too big for any normal dog.

[SPEAKER_00]: That night I couldn't sleep.

[SPEAKER_00]: My house felt wrong, colder than usual, and every time I shut my eyes I heard the faint sound of dripping water.

[SPEAKER_00]: I checked every faucet, every pipe, dry.

[SPEAKER_00]: Over the next few days, little things kept happening.

[SPEAKER_00]: My dog at home would growl at the corner of the room where the light didn't reach.

[SPEAKER_00]: My phone camera once glitched when I took a selfie.

[SPEAKER_00]: It showed a shadow behind me like a silhouette with a beanie.

[SPEAKER_00]: In the next day, it was gone like it never existed.

[SPEAKER_00]: A week later, I went back to that trail, needing to see it again, to make sense of it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The spot where I'd fallen was still there.

[SPEAKER_00]: The bush still flattened, but something else caught my eye.

[SPEAKER_00]: On the opposite trail, the one where I'd first seen the man, there was a faded wooden post, half buried in moss, a small weathered sign hung from it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The writing was barely legible, but I could make out the words.

[SPEAKER_00]: In memory of Aaron and his dog, Scout.

[SPEAKER_00]: Lost to the river, 2003, the edges of the sign were warped, water stained.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there for a long time, staring across the river, trying to convince myself it was a coincidence.

[SPEAKER_00]: Lots of people wear blue jackets, lots of dogs look alike, but that night when I got home, I found something wedged under my windshield wiper, a wet piece of cloth, blue.

[SPEAKER_00]: I threw it out without looking too closely.

[SPEAKER_00]: Since then, I haven't gone hiking again.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes, though, when I drive past that stretch of road near the river, I feel the same pressure in my chest, like something watching from below the surface.

[SPEAKER_00]: And every once in a while, when my headlights hit the water just right, I swear I see ripple spreading out again, slow and deliberate as if someone's waiting across.

[SPEAKER_00]: I can't explain how a man who died 20 years ago could have pulled me up that trail.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it was some kind of illusion.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe adrenaline made me hallucinate.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe memory plays cruel tricks.

[SPEAKER_00]: Or maybe he didn't save me at all.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe he just wasn't finished trying.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story number four.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I was around 12, I had this small wooden dressing table in my room.

[SPEAKER_00]: One of those cheap ones with a mirror that always seemed a little too reflective.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like it remembered faces even after you left.

[SPEAKER_00]: The table faced my bed, and the space between the two was narrow.

[SPEAKER_00]: Barely enough to squeeze a chair in.

[SPEAKER_00]: My parents had gone out for the evening, and I remember locking my bedroom door out of habit.

[SPEAKER_00]: I like being alone, that night I was trying to style my hair for no real reason.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd recently seen a music video where the guy's hair looks slick and perfect, and I was trying to copy that with a tub of cheap gel I'd bought from the local store.

[SPEAKER_00]: The smell of that gel was strong, like artificial fruit mixed with chemicals.

[SPEAKER_00]: I scoop some out with my fingers, running it through my hair, the mirror fogging slightly from my breath.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I was done, I tried putting the lid back on the jar, but my hands were slippery.

[SPEAKER_00]: The lid slipped, hit my foot, and rolled under the bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: It made this dull plastic sound as it disappeared into the shadow.

[SPEAKER_00]: I sighed and wiped my hands on the little towel hanging off the chair.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I bent down to look under the bed, the lid slid back out.

[SPEAKER_00]: Slowly.

[SPEAKER_00]: I froze.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a second I thought maybe it had rolled out by chance, but the way it came, smoothly, like someone had pushed it, didn't make sense.

[SPEAKER_00]: The floor was perfectly flat.

[SPEAKER_00]: I looked underneath, expecting maybe a tilted book or something that had caused it to roll back.

[SPEAKER_00]: But there was nothing there, just the dark, empty underside of the bed, [SPEAKER_00]: I didn't think much of it at first.

[SPEAKER_00]: I just picked up the lid, put it on the jar, and went back to combing my hair.

[SPEAKER_00]: But as I looked into the mirror again, I noticed something odd.

[SPEAKER_00]: The reflection behind me looked a little darker than it should have been.

[SPEAKER_00]: The space under the bed in the mirror looked black.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not shadowy, not dim, but completely black.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I turned around, it looked normal again.

[SPEAKER_00]: I laughed it off, told myself my eyes were playing tricks, and switched off the lights to go to sleep.

[SPEAKER_00]: But I couldn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: My room felt different that night, colder.

[SPEAKER_00]: I kept hearing these faint scraping sounds coming from under the bed, slow, irregular, like nails or something hard brushing against the wood.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself it was the house settling, or maybe a rat, but the sound stopped every time I looked toward the floor.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't sleep much that night.

[SPEAKER_00]: Over the next few days, we're little things kept happening.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd wake up and find the towel that hung on my chair lying on the floor near the bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: The gel jar once turned up on the floor, even though I hadn't used it since that night.

[SPEAKER_00]: My comb went missing for two days and then appeared right in the middle of the bed, neatly placed.

[SPEAKER_00]: The weirdest part?

[SPEAKER_00]: The space under my bed started to smell faintly like that same chemical gel scent.

[SPEAKER_00]: Even when the lid was tightly closed, I tried ignoring it all, but one evening while cleaning my room, I saw something that made my stomach drop.

[SPEAKER_00]: There were faint scratch marks on the wooden floor under the bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: Thin, long lines, as if someone had been dragging their nails or something sharp against it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I ran my fingers over them, they weren't just surface scratches, they were deep.

[SPEAKER_00]: My parents thought it was from moving furniture.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't argue, but I knew I hadn't moved that bed even once.

[SPEAKER_00]: That night I left the lights on and kept the door slightly open.

[SPEAKER_00]: I lay awake staring at the ceiling, trying not to look toward the floor.

[SPEAKER_00]: Around 2 or 3am, I heard it again.

[SPEAKER_00]: The faint scraping sound, but this time it didn't stop.

[SPEAKER_00]: It grew louder, closer, until I could feel vibrations through the mattress.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then came a whispery sound.

[SPEAKER_00]: I set up instantly, the mirror across from me reflected my bed, and in that dim yellow light from the hallway, I swear I saw a faint shape, like a shadow stretching from under the bed toward the wall.

[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't move.

[SPEAKER_00]: I just stared, heart hammering, and then, as I blinked, it was gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: The sound stopped.

[SPEAKER_00]: For the next few weeks, I avoided looking under the bed at all.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stuffed boxes and old clothes beneath it just so nothing could move around.

[SPEAKER_00]: It helped a bit, or at least I told myself it did.

[SPEAKER_00]: Years later, when we moved out of that house, I had to clear my room.

[SPEAKER_00]: I pulled those boxes out, expecting dust, and maybe some bugs.

[SPEAKER_00]: But underneath on the wooden floorboards were more of those scratches, hundreds of them this time, and something else too.

[SPEAKER_00]: In the middle of those marks, faint but visible, was a circular handprint, smaller than mine, like it had been pressed into the wood from underneath.

[SPEAKER_00]: Even the movers noticed it, they asked if I had a younger sibling.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't say anything.

[SPEAKER_00]: I still think about that lid sometimes.

[SPEAKER_00]: The way it slid out, like something had nudged it.

[SPEAKER_00]: It would be easy to explain it away, maybe a vibration from a passing truck, or the floor being slightly uneven.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's what I tell myself when I can't sleep.

[SPEAKER_00]: But here's the part that never sat right with me.

[SPEAKER_00]: A few years ago, when I was visiting my parents, I stayed in the guest room.

[SPEAKER_00]: My old room was now a storage space, but the same dressing table and mirror were still there.

[SPEAKER_00]: Out of curiosity, I went in to have a look.

[SPEAKER_00]: The mirror had small black spots forming along the edges, like it was decaying from inside.

[SPEAKER_00]: I reached out and wiped the surface and that faint chemical smell came back.

[SPEAKER_00]: That same cheap hair gel scent I hadn't used in years.

[SPEAKER_00]: I checked the drawer, thinking maybe the old jar was still in there.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: The drawer was empty except for dust.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I looked into the mirror again, I caught something that made my heart skip.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a split second behind me, in the reflection only, something small and pale seemed to shift beneath the bed frame.

[SPEAKER_00]: But there was nothing there when I turned around.

[SPEAKER_00]: That night I didn't stay in that room.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes when I pass mirrors now, I avoid looking directly into them for too long.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tell myself I'm being silly, that I was a kid that memories twist over time.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it was a trick of the light.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe my tired brain connected dots that didn't exist.

[SPEAKER_00]: Still, there's this one thing that keeps coming back to me.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I bend down to pick something up off the floor, there's always a split second.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just before I look under the bed, when I have to expect to see something slide back toward me.

[SPEAKER_00]: And sometimes I think I do.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just a flicker of movement.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just the faint scrape of something shifting against the floorboards.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just enough to make me pause.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tell myself it's nothing, but every now and then when I close my eyes I can still smell that artificial, sticky scent.

[SPEAKER_00]: And I can almost feel something cold, waiting just inches beneath the bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story number five, it had always been a mystery, the vanishing car of bait bridge.

[SPEAKER_00]: I grew up hearing plenty, African legends, war stories, bush spirits, but I always told myself they were just exaggerations.

[SPEAKER_00]: That was until I heard what happened to my father during the bush warrants in Bobway in the late 70s.

[SPEAKER_00]: He wasn't one to lie or dramatize things.

[SPEAKER_00]: He was a police officer, practical to the core.

[SPEAKER_00]: The story he told us.

[SPEAKER_00]: Well, it still makes the hair on my arms rise every time I think about it.

[SPEAKER_00]: Back then, road travel during the war was dangerous.

[SPEAKER_00]: Ambushes were common, and civilians were only allowed to move in convoys guarded by armed police and military trucks.

[SPEAKER_00]: My father was driving one of the roving vehicles.

[SPEAKER_00]: Basically, the car that moved up and down the line of the convoys to keep everyone together.

[SPEAKER_00]: The route from Bulawio to Bate Bridge was long, dusty, and tense.

[SPEAKER_00]: Soldiers on edge, family sitting quietly in their cars.

[SPEAKER_00]: Everyone just wanting to reach the South African border alive.

[SPEAKER_00]: They started early that morning.

[SPEAKER_00]: The convoy had about a dozen vehicles, civilian cars, a few trucks, and three armed escorts.

[SPEAKER_00]: One armored car at the front, another at the rear, and my father's roving vehicle.

[SPEAKER_00]: The day was hot and dry.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of heat that makes everything shimmer in the distance.

[SPEAKER_00]: Dust hung in the air behind the convoy, forming a pale brown curtain that seemed to swallow the road behind them.

[SPEAKER_00]: About halfway through the journey, just after passing Guanda, they stopped for a routine vehicle count.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was something they did often to make sure no one had broken down or fallen behind.

[SPEAKER_00]: My father remembered it clearly because the count didn't match.

[SPEAKER_00]: One car, a light yellow pozo, was missing.

[SPEAKER_00]: It had been in the middle of the line earlier that morning, carrying a family, a man, his wife, and two kids.

[SPEAKER_00]: He even remembered the children waving at him when he driven past earlier.

[SPEAKER_00]: They checked the list of registrations again, recounted the cars, still one short.

[SPEAKER_00]: Someone might have stopped for a bathroom break or had a flat tire, so my father radioed back to Guanda and asked them to send out a search vehicle.

[SPEAKER_00]: They waited by the roadside for a bid, everyone tense.

[SPEAKER_00]: A few soldiers scanned the horizon with binoculars, but there was nothing, no dust cloud, no movement, not even the faint hum of an engine, just heat, cicadas and silence.

[SPEAKER_00]: After about half an hour the report came back.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing on the road.

[SPEAKER_00]: No broken down car, no sign of a struggle.

[SPEAKER_00]: No tire marks leading off the road.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was as if the Pujo had just vanished into thin air.

[SPEAKER_00]: They had no choice but to continue toward the border.

[SPEAKER_00]: Assuming maybe the family had turned back or taken a side route.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then about two hours later, the radio crackled again.

[SPEAKER_00]: A message came through that left everyone in the convoy's stunned.

[SPEAKER_00]: The missing Pujo had just arrived at the police station in Messina.

[SPEAKER_00]: On the South African side of the border.

[SPEAKER_00]: That was nearly 200 kilometers away from where it had last been seen, across a heavily guarded checkpoint.

[SPEAKER_00]: No one could explain how it got there.

[SPEAKER_00]: The border post had strict controls.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nobody passed through without showing papers, and all passports were stamped.

[SPEAKER_00]: Yet when the Messina police checked the family's documents, there were no stamps at all.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was as if they'd bypass the entire border.

[SPEAKER_00]: When my father reached Baitbridge later that day, he saw the family himself.

[SPEAKER_00]: They were pale, shaken, and confused.

[SPEAKER_00]: The man kept repeating that they had never left the convoy.

[SPEAKER_00]: One minute he said, there were cars ahead and behind them.

[SPEAKER_00]: The next there was only empty roads stretching in both directions.

[SPEAKER_00]: The wife apparently started crying when they realized they were alone.

[SPEAKER_00]: They had driven on for what felt like 10 minutes before spotting the Masina police station, assuming the convoy had gone ahead.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's what they said, but what really disturbed my father were the small details, things that didn't add up.

[SPEAKER_00]: For one, their car was covered in fine red dust, the kind you only seen are the limpopo river.

[SPEAKER_00]: That area was miles away from where they were supposed to be, and when the car was examined, the fuel gauge showed almost full.

[SPEAKER_00]: A trip like that should have burned at least half a tank.

[SPEAKER_00]: Even stranger, the clock on the dashboard was three hours ahead of everyone else's.

[SPEAKER_00]: For weeks, soldiers and police officers try to figure out what happened.

[SPEAKER_00]: Some suggested it was a radio miscommunication that maybe the car had sped a head by mistake and reached the border early.

[SPEAKER_00]: But there were witnesses, dozens of them, who swore the Pajo had been right there between two other vehicles before it disappeared.

[SPEAKER_00]: Others said it could have been some kind of mirage, or he'd induced disorientation.

[SPEAKER_00]: But that didn't explain the missing hours, or how they crossed into South Africa without paperwork, or how the car's tires showed no signs of recent wear.

[SPEAKER_00]: The family eventually returned to Bulawio.

[SPEAKER_00]: My father said they looked different.

[SPEAKER_00]: The children were quiet, the parents nervous and jumpy.

[SPEAKER_00]: The husband stopped driving for months.

[SPEAKER_00]: He told my father once that at night, [SPEAKER_00]: He could still hear a faint hum, like an engine idling right outside their window.

[SPEAKER_00]: A few months later they moved to Johannesburg.

[SPEAKER_00]: Rumor had it that the wife refused to travel by car ever again.

[SPEAKER_00]: Years later, when my father told me the story, he mentioned something he'd never put in his report.

[SPEAKER_00]: When they stopped for that vehicle count, the moment before realizing the car was gone, he'd noticed something odd.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air around the middle of the convoy had felt unnaturally still.

[SPEAKER_00]: The dust that usually trailed behind the cars had just settled.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like time had paused for a few seconds.

[SPEAKER_00]: He dismissed it, assuming it was just his imagination in the heat, but the memory stuck with him.

[SPEAKER_00]: He also said that after the incident, that stretch of road between Guanda and Baitbridge developed a strange reputation.

[SPEAKER_00]: Drivers reported losing track of time there.

[SPEAKER_00]: Radios would cut out, compasses spun without reason, and sometimes headlights from other vehicles appeared in the rearview mirror, only to vanish moments later.

[SPEAKER_00]: One soldier, who had been in the same convoy, claimed he saw something in the distance of that day.

[SPEAKER_00]: A flicker of movement off the road, a shimmer, almost like a mirage.

[SPEAKER_00]: But solid enough to look like a vehicle for a split second.

[SPEAKER_00]: He never reported it officially, fearing ridicule.

[SPEAKER_00]: Over the years, people came up with theories.

[SPEAKER_00]: Some said it was a military experiment gone wrong.

[SPEAKER_00]: Radio interference.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe some kind of electromagnetic field.

[SPEAKER_00]: Others believed that patch of land was cursed, the site of an ancient tribal massacre.

[SPEAKER_00]: A few even claimed it was the work of spirits.

[SPEAKER_00]: Those who died violently in the bush and were still wandering, pulling travelers into their realm for a brief, confusing moment.

[SPEAKER_00]: My father never took a stance.

[SPEAKER_00]: He would just shake his head and say, some things are better left alone.

[SPEAKER_00]: But every time he drove past that road afterward, he said he'd feel a strange drop in pressure, like the air got heavier.

[SPEAKER_00]: When he passed away years later, I inherited some of his old things, including his field journal.

[SPEAKER_00]: Tucked inside one of the pages was a faded polaroid of that convoy.

[SPEAKER_00]: Take in the morning before the journey.

[SPEAKER_00]: You can see the line of cars stretching down the dirt road.

[SPEAKER_00]: the armed escort in front, the civilians behind, and there right in the middle you can see the light yellow pejo.

[SPEAKER_00]: Only there's something odd about it, it looks faint, lighter than the others, almost translucent in the sunlight.

[SPEAKER_00]: I showed it to a friend who's into photography and he said it might just be a reflection or bad exposure.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe, but whenever I look at it, I can't help but notice the faint shadow underneath the car, longer than the rest, stretching in the wrong direction.

[SPEAKER_00]: And sometimes when I stare too long at that photo, I swear the background behind that car doesn't match the rest.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's like there's a different sky, a different light.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it's just an old picture, maybe the camera was faulty, or maybe just maybe that [SPEAKER_00]: Story number six.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I first moved into that studio apartment, I thought it was the start of adulthood.

[SPEAKER_00]: 21, fresh out of college, finally on my own.

[SPEAKER_00]: The place was small.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just one room with a kitchenette, a closet, and a bathroom that always smelled faintly of mildew.

[SPEAKER_00]: No matter how much bleach I used.

[SPEAKER_00]: The building itself looked tired with cracked walls flickering hallway lights in the constant hum of pipes that sounded like muffled voices through the night.

[SPEAKER_00]: But still, it was cheap, and I convinced myself it had character.

[SPEAKER_00]: For the first couple of weeks it was fine.

[SPEAKER_00]: I got used to the late night shouting from the next building, the footsteps overhead, the smell of cigarettes coming through the vents.

[SPEAKER_00]: But then things started disappearing.

[SPEAKER_00]: It began small, a pair of nice underwear, a charm bracelet my mom had given me, a few hair ties.

[SPEAKER_00]: I thought maybe I was just forgetful or careless.

[SPEAKER_00]: The place was cramped and cluttered, and I figured I probably misplace things.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then one morning, I noticed something that stopped me cold.

[SPEAKER_00]: A picture that had been stuck on my fridge, me and my best friend at the beach, was gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: The magnet was still there, holding nothing but a faint rectangle of clean surface where the picture used to be.

[SPEAKER_00]: I searched everywhere, under the fridge, [SPEAKER_00]: I brushed it off as me being clumsy again.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it fell and got swept up by mistake.

[SPEAKER_00]: But the feeling that something wasn't right never really went away.

[SPEAKER_00]: I started locking my door even when I was home.

[SPEAKER_00]: I kept my valuables in a drawer under my bed, just in case.

[SPEAKER_00]: Over the next few months, more things went missing, random personal things, a single earring, my favorite lipstick, a nail file, a ring I used to wear daily.

[SPEAKER_00]: I went to the apartment office and asked if maintenance had been entering my unit.

[SPEAKER_00]: The manager was polite but dismissive.

[SPEAKER_00]: Said only three employees had master keys and showed me a log of every key taken out of the safe.

[SPEAKER_00]: None of the dates match the days I noticed things missing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I started feeling paranoid.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd wake up in the middle of the night, sure I heard someone moving around, the kind of faint shifting you can't quite locate, a soft thump, like a drawer closing.

[SPEAKER_00]: But every time I turned on the light, everything looked normal.

[SPEAKER_00]: I even set up my phone camera one night, pointing it at the door to see if anyone was sneaking in.

[SPEAKER_00]: It recorded six hours of nothing but darkness and the occasional car headlights flickering through the blinds.

[SPEAKER_00]: Around that time I started noticing cold spots in my apartment, patches of air that felt unnaturally still.

[SPEAKER_00]: One right near my closet, sometimes I'd stand there and feel like the air was pressing back against me, almost heavier than the rest of the room.

[SPEAKER_00]: I started keeping the closet door shut, just so I didn't have to see that dark strip of space beneath it.

[SPEAKER_00]: a year past like that.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't sleep much, always half-expecting to wake up and see someone standing over me.

[SPEAKER_00]: But I didn't have much longer to endure.

[SPEAKER_00]: My lease was ending in two weeks, and I was planning to move in with my boyfriend.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was already packing when a huge storm hit the city one night.

[SPEAKER_00]: The wind howled through the vents so loudly I thought the windows might burst.

[SPEAKER_00]: By morning, the roof of our building was damaged, and maintenance was called in to fix insulation and ductwork.

[SPEAKER_00]: Two workers came by a few days later.

[SPEAKER_00]: They went into my closet, moving my boxes aside.

[SPEAKER_00]: One of them knocked on the wall, frowned, and said there was a panel he hadn't seen before.

[SPEAKER_00]: He climbed up a small step ladder and pushed it open.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember the faint creek as he lifted it, and then a rush of stale warm air spilling down, thick with dust and something else.

[SPEAKER_00]: a sweet, rotten smell, like spoiled fruit and old sweat.

[SPEAKER_00]: He shined his flashlight up there and muttered something.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then he told me almost casually that there was a crawl space running across the top of several apartments.

[SPEAKER_00]: But the only access point was in mind.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd lived there almost a year and had no idea it even existed.

[SPEAKER_00]: They went up to inspect, and after a while I heard them stop moving, the silence stretched uncomfortably long.

[SPEAKER_00]: I asked if everything was okay and one of them said, you should see this.

[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know why I went up.

[SPEAKER_00]: Curiosity maybe, or the need to finally understand why I'd felt watched for months.

[SPEAKER_00]: The metal ladder rattled as I climbed.

[SPEAKER_00]: The flashlight beams swung wildly, dust dancing in the light like tiny ghostly flakes.

[SPEAKER_00]: The space was cramped.

[SPEAKER_00]: You couldn't stand fully upright.

[SPEAKER_00]: old insulation hung in clumps like cobwebs, but what froze me was the corner above my bedroom.

[SPEAKER_00]: Someone had built a smaller arrangement there, not random clutter but deliberate.

[SPEAKER_00]: My things.

[SPEAKER_00]: A triangle of items laid out neatly on a flat and cardboard box.

[SPEAKER_00]: The underwear, the picture from my fridge, the charm bracelet, the earrings, the ring, everything that had gone missing.

[SPEAKER_00]: Some pieces were stacked together.

[SPEAKER_00]: Some were arranged like offerings.

[SPEAKER_00]: Around them were crumpled candy wrappers.

[SPEAKER_00]: A cracked mirror.

[SPEAKER_00]: A half burn candle stuck into a jar lid.

[SPEAKER_00]: The smell was stronger there.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like body odor trapped in the dust.

[SPEAKER_00]: There was a sleeping bag too.

[SPEAKER_00]: Thin, filthy, but unmistakably used.

[SPEAKER_00]: And an empty soda bottle.

[SPEAKER_00]: Half filled with something yellow that wasn't soda.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when it hit me, someone had been living up there, above me, listening, watching, probably climbing down when I wasn't home, or maybe when I was asleep.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every shiver, every missing thing, every creek I brushed off, it all made sense.

[SPEAKER_00]: I scrambled down without another word.

[SPEAKER_00]: I left the worker standing there and ran outside into the humid afternoon air, shaking.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't even lock the door behind me.

[SPEAKER_00]: I called my boyfriend and told him I wasn't spending another night there.

[SPEAKER_00]: He and a few friends went to pick up my things the next day.

[SPEAKER_00]: They said the workers had sealed the panels shut after the inspection, but when they opened the closet again, that corner of the attic was empty, the shrine, all of it, gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: No sleeping bag, no wrappers, nothing, just disturbed insulation and a dark stain on the wood.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told the apartment manager everything, showed her the pictures my boyfriend took before it vanished.

[SPEAKER_00]: She barely reacted, said it must have been a homeless person who found a way in before the storm repairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: But she couldn't explain how they got access when the only opening was through my ceiling.

[SPEAKER_00]: A panel that hadn't been touched until the workers opened it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I moved out that same day, I didn't even take my cleaning deposit.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's been over a year now, and sometimes I still dream about that space.

[SPEAKER_00]: How quiet it felt up there, how my things were arranged like someone cared for them.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to convince myself it was just a squatter, some desperate person hiding from the cold, but there are nights when the air goes still, and I hear faint creeks above my bed, that I imagine a pair of eyes staring down through the ceiling.

[SPEAKER_00]: I think about how the workers said the addict stretched across four apartments, and how only mine had an opening.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes I wonder if they ever sealed it properly, because once in a while, when I wake up in the dark, I swear I can still feel a shift in the air, like someone's crawling above me, waiting for the right moment to come down again.