[SPEAKER_00]: Story one, I used to think silence in the woods was peaceful.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of quiet people in the city dream about, but living in it for real was different.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't peaceful, it was heavy, like the air itself was always listening.

[SPEAKER_00]: The townhouse I rented set right at the edge of the forest, have hidden by tall pines that made everything darker than it should have been.

[SPEAKER_00]: During the day it looked normal enough, a little old bit cozy.

[SPEAKER_00]: At night though, it always felt like the house changed shape.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I first moved in, I noticed small things that didn't add up.

[SPEAKER_00]: The sound of footsteps on the stairs when I was in bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not loud ones, just a slow creek here and there.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like someone's shifting their weight one step at a time.

[SPEAKER_00]: At first I blamed it on the wood expanding, or maybe an animal scurring in the walls, but it started happening around the same time every night.

[SPEAKER_00]: Between two and three AM, the air would feel colder then.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd hear what sounded like a hand brushing against the wooden railing.

[SPEAKER_00]: Once when I went down to check, I found the gate I used to keep my puppy downstairs halfway unlapped.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was one of those heavy wooden baby gates that clicked shut, so I brushed it off as me for getting to close it properly.

[SPEAKER_00]: My dog never seemed to settle in that place either.

[SPEAKER_00]: She'd stare at the top of the stairs and growl softly, ears flattened, eyes locked on something invisible.

[SPEAKER_00]: There's this kind of tension animals have, when they sense something they don't understand, but they know it's there.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to comfort her, but the way she'd back away made me uneasy too.

[SPEAKER_00]: I started sleeping with the hallway light on, telling myself it was just for convenience.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd keep the bedroom door cracked open so the glow spilled in.

[SPEAKER_00]: Still every now and then, I'd wake up to that same sound, creek, creek, and this heavy pressure in the air, like the house was holding its breath.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself it was nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I even joked about the place having a personality.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then came the night everything changed.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was late, probably close to three in the morning.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd been working overtime, so I was dead tired.

[SPEAKER_00]: The puppy was already asleep in her cage downstairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: I always locked it before bed just in case.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember lying on the couch scrolling through my phone when I heard it.

[SPEAKER_00]: this deep thud, followed by what sounded like something dragging across the floor.

[SPEAKER_00]: At first I thought maybe the puppy had knocked something over.

[SPEAKER_00]: I got up half annoyed, half curious.

[SPEAKER_00]: The second I stepped into the hallway, the air went still.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of stillness that makes your skin prickle because it's too quiet.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then came this loud crack, not like wood settling, sharper, heavier.

[SPEAKER_00]: I froze at the base of the stairs, staring up into the dim light from above, and that's when it happened.

[SPEAKER_00]: The wooden gate that had been leaning against the bottom of the stairs suddenly lifted.

[SPEAKER_00]: I swear to this day it didn't slide or tip, it lifted, and shot up the staircase.

[SPEAKER_00]: It hit the ceiling so hard it left a mark, then it dropped, twisted, and crashed halfway up like something had thrown in.

[SPEAKER_00]: The sound was deafening in that small house.

[SPEAKER_00]: My heart just stopped.

[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't move for a good few seconds, just standing there staring at it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The dog downstairs started barking, panicked, clawing at the cage door.

[SPEAKER_00]: front door, back door, windows, everything was shut tight from the inside.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to think of some explanation, maybe air pressure, maybe it wasn't balanced right, and something shifted.

[SPEAKER_00]: But that gate was solid oak, heavy, and I'd placed it flat against the floor hours before.

[SPEAKER_00]: There was no way it could have flown like that.

[SPEAKER_00]: After that night, I couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't want me upstairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: For the next few days, I'd catch the faintest sound of movement when I walked past the staircase.

[SPEAKER_00]: The puppy refused to go near it.

[SPEAKER_00]: One night she started wanting so hard I had to carry her outside just to calmer down.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't tell anyone about it for a long time.

[SPEAKER_00]: It sounded too stupid, too impossible.

[SPEAKER_00]: But every time I passed that ceiling mark, I'd remember the way that gate moved, not falling, not tipping, but thrown.

[SPEAKER_00]: I moved out a few months later.

[SPEAKER_00]: Never had anything like that happen again.

[SPEAKER_00]: But sometimes when I think back on that house, I wonder if it wasn't the wind, if it wasn't physics.

[SPEAKER_00]: What was it trying to keep me from seeing at the top of those stairs?

[SPEAKER_00]: Story two, some houses hum, even when they're quiet.

[SPEAKER_00]: You know what I mean?

[SPEAKER_00]: That low background sort of presence that makes the silence feel like it's watching you back.

[SPEAKER_00]: Minds like that.

[SPEAKER_00]: I moved in about a year ago, just me and my cat Milo.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's a modest little bungalow with creaky floors and old kitchen tiles that never really shine, no matter how hard I scrub them.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing about it ever felt scary, but it never quite felt empty either.

[SPEAKER_00]: That particular week, I'd been trying to deep clean the place.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was tired of the faint smell of cat food and disinfectant blending into one.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember cleaning Milo's feet or that afternoon.

[SPEAKER_00]: One of those big, bulky automatic ones with a water jug and food tray that's surprisingly heavy when it's full.

[SPEAKER_00]: I washed it, wiped it down, and left it upside down on the counter to dry.

[SPEAKER_00]: The day went by like any other, nothing strange.

[SPEAKER_00]: I worked from home, kept Netflix on in the background, and occasionally yelled at Milo for trying to climb the curtains.

[SPEAKER_00]: Around evening I noticed he was more restless than usual.

[SPEAKER_00]: He kept staring into the hallway, that blank cat stare that makes your skin itch.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried not to think too much about it.

[SPEAKER_00]: Animals are weird like that.

[SPEAKER_00]: Later that night I was in the kitchen making tea when I suddenly felt the air shift.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's hard to explain, not cold exactly, but thick, like the rooms suddenly filled with invisible fog.

[SPEAKER_00]: Even the sound from the TV and the other rooms seemed distant, muffled.

[SPEAKER_00]: Milo was sitting by the kitchen door, first slightly puffed up, watching the counter.

[SPEAKER_00]: I followed his gaze.

[SPEAKER_00]: The feeder, the same heavy one I'd washed earlier, was there, right side up now.

[SPEAKER_00]: I froze for a second, thinking maybe I'd forgotten I'd flipped it over, but I was sure I hadn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: I had a clear memory of placing it upside down to dry, because I'd even thought about how long it would take to drain completely.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there trying to rationalize it.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe I knocked it earlier?

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it slid when I wasn't looking.

[SPEAKER_00]: but the countertop is tiled, not smooth enough for something that heavy to glide on its own.

[SPEAKER_00]: Still, I wasn't about to let my imagination run wild, so I went over, picked it up, and placed it properly, right side up, firm and steady.

[SPEAKER_00]: I turned away to grab my mug, and that's when I heard it.

[SPEAKER_00]: A faint scrape.

[SPEAKER_00]: I spun around so fast, I nearly dropped the mug.

[SPEAKER_00]: The feeder had moved, I swear it had rotated a few inches, slowly, like someone had nudged it.

[SPEAKER_00]: But there was no one there, the window was closed, no wind, no vibration from the fridge, nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: Milo bolted out of the kitchen, his claws skittering on the floor.

[SPEAKER_00]: My heart started pounding so loud I could hear it echoing in my ears.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself it had to be the countertop.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe still wet underneath.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it shifted because of condensation.

[SPEAKER_00]: I forced myself to go closer, even though every instinct scream not to.

[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted proof that it wasn't what it looked like.

[SPEAKER_00]: I barely reached the counter when it happened.

[SPEAKER_00]: The feeder, the solid, heavy thing, rotated on its base, slowly, deliberately.

[SPEAKER_00]: It turned 90 degrees onto its side.

[SPEAKER_00]: Balance for a breathless second like it was defined gravity.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then rolled completely over until it was upside down again.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not a crash, not even a thud.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just a light tap like it had been placed down by careful hands.

[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know how long I stood there staring.

[SPEAKER_00]: My mind tried to fill in every blank space with reason.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe an air pocket, maybe the surface wasn't level, maybe the house shifted slightly, but the movement was too slow, too smooth, too intentional.

[SPEAKER_00]: I finally reached out to test it.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I tried to tip the feeder myself, it slammed down with a loud clatter.

[SPEAKER_00]: Exactly the kind of sound I should have heard the first time.

[SPEAKER_00]: My hand was shaking so badly I had to steady it on the counter.

[SPEAKER_00]: After that, I didn't stay in the kitchen.

[SPEAKER_00]: I grabbed my phone and Milo and set outside for a while, trying to breathe.

[SPEAKER_00]: The night air felt normal again, quiet, cold, harmless, but I couldn't shake that feeling that someone or something had been in there, showing me something I wasn't supposed to see.

[SPEAKER_00]: The next day I checked everything, the countertop was flat, no vibration from the fridge, no dampness under the feeder.

[SPEAKER_00]: I even tried recreating the same rotation by pushing it gently, but it wouldn't move that way.

[SPEAKER_00]: It either slid and crashed or didn't move at all.

[SPEAKER_00]: I still don't know what to make of it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'm not saying it was paranormal.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe there's some weird explanation I missed, but I can't explain how that thing rotated by itself upside down, twice, without making a sound.

[SPEAKER_00]: Now I keep the feeder on the floor, and I swear, sometimes at night when I pass by the kitchen, I feel that same shift in the air, like the hum of the house holding its breath again, waiting.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story 3, sometimes a place feels quiet in the wrong way, like the silence isn't peace but something waiting for you to notice it.

[SPEAKER_00]: That was how my apartment felt back in college.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't old or falling apart.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was just one of those generic complexes near campus, all beige, paint, and humming refrigerators.

[SPEAKER_00]: But from my first week there, the quiet seemed too deep, too aware, like the air was holding its breath.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd usually stay up late studying or scrolling through my phone, and almost every other night around 2 in the morning, I'd hear it, a sharp, unmistakable sound of glass breaking, not a creek or a pop from the pipes, actual breaking glass.

[SPEAKER_00]: It came from somewhere close like one of the apartment windows had just shattered.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd pause everything, heart pounding, and wait for the sound of movement or footsteps.

[SPEAKER_00]: But nothing followed.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every time it happened, I'd grab a flashlight and check around the kitchen, the living room, the tiny hallway that led to the door, no mess, no shards, no damage anywhere.

[SPEAKER_00]: The windows were fine, and all the dishes were still where I left them.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself, maybe it was someone outside.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe a neighbor dropping bottles near the dumpster.

[SPEAKER_00]: But the sound always came from inside my place.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was clear as day, like it wanted me to think someone was there.

[SPEAKER_00]: After a while I got used to it, I'd still flinch when it happened, but it became part of the routine.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like the pipes clicking or the fridge kicking on.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't tell anyone about it because it sounded ridiculous.

[SPEAKER_00]: Who hears glass break in a place where nothing's broken?

[SPEAKER_00]: But the thought lingered every night when I went to bed, wondering what I do if one day I actually found something shattered.

[SPEAKER_00]: A few weeks later I started noticing small things out of place.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing dramatic, just items I could have easily blamed on myself.

[SPEAKER_00]: The bathroom light would be on when I was sure I'd turned it off.

[SPEAKER_00]: My keys would end up on the counter instead of the hook.

[SPEAKER_00]: My phone charger, which I always left plugged in beside the bed, would sometimes be coiled neatly on the dresser.

[SPEAKER_00]: I figured I was just distracted, sleep deprived, maybe even half a sleep when I moved them.

[SPEAKER_00]: But it built this low level unease that I couldn't shake.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air in the apartment felt heavier as if the space itself was quietly shifting around me.

[SPEAKER_00]: One night I fell asleep earlier than usual.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember waking up to a slight pressure against my leg, like someone brushing past the edge of the blanket.

[SPEAKER_00]: I thought I was dreaming until I felt the mattress dip near my feet.

[SPEAKER_00]: Gentle, like someone had just sat down.

[SPEAKER_00]: The room was dark except for the glow from the hallway light I always left on.

[SPEAKER_00]: My first thought was that maybe I was having sleep paralysis, but I could move.

[SPEAKER_00]: My eyes were open.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was fully awake.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I turned my head, I saw someone sitting at the end of the bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: Their back was to me, shoulders slump slightly forward, head tilted down.

[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't make out details, just the outline of a person in the dim light.

[SPEAKER_00]: my chest tightened instantly.

[SPEAKER_00]: I froze watching, trying to convince myself it was some weird trick of the shadows.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then the figure stood up slowly, walked toward the doorway and stepped out of sight.

[SPEAKER_00]: That was when I heard it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The same sharp sound of glass breaking, closer than ever, like it came from right behind the bedroom door.

[SPEAKER_00]: My instincts took over and I jumped out of bed to check.

[SPEAKER_00]: The hallway was empty.

[SPEAKER_00]: I searched the apartment again, every corner, every window, every inch of tile and carpet.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not a single crack, not a single shard of glass anywhere.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I finally went back to my room, I noticed something that made my skin crawl.

[SPEAKER_00]: The blanket at the end of the bed was crumpled down.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of way it looks when someone actually sits on it.

[SPEAKER_00]: But I'd been sleeping alone.

[SPEAKER_00]: That night was the last time I saw anything, but the sound didn't stop.

[SPEAKER_00]: It kept happening.

[SPEAKER_00]: Weeks, maybe months later.

[SPEAKER_00]: Same hour, same sharp noise, never any evidence.

[SPEAKER_00]: After a while I stopped checking, there was no point.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd lie there in the dark, wide awake, listening to the phantom shatter that never left a trace.

[SPEAKER_00]: Even now I've tried to rationalize it.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe the sound came from the building's pipes or the air ducts expanding in the cool night.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe the apartments, shared vents, or wiring that carried noise weirdly.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe my mind just filled in gaps in the dark.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's what I tell myself.

[SPEAKER_00]: But the problem is, I can still picture that figure sitting at the edge of my bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: Still remember how the mattress sank under its weight.

[SPEAKER_00]: There are nights I wake up thinking I've heard that same sound again, though I've moved across the country since then.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's never as loud now, more like an echo of a memory, faint but distinct enough to make my stomach twist.

[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know if that place was haunted or if it was just my mind playing tricks after too many late nights, but I do know this.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes what makes you believe in the paranormal isn't what you see.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's what refuses to leave your memory long after the lights are back on.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story 4.

[SPEAKER_00]: Some buildings breathe differently.

[SPEAKER_00]: You feel at the moment you step inside.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like the air has memory, holding onto every laugh, whisper, and secret ever shared within its walls.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's what it felt like walking into the Fort Gary hotel and Winnipeg.

[SPEAKER_00]: The place wasn't just old, it felt aware.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was there for a short family trip about eight years ago.

[SPEAKER_00]: Back then, I didn't care much for ghost stories or haunted places.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was more of a practical person.

[SPEAKER_00]: If something couldn't be explained, it just meant no one had looked hard enough yet.

[SPEAKER_00]: So when people mentioned that the hotel had a history of weird happenings, I brushed it off as tourists talk.

[SPEAKER_00]: One afternoon, with some free time before dinner, I decided to walk around and admire the place.

[SPEAKER_00]: The hallways were lined with tall mirrors and dark wood that gave off a faint, polished scent, like the inside of a piano.

[SPEAKER_00]: I wasn't trying to be nosy, just curious.

[SPEAKER_00]: I've always liked old architecture, but it didn't take long before I realized I'd lost my way.

[SPEAKER_00]: The hallways twisted into each other, like they'd been rearranged by someone who hated maps.

[SPEAKER_00]: After what felt like 15 minutes of circling, I spotted a person ahead, a man dressed neatly, like hotel staff.

[SPEAKER_00]: He wasn't holding cleaning equipment or luggage, but he had that calm posture of someone who belonged there.

[SPEAKER_00]: I approached and asked politely for directions back to the lobby.

[SPEAKER_00]: He nodded once and gestured toward the right quarter, saying something about following it straight down and taking the elevator.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember thanking him and, for some reason, offering my hand out of habit.

[SPEAKER_00]: He shook it.

[SPEAKER_00]: His hand felt perfectly normal.

[SPEAKER_00]: Warm, real.

[SPEAKER_00]: I followed his instructions and eventually found myself back at the main lobby.

[SPEAKER_00]: But the second I stepped past the front desk, something felled off.

[SPEAKER_00]: The atmosphere shifted.

[SPEAKER_00]: The clerk behind the counter and a security guard standing nearby both looked at me like I just walked in covered in blood or something.

[SPEAKER_00]: The guard asked kind of hesitantly who I'd been talking to upstairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: I said it was just a staff member giving me directions.

[SPEAKER_00]: That seemed to make things worse.

[SPEAKER_00]: He exchanged a look with the clerk.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then quietly told me to wait a moment.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there confused as he walked over to a small office near the front desk.

[SPEAKER_00]: When he came back, he was holding a tablet or monitor.

[SPEAKER_00]: I can't quite remember.

[SPEAKER_00]: And asked if I'd mind looking at something.

[SPEAKER_00]: He pulled up security footage from the hallway I'd been lost in, not even 15 minutes earlier.

[SPEAKER_00]: There I was on the screen, walking down the corridor.

[SPEAKER_00]: I could see myself pause, turn, and talk to someone.

[SPEAKER_00]: Only there was no one there.

[SPEAKER_00]: I watched myself nod and even shake hands, except my hand was just hanging mid-air.

[SPEAKER_00]: At first I laughed, I thought maybe the feet glitched or someone edited it to mess with guests, but the guard didn't look like someone pulling a prank.

[SPEAKER_00]: He looked unsettled.

[SPEAKER_00]: He told me in a low voice that the floor I'd been on had a history.

[SPEAKER_00]: People reporting strange figures, sounds and even cold spots that came and went without reason.

[SPEAKER_00]: I asked if he was serious and he just said that what I'd seen wasn't the first time.

[SPEAKER_00]: I replayed the footage a few times, trying to spot something that could explain it.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe bad lighting, maybe a camera blind spot.

[SPEAKER_00]: But from every angle, it was just me, alone, gesturing and talking to thin air.

[SPEAKER_00]: The weirdest part is that I felt that handshake, the pressure, the warmth, it was all there.

[SPEAKER_00]: And yet there was nothing on the recording.

[SPEAKER_00]: I even checked both my palms later in the room like an idiot, expecting to see something.

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

[SPEAKER_00]: Every creek in the walls sounded louder than usual.

[SPEAKER_00]: The faint hum of the old pipes, the distant elevator bell, it all blended into something that kept me hyper-aware.

[SPEAKER_00]: I replayed the encounter in my head a hundred times.

[SPEAKER_00]: The man's face, though, was starting to blur in my memory, like trying to recall a dream that slips away the heart of you focus on it.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I told my family the next morning, they didn't buy it.

[SPEAKER_00]: They said I must have misread the footage or seen some reflection trick, and maybe they're right.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it was all just a perfect mix of coincidence, lighting, and my brain wanting to make sense of random shapes.

[SPEAKER_00]: But even now, years later, I can't shake how real it all fell.

[SPEAKER_00]: The weight of that handshake, the calmness of the man's face, the way he appeared as solid as anyone else in that hallway.

[SPEAKER_00]: I've seen my fair share of fake ghost videos online, and I'm usually the first to point out editing flaws or lens smudges.

[SPEAKER_00]: But that day, I learned something strange about belief.

[SPEAKER_00]: It doesn't always come from seeing proof.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes it comes from something so personal, so specific that even when logic screams otherwise, a small part of you keeps whispering, what if?

[SPEAKER_00]: To this day, I still don't know who, or what, I met on that floor.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story five.

[SPEAKER_00]: Some buildings feel like they breathe.

[SPEAKER_00]: The old hotel where I work is one of them.

[SPEAKER_00]: All creeks in size, like it's stretching its bones after every gust of wind.

[SPEAKER_00]: Built in 1885, it's the kind of place where even silence seems to echo.

[SPEAKER_00]: The walls have seen everything, weddings, fights, laughter, and who knows what else.

[SPEAKER_00]: I've worked there for years long enough to stop jumping at every sound, or at least that's what I thought.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was a slow afternoon, the kind where time feels like syrup.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was assigned to clean one of the older rooms on the third floor, the kind that still had the original brass fixtures and claw-foot tubs.

[SPEAKER_00]: That floor always felt different, cooler even when the AC was off.

[SPEAKER_00]: I used to joke that it had its own microclimate.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I got to the room, everything was normal.

[SPEAKER_00]: The lights worked fine, the window was cracked open, letting in that old town smell, dust and faint cigarette smoke from who knows how long ago.

[SPEAKER_00]: I plugged in the vacuum, hit the switch, and started working my way from one end of the carpet to the other.

[SPEAKER_00]: Halfway through the vacuum cut off, just stopped.

[SPEAKER_00]: The sudden silence made my ears ring.

[SPEAKER_00]: At first, I figured the plug had slipped out of the socket.

[SPEAKER_00]: It happens.

[SPEAKER_00]: So I went over, checked, still firmly in place.

[SPEAKER_00]: The outlet worked too, because the lamp beside it was still glowing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I frowned, squatted down, and gave the vacuum a once over.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was switched off.

[SPEAKER_00]: I knew I hadn't touched it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The switch was behind me the whole time.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe I'd snagged the cord and flicked it off by accident.

[SPEAKER_00]: I shrugged, flipped it back on, and went back to work.

[SPEAKER_00]: A few seconds later, off again, this time I paused longer.

[SPEAKER_00]: The room suddenly felt too quiet, like the air was holding its breath.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stood still, hands still on the vacuum handle, and waited.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing, just the faint creek of the old pipes behind the walls.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself it was an electrical glitch, old wiring, old machine, no big deal.

[SPEAKER_00]: I switched it on again, it worded to life louder than before, like it was trying to prove a point.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then click, dead silent.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I got that prickling feeling, the one that crawls up your neck like static.

[SPEAKER_00]: I looked around.

[SPEAKER_00]: The room was empty, obviously, but something about the air felt wrong.

[SPEAKER_00]: Heavy, not hostile, just aware.

[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't shake the thought that I wasn't alone.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried one more time, turned the vacuum on, stepped away, and watched.

[SPEAKER_00]: It stayed on for maybe 10 seconds.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then right when I exhaled, the switch clicked off again.

[SPEAKER_00]: I hadn't touched it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I could see it from where I stood, the switch physically moved.

[SPEAKER_00]: I froze.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a second I considered saying something out loud, like asking it to stop, but I didn't want to hear my own voice break.

[SPEAKER_00]: Instead I forced a laugh, one of those shaky ones that sound more like a cough, and said under my breath that I'd come back later.

[SPEAKER_00]: I unplugged a vacuum, rolled the cord, and left the room.

[SPEAKER_00]: The hallway outside felt [SPEAKER_00]: I stood there for a bit, just breathing.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then I went into the next room on the list, plugged in the same vacuum, and it worked perfectly fine.

[SPEAKER_00]: I cleaned two more rooms with no problem, but when I came back to finish that one room, because I couldn't leave it half done obviously.

[SPEAKER_00]: I hesitated at the door.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was open a crack, though I knew I'd shut it earlier.

[SPEAKER_00]: That wasn't strange on its own.

[SPEAKER_00]: Doors there sometimes shift from drafts.

[SPEAKER_00]: Still, I hesitated before stepping in.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air inside was cooler again.

[SPEAKER_00]: Almost fresh like the window had been open wider.

[SPEAKER_00]: I noticed the curtains moving slightly, even though the outside air was still.

[SPEAKER_00]: I have expected the vacuum to act up again, but it didn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: It ran smoothly the whole time.

[SPEAKER_00]: The only odd thing was that I kept hearing faint clicking sounds from the bathroom, like someone tapping their nails on porcelain.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd stop, listen, and it would stop too.

[SPEAKER_00]: I finished quickly, avoided looking too closely at the mirror, don't ask me why, and left.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I shut the door behind me, the tapping stopped completely.

[SPEAKER_00]: Later that evening, I mentioned it casually to the night cleaner.

[SPEAKER_00]: Half as a joke, half as a test.

[SPEAKER_00]: He chuckled and said, oh, room 312?

[SPEAKER_00]: Yeah, she's playful, likes to mess with the vacuums I left it off, but the way he said she made me pause.

[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted to ask what he meant, but he'd already moved on to another topic.

[SPEAKER_00]: I don't believe in ghosts, or at least I didn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: I've worked in that hotel long enough to know it's full of weird wiring, ancient pipes, and creaky boards that play tricks on you.

[SPEAKER_00]: But sometimes late at night when I passed that floor, I swear I hear faint humming from one of the rooms.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's soft, almost sweet, like someone tidying up long after everyone's gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it's just the wind, maybe it's the old building settling, or maybe it's something that never left.

[SPEAKER_00]: Something that still enjoys a good laugh, turning the vacuum off just to see who'll notice.

[SPEAKER_00]: All I know is, since that day, I never vacuum that room alone anymore.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story 6.

[SPEAKER_00]: Old houses have their own kind of breathing.

[SPEAKER_00]: You can hear it if you stay quiet long enough.

[SPEAKER_00]: The creek of the floorboards, the hum inside the walls, the faint whisper of air sliding through cracks that time forgot to seal.

[SPEAKER_00]: My sister's place was that kind of house.

[SPEAKER_00]: Built sometime in the 1930s it looked like it had lived several lives before we came along.

[SPEAKER_00]: She had just moved in with her little girl and I was helping out by babysitting on weekends when she worked the night shift.

[SPEAKER_00]: That particular night was calm.

[SPEAKER_00]: Two calm in the way only empty houses can be.

[SPEAKER_00]: I put my two-year-old niece to bed around nine.

[SPEAKER_00]: She fell asleep fast, that deep toddler sleep that looks like they've drifted into another world.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stayed in the living room, the TV on low, mostly for company.

[SPEAKER_00]: The house was dimly lit except for the glow from the screen.

[SPEAKER_00]: Everything smelled faintly of old wood and cleaning polish, and there was a constant ticking from the clock on the wall.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sharp, rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the house.

[SPEAKER_00]: Around 11pm, I remember glancing toward the hallway.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was darker there, like the air didn't want to move.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd left the nightlight plugged in near her room, but it barely pushed back the shadows.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I saw something small and quick dart across the hallway.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a split second, I thought it was her.

[SPEAKER_00]: My knees running barefoot toward the living room.

[SPEAKER_00]: I could see the movement clearly enough to recognize her size, her pale pajamas, even the bounce in her steps.

[SPEAKER_00]: It startled me more than scared me, because I had just put her down a couple of hours ago.

[SPEAKER_00]: My first thought was that she had woken up and decided to play.

[SPEAKER_00]: I have smiled to myself, thinking she must have had a bad dream or was looking for her toy.

[SPEAKER_00]: So without thinking much, I stood up and called out softly, telling her she should be in bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: Of course, she didn't answer.

[SPEAKER_00]: Kids that age don't always listen, so I sighed and started down the hallway.

[SPEAKER_00]: The closer I got, the colder the air felt, like the temperature dropped by a few degrees in those few steps.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried the hallway light switch.

[SPEAKER_00]: It flickered before turning on, buzzing faintly, and that light somehow made the shadows stretch longer instead of shorter.

[SPEAKER_00]: The door to her bedroom was still shut.

[SPEAKER_00]: That stopped me for a second.

[SPEAKER_00]: I could have sworn I saw her run out, but now the door looked untouched, exactly as I left it.

[SPEAKER_00]: Slightly a jar when I tucked her in, but not enough to hide someone slipping past.

[SPEAKER_00]: I pushed it open slowly, half expecting her to giggle or peek from behind something, but she was there, sound asleep, completely out.

[SPEAKER_00]: her tiny hand was clutching her blanket, her mouth slightly open, soft snores puffing out in rhythm.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when something cold ran through me.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not fear exactly, but confusion that tightened into unease.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall, trying to reason it out.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe I imagined it.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe the flicker of the TV reflected off something and tricked my eyes.

[SPEAKER_00]: Old house's play tricks, right?

[SPEAKER_00]: Still, the feeling that someone, or something, had just been standing in that hallway wouldn't let go.

[SPEAKER_00]: I checked the other rooms, half embarrassed at how tense I felt.

[SPEAKER_00]: The bathroom door creaked when I opened it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The guest room smelled stale, like it always did.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing seemed out of place.

[SPEAKER_00]: But as I turned to head back to the living room, I heard it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The sound of light footsteps patting across the hallway behind me.

[SPEAKER_00]: quick, like a child running.

[SPEAKER_00]: My first instinct was to spin around, but by the time I did the hallway was empty again, completely still.

[SPEAKER_00]: The nightlight flickered once, twice before dying out.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air grew heavier, almost pressing on my skin.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there for what felt like a long minute, every sound in the house amplified.

[SPEAKER_00]: The faint hum of the fridge, the steady tick of that clock, my own heartbeat thudding too loudly.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then somewhere deeper in the house, something tapped.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just a single sharp knock, like wood against wood.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself not to overthink it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd seen too many horror movies to let my imagination win.

[SPEAKER_00]: I forced a laugh under my breath, went back to the living room, and turned the TV volume up a little.

[SPEAKER_00]: Bright colors can laughter.

[SPEAKER_00]: It helped for a while, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, like eyes were following from the hallway where the light didn't reach.

[SPEAKER_00]: Around midnight, I decided to check on my niece one more time.

[SPEAKER_00]: This time I noticed something small.

[SPEAKER_00]: Her door, which I'd left cracked open earlier, was now wide open.

[SPEAKER_00]: The nightlight that had gone out was glowing again.

[SPEAKER_00]: faint but steady.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't hear her stir, though.

[SPEAKER_00]: She was still asleep.

[SPEAKER_00]: Same position, same peaceful face.

[SPEAKER_00]: Except the blanket that had been covering her earlier was now folded neatly at the foot of her bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: That was the moment something in me said enough.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stayed up the rest of the night with every light in the living room on, glancing at that dark hallway every few minutes, waiting for another flicker of movement.

[SPEAKER_00]: Nothing else happened, but I didn't sleep.

[SPEAKER_00]: When my sister came home in the morning, I told her what I thought I'd seen, or maybe what I wanted to believe I saw.

[SPEAKER_00]: She gave me a strange look and said the landlord had mentioned something once, about the previous tenant keeping her daughter's toys in that same room even after moving out.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't ask any more questions after that.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it was just exhaustion.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe the shadows in that old house knew how to move when the light hit them right.

[SPEAKER_00]: But even now I can still picture the small figure running down that hallway just before the light came on.

[SPEAKER_00]: Clearers day and gone before I could take a second breath.

[SPEAKER_00]: I've babysat in plenty of houses since then, but I've never gone back to that one.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story 7.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's strange how ordinary days can twist into something you never forget.

[SPEAKER_00]: That day started like any other.

[SPEAKER_00]: Slow and quiet.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind that makes you think nothing bad or unusual could ever happen.

[SPEAKER_00]: The afternoon light was slipping through my blinds, laying stripes across my room like lazy shadows.

[SPEAKER_00]: And I was lying on my bed watching TV, not really paying attention.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of comfort you don't even realize you have until it's gone.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was 23 then, still living with my parents.

[SPEAKER_00]: My dad was home, asleep in his room on the main floor.

[SPEAKER_00]: The house was peaceful, except for the faint sound of the TV and my friends' voice through the phone.

[SPEAKER_00]: We were chatting about nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: Random weekend plans work.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of conversation you forget five minutes later.

[SPEAKER_00]: I got up to grab a cigarette, phone still in hand, and headed downstairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air outside felt cool, smelled faintly of rain and cut grass.

[SPEAKER_00]: I sat on the back steps, smoked, scrolled my phone, and didn't think about anything deeper than what to eat for dinner.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was gone maybe seven minutes, maybe less.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I came back upstairs, everything looked the same, or so I thought.

[SPEAKER_00]: I walked into my room mid-conversation, dropped onto my bed, and looked toward the TV again.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then something shifted in the corner of my eye.

[SPEAKER_00]: At first I thought it was nothing, just a trick of the light, maybe a reflection, but when I turned my head I saw it.

[SPEAKER_00]: A single sheet of paper was standing upright at the foot of my bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: The top edge sticking up, like it had been carefully tucked between the blanket and the frame.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a few seconds, my brain refused to make sense of it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I froze.

[SPEAKER_00]: My body knew before my mind did that something wasn't right.

[SPEAKER_00]: The room suddenly felt too still, like the air had thickened.

[SPEAKER_00]: My friend's voice on the phone blurred into background noise, and I couldn't even respond.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was as if all the sound had been sucked out of the world, leaving me in this thick silent bubble.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember whispering his name, trying to say what I was seeing, but my throat felt tight.

[SPEAKER_00]: He kept asking what was wrong, his voice getting more urgent, but I couldn't explain.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told him I'd call back and hung up immediately, then I took a photo.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not because I thought it was supernatural, but because I needed proof of what I was seeing before my brain convinced me it wasn't real.

[SPEAKER_00]: But the paper wasn't new, it looked old, like something that had been tucked away for years.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I leaned closer, my stomach dropped.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was an old economics paper I'd written three years earlier in college.

[SPEAKER_00]: I hadn't seen it since.

[SPEAKER_00]: The edges were dark and burnt, but not like they'd been on fire.

[SPEAKER_00]: More like they'd been cinched, the kind of brown that fades into ash.

[SPEAKER_00]: In the middle of the page, there was a huge yellow triangle, as if someone had drawn over it with a highlighter, except it seemed to glow.

[SPEAKER_00]: The light from my lamp reflected strangely off it, almost like the way a dollar bill catches the light.

[SPEAKER_00]: I sat there for a long time, just staring at it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The paper was talking about the US government and political division, random class stuff that had nothing to do with anything, but the second page was missing, torn cleanly away.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when the fear really sank in.

[SPEAKER_00]: The rest of my school papers were in a closed plastic bin in my closet under old clothes and boxes.

[SPEAKER_00]: There was no reason, no possible way for that paper to end up on my bed like that, let alone standing upright.

[SPEAKER_00]: I kept trying to come up with an explanation.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe I'd pulled it out earlier and forgotten.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe there was a draft that moved it, or my dad came in for something.

[SPEAKER_00]: But my door had been closed and he was still asleep downstairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: The logical part of me kept repeating that someone had to have done it.

[SPEAKER_00]: The other part of me, the part that was sitting in that silent room, staring at something that shouldn't exist there, didn't believe that.

[SPEAKER_00]: I picked up the page with shaking hands half-expecting it to feel hot, it didn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was just paper, burnt, strange, and very real.

[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't stand to be in the room anymore.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stuffed a few things into a bag, locked my door, and drove to a friend's place.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember not even explaining it properly, just saying I needed to crash for the night.

[SPEAKER_00]: They laughed at how freaked out I looked until I showed them the photo.

[SPEAKER_00]: The laughter stopped after that.

[SPEAKER_00]: Later that night I went through my photos again, zooming in on that weird yellow triangle.

[SPEAKER_00]: It didn't look drawn, it looked embedded like it was part of the paper itself, and under certain light it almost pulsed.

[SPEAKER_00]: My friends had maybe it was some kind of chemical reaction from the burn marks or an old highlighter reacting to heat.

[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted to believe that, I really did.

[SPEAKER_00]: For days after I kept thinking about it, about how I'd been gone for exactly seven minutes, not long enough for anyone to sneak in, find that specific paper, burn it, and leave it standing like that.

[SPEAKER_00]: The house didn't feel the same afterward.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every creek sounded louder, every shadow deeper.

[SPEAKER_00]: I started sleeping with the lights on, half expecting to wake up and find another paper waiting for me somewhere.

[SPEAKER_00]: Eventually I went back home, but I moved my stuff downstairs after that.

[SPEAKER_00]: I couldn't sleep in that room again.

[SPEAKER_00]: The photo of the paper is still in my phone.

[SPEAKER_00]: I've shown it to a few people, and everyone says the same thing.

[SPEAKER_00]: That it's probably just a coincidence, or maybe I forgot putting it there.

[SPEAKER_00]: But no matter how I try to rationalize it, I know I didn't.

[SPEAKER_00]: I never figured out what the burns meant, or why that one sheet appeared the way it did.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it was nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I don't know what I do know is that ever since that day, I haven't looked at an empty room the same way.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes when I'm alone and everything goes quiet, I still think about that yellow triangle glowing faintly on the end of my bed.

[SPEAKER_00]: And how seven minutes was all it took for everything I believed about the world to start unraveling.

[SPEAKER_00]: story eight, some houses don't creek, they whisper, they stretch their old bones in the dark like they're remembering things you'd rather they forget.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's the kind of house I was in that night.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't mine, thank God.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was just doing a favor for one of my parents' friends, babysitting their little girl while they went out for dinner.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was around 12, old enough to think I was brave, but not old enough to realize how wrong that confidence was.

[SPEAKER_00]: The house was one of those refurbished ones.

[SPEAKER_00]: Built some time in the 1920s, but polished up to look modern.

[SPEAKER_00]: Everything smelled faintly of old wood and cleaning polish.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of place where even silence felt heavy.

[SPEAKER_00]: The baby was only about a year old, a quiet kid.

[SPEAKER_00]: I put her to bed upstairs around 730, made sure the night light was on, and then went back downstairs to sit on the couch with my phone.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a while it was peaceful.

[SPEAKER_00]: The baby monitor hummed faintly beside me.

[SPEAKER_00]: The kind of static you don't notice until it stops.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember thinking how weird it felt to be alone in a house that old, even with the lights on, the corner stayed dim, like the shadows there didn't want to leave.

[SPEAKER_00]: It started around 830, a soft creaking, like weight shifting on wooden floorboards.

[SPEAKER_00]: At first I didn't even look up, old houses make noise all the time, right?

[SPEAKER_00]: But it came again, slow and deliberate, moving across the ceiling above me.

[SPEAKER_00]: My stomach did that weird flip thing.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't loud, but the sound felt purposeful, like someone walking carefully.

[SPEAKER_00]: The baby's room was upstairs, and she was too small to even stand properly.

[SPEAKER_00]: Let alone walk around.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself maybe the pipes were expanding or something.

[SPEAKER_00]: I turned the TV up slightly, but that didn't help much.

[SPEAKER_00]: The sound stopped for a bit, and I started to relax again.

[SPEAKER_00]: That's when I realized the baby monitor had gone completely silent.

[SPEAKER_00]: No static, no soft breathing, nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I can't explain why that silence felt wrong, but it did.

[SPEAKER_00]: I turned the volume wheel, tapped it, still nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: The house suddenly felt too still.

[SPEAKER_00]: I got up, grabbed the baby monitor, and started heading upstairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: The creaking didn't return, but the air felt heavier, colder.

[SPEAKER_00]: halfway up I noticed a faint draft on my face, like walking into a refrigerator.

[SPEAKER_00]: The hallway upstairs was dim, lit only by a weak bulb near the baby's door.

[SPEAKER_00]: Her room was quiet, but she wasn't lying down anymore.

[SPEAKER_00]: She was sitting up in her crib, staring at something down the hall.

[SPEAKER_00]: The door opposite hers, the one that led to an old storage hallway, was slightly open.

[SPEAKER_00]: That door was definitely closed earlier.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember checking.

[SPEAKER_00]: I said her name softly, but she didn't even blink.

[SPEAKER_00]: Her little eyes were fixed on that narrow crack between the door and its frame.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a second, I thought I saw movement there.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not something clear, just a darker patch of dark, like a shadow shifting inside.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself it was my imagination.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stepped closer, every board under my foot, groaning just enough to remind me how old that place was.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I reached the door, I put my hand on it and pushed it open the rest of the way.

[SPEAKER_00]: The cold hit me instantly, wrapping around my ankles.

[SPEAKER_00]: There were no open windows in that hallway, no vents nearby, but the air felt like it had come straight out of a freezer.

[SPEAKER_00]: The light from behind me didn't reach far into the room.

[SPEAKER_00]: It just sort of died after a few feet, and that's when I saw it, not a figure exactly.

[SPEAKER_00]: More like a shadow moving against the wrong surface, the shape shifted across the far wall, stretching, bending around the corners, as if someone had walked through the hall, but left only their shadow behind.

[SPEAKER_00]: It moved into the next room and disappeared.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there frozen, every muscle locked.

[SPEAKER_00]: My brain kept trying to come up with explanations.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe a car passed outside, maybe the trees cast a weird shadow, but there was no window, no light source.

[SPEAKER_00]: The baby let out a small whimper, not a full cry, just a sound like she'd been holding her breath, too.

[SPEAKER_00]: That snapped me out of it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I scooped her up and practically ran down the stairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the reading room door latch to close, but I managed.

[SPEAKER_00]: We stayed there.

[SPEAKER_00]: Her half asleep against my chest.

[SPEAKER_00]: Me sitting in a stiff armchair, listening to the faint creaks above us for what felt like forever.

[SPEAKER_00]: Every time I thought the sound stopped, another one came.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes faint, sometimes heavier, like someone dragging a footstep.

[SPEAKER_00]: But no one came down the stairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't dare check again.

[SPEAKER_00]: I just sat there with the baby until the headlights finally swept across the living room window around midnight.

[SPEAKER_00]: When her parents walked in, I didn't even try to explain what happened.

[SPEAKER_00]: They thanked me, asked if everything went fine, and I nodded.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't mention the cold air or the shadow or how the baby refused to look at that hallway again when I tried to take her up.

[SPEAKER_00]: The funny thing is, I still don't know what I saw.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it really was just light and nerves playing tricks.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe the old wiring messed with the temperature somehow.

[SPEAKER_00]: But every now and then, when a house creeks at night or a draft brushes my legs for no reason, I remember that hallway.

[SPEAKER_00]: And I swear, it felt like something in that house had been waiting for someone to notice it.

[SPEAKER_00]: storyline.

[SPEAKER_00]: Sometimes ordinary mornings feel heavier than they should.

[SPEAKER_00]: That day the air in my apartment felt like wet cloth, clinging still, and oddly watchful.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember thinking how strange it was for 7 a.m.

to feel that silent.

[SPEAKER_00]: Usually the faint buzz of traffic or the occasional slam of a door downstairs filled the space.

[SPEAKER_00]: But that morning everything sounded padded, like the world [SPEAKER_00]: I lived alone in a small apartment that used to be part of an old boarding house.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't anything fancy, just creaky floors, thin walls, and a bathroom door that always stuck if you didn't pull hard enough.

[SPEAKER_00]: I was half awake when I went in for a shower, mostly trying to rinse off the heaviness of sleep.

[SPEAKER_00]: The water pressure was weak as usual, but steady enough to drown out the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

[SPEAKER_00]: The moment I turned off the water, the silence snapped back.

[SPEAKER_00]: too quickly.

[SPEAKER_00]: Before I could even grab the towel, there was a single clear knock on the bathroom door.

[SPEAKER_00]: It wasn't loud, just firm enough that it made me pause mid-motion.

[SPEAKER_00]: For a second, I thought it might be the neighbor upstairs.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe the sound traveled weirdly through the pipes.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't say anything.

[SPEAKER_00]: I figured if someone really needed me, they'd knock again, or call my name.

[SPEAKER_00]: And they did knock again.

[SPEAKER_00]: This time softer, slower.

[SPEAKER_00]: I reached for the towel and opened the door right away, expecting maybe the building manager or a misplaced visitor.

[SPEAKER_00]: The hallway was empty, completely still.

[SPEAKER_00]: No footsteps, no closing doors, nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: My living room stretched ahead, quiet and untouched, the morning light barely leaking through the blinds.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stood there dripping, half-expecting to hear retreating footsteps, or some kind of sound that could explain it, but there was nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself it had to be the pipes, or maybe the wood expanding from the steam.

[SPEAKER_00]: Buildings make noises, right?

[SPEAKER_00]: That?

[SPEAKER_00]: Dripping, half-expecting to hear retreating footsteps, [SPEAKER_00]: down that could explain it, but there was nothing.

[SPEAKER_00]: This is right.

[SPEAKER_00]: That?

[SPEAKER_00]: Dripping, half-expect.

[UNKNOWN]: Thank you for watching.

[SPEAKER_00]: but I was more confused than scared.

[SPEAKER_00]: I walked up to the door and swung it open.

[SPEAKER_00]: The hallway was empty again, just like before.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air though, it felt charged like static before a storm.

[SPEAKER_00]: I remember brushing my arm and feeling goosebumps rise instantly.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stepped out and checked the locks on the front door.

[SPEAKER_00]: Still bolted, windows closed.

[SPEAKER_00]: My phone showed no movement on the security app I had for the entryway camera.

[SPEAKER_00]: No sign of anyone.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself maybe the air pressure shifted when I turned off the bathroom fan earlier.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe that caused the door to move.

[SPEAKER_00]: I knew it didn't make sense, but the mine grabs whatever it can to keep things ordinary.

[SPEAKER_00]: For the rest of the day, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been standing just behind that door.

[SPEAKER_00]: The knocking hadn't been random.

[SPEAKER_00]: It had come right after the shower, right when the sound stopped, as if something had been waiting for silence.

[SPEAKER_00]: Later that week, it happened again.

[SPEAKER_00]: Not the knocking, but the faint creek of the door opening just before dawn.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't see it move that time.

[SPEAKER_00]: I just woke to the sound and saw the same gap.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just a few inches wide.

[SPEAKER_00]: I tried to convince myself it was just humidity making the wood swell.

[SPEAKER_00]: Or maybe the latch was loose.

[SPEAKER_00]: I even had the landlord check it, but he found nothing wrong.

[SPEAKER_00]: Said the hinges were fine, the frame was aligned, and it should open on its own.

[SPEAKER_00]: that night I kept the light on.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't sleep much.

[SPEAKER_00]: It's been months since then and the door hasn't moved again.

[SPEAKER_00]: But sometimes when I take a shower early in the morning, I can still hear faint knocks echoing through the apartment.

[SPEAKER_00]: Too deliberate to be pipes, too quiet to be neighbors.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe it's just sound bouncing through the old walls.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe my half awake mind plays tricks, but the one thing I can't explain is how the door opened that first time.

[SPEAKER_00]: Slow, careful, like whoever was there didn't want to startled me.

[SPEAKER_00]: I never saw anything.

[SPEAKER_00]: Never heard footsteps, never caught proof on camera, just those knocks, always right when the silence hits.

[SPEAKER_00]: Story 10.

[SPEAKER_00]: There's something strange about the highway at night.

[SPEAKER_00]: It feels alive in a quiet sort of way.

[SPEAKER_00]: Like it's breathing through the bitumen, humming under your tires, watching you while pretending not to.

[SPEAKER_00]: I've been driving trucks for over 15 years from Brisbane to Perth and back again, seen dust storms that turned noon into midnight, and rose bigger than blocs.

[SPEAKER_00]: But I'd never had the road look back at me until that night on the new.

[SPEAKER_00]: I wasn't meant to take that route.

[SPEAKER_00]: My boss had warned me in that joking tone manager's use when they know something, but won't say it straight.

[SPEAKER_00]: He said I could pull up before Kuna Bear a brand if I wanted.

[SPEAKER_00]: Some blocs don't go through at night, he'd said half-laffing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I took it as banter, told him I'd keep rolling.

[SPEAKER_00]: I still had hours left, and the run needed to be done quick.

[SPEAKER_00]: I'd done tougher halls, figure this was just another stretch of empty blacktop.

[SPEAKER_00]: The night was dry, the kind that makes the stars look too close.

[SPEAKER_00]: The CB was quiet, no chatter, no headlights ahead or behind.

[SPEAKER_00]: Just the hum of the tires and the deep groan of the trailer on the turns.

[SPEAKER_00]: Then out of nowhere, I spotted movement on the shoulder.

[SPEAKER_00]: My first thought was that it was an animal until the shape straightened up and waived.

[SPEAKER_00]: She was standing alone and older woman, her arm raised like she'd been waiting just for me.

[SPEAKER_00]: It didn't make sense.

[SPEAKER_00]: There were no houses, no rest stops, nothing but bush for miles, but I slowed down anyway, instinct more than lodging.

[SPEAKER_00]: The moment she climbed in, the cab went wrong.

[SPEAKER_00]: The air felt thick, and a smell hit me so hard my eyes watered.

[SPEAKER_00]: Something rotten and old, like damp clothes that had been left to die.

[SPEAKER_00]: My skin prickled instantly, every hair standing straight up.

[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted to tell her to get out, but the words stuck somewhere behind my teeth.

[SPEAKER_00]: She didn't speak, just stared forward, hands tight around a small bag.

[SPEAKER_00]: The road swallowed the beam of my headlights, and it felt like I was driving through molasses.

[SPEAKER_00]: No other cars, no road signs, nothing moving except the clock on the dash.

[SPEAKER_00]: After what felt like forever, she mumbled something faint.

[SPEAKER_00]: I only caught the word here.

[SPEAKER_00]: I pulled over without thinking, the truck idling in a shallow gully.

[SPEAKER_00]: She opened the door, stepped down, and disappeared into the dark.

[SPEAKER_00]: I waited for her to switch on a torch, or for a light to show where she was headed, but the Bush stayed black and silent.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I tried to start driving again, the cab still reaped of that awful smell.

[SPEAKER_00]: It was bad enough that I cracked the window even though the night was freezing.

[SPEAKER_00]: I told myself I'd laugh about it later.

[SPEAKER_00]: Maybe she'd been homeless or sick, maybe I was just tired.

[SPEAKER_00]: I stopped a few hours later on the other side of Nairobi, parked in a rest area, and decided to sleep in the trailer because the stench had sunk into everything.

[SPEAKER_00]: It clung to my clothes, my hands, even the steering wheel.

[SPEAKER_00]: At dawn another trucky rolled in, checking his rig.

[SPEAKER_00]: He gave me a look that said, I look like hell.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I told him what happened, how a woman flagged me down, and how bad she smelled, his face drained right out.

[SPEAKER_00]: He asked where I'd picked her up.

[SPEAKER_00]: When I told him the stretch between Kuna Barbrain and Narabri, he just nodded slow and said that wasn't funny.

[SPEAKER_00]: He said everyone knew that story, an old hitchhiker woman who used to walk that route until she was hit by a truck decades ago.

[SPEAKER_00]: I wanted to call Bullshit, but something about the way he said it made me shut up.

[SPEAKER_00]: He looked shaken, not teasing.

[SPEAKER_00]: He said Trucky said stop for her before, same spot, same story, but she was never there when they checked the dash cam.

[SPEAKER_00]: Back into Wumba, I told the boss about it, expecting another joke.

[SPEAKER_00]: He just smirked, said I'd earned a cold one, and told me to look at the footage.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't want to, but curiosity's a bastard.

[SPEAKER_00]: The video showed me talking, glancing toward the passenger seat, pausing like I was listening to someone.

[SPEAKER_00]: The door opened on its own, then shut.

[SPEAKER_00]: No one there, just empty air and me looking straight into it.

[SPEAKER_00]: I didn't sleep that night, tried to convince myself it was a glitch, some wind pressure or sensor fault, but every time I remember the smell that heavy choking stench that made the cab unlivable, logic didn't fit.

[SPEAKER_00]: I scrubbed that truck out for two days and still caught whiffs of it weeks later.

[SPEAKER_00]: I never went back that way again, doesn't matter what you believe, ghosts, tricks of the mind, whatever.

[SPEAKER_00]: All I know is some roads don't want company, and if one ever waves you down in the dark, maybe just keep driving.