[Brad] Story one. I used to think silence in
[Brad] the woods was peaceful. The kind of quiet
[Brad] people in the city dream about. But living
[Brad] in it for real was different. It wasn't
[Brad] peaceful, it was heavy. Like the air itself
[Brad] was always listening. The townhouse I rented sat
[Brad] right at the edge of the forest, half
[Brad] hidden by tall pines that made everything darker
[Brad] than it should have been. During the day,
[Brad] it looked normal enough, a little old, but
[Brad] cozy. At night though, it always felt like
[Brad] the house changed shape. When I first moved
[Brad] in, I noticed small things that didn't add
[Brad] up. The sound of footsteps on the stairs
[Brad] when I was in bed. Not loud ones,
[Brad] just a slow creak here and there, like
[Brad] someone shifting their weight one step at a
[Brad] time. At first, I blamed it on the
[Brad] wood expanding, or maybe an animal scurrying in
[Brad] the walls, but it started happening around the
[Brad] same time every night, between two and three
[Brad] AM. The air would feel colder then. I'd
[Brad] hear what sounded like a hand brushing against
[Brad] the wooden railing. Once when I went down
[Brad] to check, I found the gate I used
[Brad] to keep my puppy downstairs halfway unlatched. It
[Brad] was one of those heavy wooden baby gates
[Brad] that clicked shut, so I brushed it off
[Brad] as me forgetting to close it properly. My
[Brad] dog never seemed to settle in that place
[Brad] either. She'd stare at the top of the
[Brad] stairs and growl softly, ears flattened, eyes locked
[Brad] on something invisible. There's this kind of tension
[Brad] animals have when they sense something they don't
[Brad] understand, but they know it's there. I try
[Brad] to comfort her, but the way she'd back
[Brad] away made me uneasy too. I started sleeping
[Brad] with the hallway light on, telling myself it
[Brad] was just for convenience. I'd keep the bedroom
[Brad] door cracked open so the glow spilled in.
[Brad] Still, every now and then, I'd wake up
[Brad] to that same sound, creak, creak, and this
[Brad] heavy pressure in the air, like the house
[Brad] was holding its breath. I told myself it
[Brad] was nothing. I even joked about the place
[Brad] having a personality. Then came the night everything
[Brad] changed. It was late, probably close to three
[Brad] in the morning. I'd been working overtime, so
[Brad] I was dead tired. The puppy was already
[Brad] asleep in her cage downstairs. I always locked
[Brad] it before bed, just in case. I remember
[Brad] lying on the couch scrolling through my phone
[Brad] when I heard it. This deep thud, followed
[Brad] by what sounded like something dragging across the
[Brad] floor. At first, I thought maybe the puppy
[Brad] had knocked something over. I got up half
[Brad] annoyed, half curious. The second I stepped into
[Brad] the hallway, the air went still. The kind
[Brad] of stillness that makes your skin prickle because
[Brad] it's too quiet. Then came this loud crack.
[Brad] Not like wood settling, sharper, heavier. I froze
[Brad] at the base of the stairs, staring up
[Brad] into the dim light from above, and that's
[Brad] when it happened. The wooden gate that had
[Brad] been leaning against the bottom of the stairs
[Brad] suddenly lifted. I swear to this day, it
[Brad] didn't slide or tip. It lifted and shot
[Brad] up the staircase. It hit the ceiling so
[Brad] hard it left a mark. Then it dropped,
[Brad] twisted, and crashed halfway up like something had
[Brad] thrown it. The sound was deafening in that
[Brad] small house. My heart just stopped. I couldn't
[Brad] move for a good few seconds, just standing
[Brad] there staring at it. The dog downstairs started
[Brad] barking, panicked, clawing at the cage door. I
[Brad] checked the locks after that. Front door, back
[Brad] door, windows. Everything was shut tight from the
[Brad] inside. I tried to think of some explanation.
[Brad] Maybe air pressure. Maybe it wasn't balanced right,
[Brad] and something shifted. But that gate was solid
[Brad] oak, heavy, and I'd placed it flat against
[Brad] the floor hours before. There was no way
[Brad] it could have flown like that. After that
[Brad] night, I couldn't shake the feeling that something
[Brad] didn't want me upstairs. For the next few
[Brad] days, I'd catch the faintest sound of movement
[Brad] when I walked past the staircase. The puppy
[Brad] refused to go near it. One night, she
[Brad] started whining so hard, I had to carry
[Brad] her outside just to calm her down. I
[Brad] didn't tell anyone about it for a long
[Brad] time. It sounded too stupid, too impossible. But
[Brad] every time I passed that ceiling mark, I'd
[Brad] remember the way that gate moved. Not falling,
[Brad] not tipping, but thrown. I moved out a
[Brad] few months later. Never had anything like that
[Brad] happen again. But sometimes when I think back
[Brad] on that house, I wonder, if it wasn't
[Brad] the wind, if it wasn't physics, what was
[Brad] it trying to keep me from seeing at
[Brad] the top of those stairs? Story two. Some
[Brad] houses even when they're quiet. You know what
[Brad] I mean? That low background sort of presence
[Brad] that makes the silence feel like it's watching
[Brad] you back. Mine's like that. I moved in
[Brad] about a year ago, just me and my
[Brad] cat, Milo. It's a modest little bungalow with
[Brad] creaky floors and old kitchen tiles that never
[Brad] really shine, no matter how hard I scrub
[Brad] them. Nothing about it ever felt scary, but
[Brad] it never quite felt empty either. That particular
[Brad] week, I'd been trying to deep clean the
[Brad] place. I was tired of the faint smell
[Brad] of cat food and disinfectant blending into one.
[Brad] I remember cleaning Milo's feeder that afternoon, one
[Brad] of those big bulky automatic ones with a
[Brad] water jug and food tray that's surprisingly heavy
[Brad] when it's full. I washed it, wiped it
[Brad] down, and left it upside down on the
[Brad] counter to dry. The day went by like
[Brad] any other. Nothing strange. I worked from home,
[Brad] kept Netflix on in the background, and occasionally
[Brad] yelled at Milo for trying to climb the
[Brad] curtains. Around evening, I noticed he was more
[Brad] restless than usual. He kept staring into the
[Brad] hallway, that blank cat stare that makes your
[Brad] skin itch. I tried not to think too
[Brad] much about it. Animals are weird like that.
[Brad] Later that night, I was in the kitchen
[Brad] making tea when I suddenly felt the air
[Brad] shift. It's hard to explain. Not cold exactly,
[Brad] but thick, like the room suddenly filled with
[Brad] invisible fog. Even the sound from the TV
[Brad] in the other room seemed distant, muffled. Milo
[Brad] was sitting by the kitchen door, fur slightly
[Brad] puffed up, watching the counter. I followed his
[Brad] gaze. The feeder, the same heavy one I'd
[Brad] washed earlier, was there, right side up now.
[Brad] I froze for a second, thinking maybe I'd
[Brad] forgotten I'd flipped it over, but I was
[Brad] sure I hadn't. I had a clear memory
[Brad] of placing it upside down to dry, because
[Brad] I'd even thought about how long it would
[Brad] take to drain completely. I stood there trying
[Brad] to rationalize it. Maybe I knocked it earlier.
[Brad] Maybe it slid when I wasn't looking. But
[Brad] the countertop is tiled, not smooth enough for
[Brad] something that heavy to glide on its own.
[Brad] Still, I wasn't about to let my imagination
[Brad] run wild, so I went over, picked it
[Brad] up, and placed it properly. Right side up,
[Brad] firm and steady. I turned away to grab
[Brad] my mug and that's when I heard it.
[Brad] A faint scrape. I spun around so fast,
[Brad] I nearly dropped the mug. The feeder had
[Brad] moved. I swear it had rotated a few
[Brad] inches, slowly, like someone had nudged it. But
[Brad] there was no one there. The window was
[Brad] closed. No wind. No vibration from the fridge.
[Brad] Nothing. Milo bolted out of the kitchen, his
[Brad] claws skittering on the floor. My heart started
[Brad] pounding so loud, I could hear it echoing
[Brad] in my ears. I told myself it had
[Brad] to be the countertop, maybe still wet underneath,
[Brad] maybe it shifted because of condensation. I forced
[Brad] myself to go closer, even though every instinct
[Brad] screamed not to. I wanted proof that it
[Brad] wasn't what it looked like. I barely reached
[Brad] the counter when it happened. The feeder, the
[Brad] solid heavy thing, rotated on its base slowly,
[Brad] deliberately. It turned ninety degrees onto its side,
[Brad] balanced for a breathless second like it was
[Brad] defying gravity, then rolled completely over until it
[Brad] was upside down again. Not a crash, not
[Brad] even a thud, just a light tap like
[Brad] it had been placed down by careful hands.
[Brad] I don't know how long I stood there
[Brad] staring. My mind tried to fill in every
[Brad] blank space with reason. Maybe an air pocket,
[Brad] maybe the surface wasn't level, maybe the house
[Brad] shifted slightly, but the movement was too slow,
[Brad] too smooth, too intentional. I finally reached out
[Brad] to test it. When I tried to tip
[Brad] the feeder myself, it slammed down with a
[Brad] loud clatter, exactly the kind of sound I
[Brad] should have heard the first time. My hand
[Brad] was shaking so badly I had to steady
[Brad] it on the counter. After that, I didn't
[Brad] stay in the kitchen. I grabbed my phone
[Brad] and Milo and sat outside for a while,
[Brad] trying to breathe. The night air felt normal
[Brad] again. Quiet, cold, harmless. But I couldn't shake
[Brad] that feeling that someone or something had been
[Brad] in there, showing me something I wasn't supposed
[Brad] to see. The next day, I checked everything.
[Brad] The countertop was flat. No vibration from the
[Brad] fridge. No dampness under the feeder. I even
[Brad] tried recreating the same rotation by pushing it
[Brad] gently, but it wouldn't move that way. It
[Brad] either slid and crashed or didn't move at
[Brad] all. I still don't know what to make
[Brad] of it. I'm not saying it was paranormal.
[Brad] Maybe there's some weird explanation I missed. But
[Brad] I can't explain how that thing rotated by
[Brad] itself, upside down, twice, without making a sound.
[Brad] Now I keep the feeder on the floor,
[Brad] and I swear, sometimes at night when I
[Brad] pass by the kitchen, I feel that same
[Brad] shift in the air. Like the of the
[Brad] house holding its breath again, waiting. Story three.
[Brad] Sometimes a place feels quiet in the wrong
[Brad] way. Like the silence isn't peace, but something
[Brad] waiting for you to notice it. That was
[Brad] how my apartment felt back in college. It
[Brad] wasn't old or falling apart. It was just
[Brad] one of those generic complexes near campus, all
[Brad] beige paint and humming refrigerators. But from my
[Brad] first week there, the quiet seemed too deep,
[Brad] too aware, like the air was holding its
[Brad] breath. I'd usually stay up late studying or
[Brad] scrolling through my phone, and almost every other
[Brad] night around two in the morning, I'd hear
[Brad] it, A sharp, unmistakable sound of glass breaking.
[Brad] Not a creak or a pop from the
[Brad] pipes. Actual breaking glass. It came from somewhere
[Brad] close, like one of the apartment windows had
[Brad] just shattered. I'd pause everything, heart pounding, and
[Brad] wait for the sound of movement or footsteps.
[Brad] But nothing followed. Every time it happened, I'd
[Brad] grab a flashlight and check around the kitchen,
[Brad] the living room, the tiny hallway that led
[Brad] to the door. No mess, no shards, no
[Brad] damage anywhere. The windows were fine, and all
[Brad] the dishes were still where I left them.
[Brad] I told myself maybe it was someone outside,
[Brad] maybe a neighbor dropping bottles near the dumpster.
[Brad] But the sound always came from inside my
[Brad] place. It was clear as day, like it
[Brad] wanted me to think someone was there. After
[Brad] a while, I got used to it. I'd
[Brad] still flinch when it happened, but it became
[Brad] part of the routine, like the pipes clicking
[Brad] or the fridge kicking on. I didn't tell
[Brad] anyone about it because it sounded ridiculous. Who
[Brad] hears glass break in a place where nothing's
[Brad] broken? But the thought lingered every night when
[Brad] I went to bed, wondering what I'd do
[Brad] if one day I actually found something shattered.
[Brad] A few weeks later, I started noticing small
[Brad] things out of place. Nothing dramatic, just items
[Brad] I could have easily blamed on myself. The
[Brad] bathroom light would be on when I was
[Brad] sure I turned it off. My keys would
[Brad] end up on the counter instead of the
[Brad] hook. My phone charger, which I always left
[Brad] plugged in beside the bed, would sometimes be
[Brad] coiled neatly on the dresser. I figured I
[Brad] was just distracted, sleep deprived, maybe even half
[Brad] asleep when I moved them. But it built
[Brad] this low level unease that I couldn't shake.
[Brad] The air in the apartment felt heavier, as
[Brad] if the space itself was quietly shifting around
[Brad] me. One night I fell asleep earlier than
[Brad] usual. I remember waking up to a slight
[Brad] pressure against my leg, like someone brushing past
[Brad] the edge of the blanket. I thought I
[Brad] was dreaming until I felt the mattress dip
[Brad] near my feet. Gentle, like someone had just
[Brad] sat down. The room was dark except for
[Brad] the glow from the hallway light I always
[Brad] left on. My first thought was that maybe
[Brad] I was having sleep paralysis, but I could
[Brad] move. My eyes were open. I was fully
[Brad] awake. When I turned my head, I saw
[Brad] someone sitting at the end of the bed.
[Brad] Their back was to me, shoulders slumped slightly
[Brad] forward, head tilted down. I couldn't make out
[Brad] details, just the outline of a person in
[Brad] the dim light. My chest tightened instantly. I
[Brad] froze watching, trying to convince myself it was
[Brad] some weird trick of the shadows. Then the
[Brad] figure stood up slowly, walked toward the doorway,
[Brad] and stepped out of sight. That was when
[Brad] I heard it. The same sharp sound of
[Brad] glass breaking, closer than ever, like it came
[Brad] from right behind the bedroom door. My instincts
[Brad] took over, and I jumped out of bed
[Brad] to check. The hallway was empty. I searched
[Brad] the apartment again, every corner, every window, every
[Brad] inch of tile and carpet. Nothing. Not a
[Brad] single crack, not a single shard of glass
[Brad] anywhere. When I finally went back to my
[Brad] room, I noticed something that made my skin
[Brad] crawl. The blanket at the end of the
[Brad] bed was crumpled down, the kind of way
[Brad] it looks when someone actually sits on it.
[Brad] But I'd been sleeping alone. That night was
[Brad] the last time I saw anything, but the
[Brad] sound didn't stop. It kept happening weeks, maybe
[Brad] months later. Same hour, same sharp noise, never
[Brad] any evidence. After a while, I stopped checking.
[Brad] There was no point. I'd lie there in
[Brad] the dark, wide awake, listening to the phantom
[Brad] shatter that never left a trace. Even now,
[Brad] I've tried to rationalize it. Maybe the sound
[Brad] came from the building's pipes or the air
[Brad] ducts expanding in the cool night. Maybe the
[Brad] apartments shared vents or wiring that carried noise
[Brad] weirdly. Maybe my mind just filled in gaps
[Brad] in the dark. That's what I tell myself.
[Brad] But the problem is, I can still picture
[Brad] that figure sitting at the edge of my
[Brad] bed, still remember how the mattress sank under
[Brad] its weight. There are nights I wake up
[Brad] thinking I've heard that same sound again, though
[Brad] I've moved across the country since then. It's
[Brad] never as loud now, more like an echo
[Brad] of a memory, faint but distinct enough to
[Brad] make my stomach twist. I don't know if
[Brad] that place was haunted or if it was
[Brad] just my mind playing tricks after too many
[Brad] late nights, but I do know this. Sometimes,
[Brad] what makes you believe in the paranormal isn't
[Brad] what you see. It's what refuses to leave
[Brad] your memory long after the lights are back
[Brad] on. Story four. Some buildings breathe differently. You
[Brad] feel it the moment you step inside. Like
[Brad] the air has memory, holding on to every
[Brad] laugh, whisper, and secret ever shared within its
[Brad] walls. That's what it felt like walking into
[Brad] the Fort Garry Hotel in Winnipeg. The place
[Brad] wasn't just old, it felt aware. I was
[Brad] there for a short family trip about eight
[Brad] years ago. Back then, I didn't care much
[Brad] for ghost stories or haunted places. I was
[Brad] more of a practical person. If something couldn't
[Brad] be explained, it just meant no one had
[Brad] looked hard enough yet. So when people mentioned
[Brad] that the hotel had a history of weird
[Brad] happenings, I brushed it off as tourist talk.
[Brad] One afternoon, with some free time before dinner,
[Brad] I decided to walk around and admire the
[Brad] place. The hallways were lined with tall mirrors
[Brad] and dark wood that gave off a faint,
[Brad] polished scent, like the inside of a piano.
[Brad] I wasn't trying to be nosy, just curious.
[Brad] I've always liked old architecture, but it didn't
[Brad] take long before I realized I'd lost my
[Brad] way. The hallways twisted into each other, like
[Brad] they'd been rearranged by someone who hated maps.
[Brad] After what felt like fifteen minutes of circling,
[Brad] I spotted a person ahead, a man dressed
[Brad] neatly, like hotel staff. He wasn't holding cleaning
[Brad] equipment or luggage, but he had that calm
[Brad] posture of someone who belonged there. I approached
[Brad] and asked politely for directions back to the
[Brad] lobby. He nodded once and gestured toward the
[Brad] right corridor, saying something about following it straight
[Brad] down and taking the elevator. I remember thanking
[Brad] him and, for some reason, offering my hand
[Brad] out of habit. He shook it. His hand
[Brad] felt perfectly normal, warm, real. I followed his
[Brad] instructions and eventually found myself back at the
[Brad] main lobby. But the second I stepped past
[Brad] the front desk, something felt off. The atmosphere
[Brad] shifted. The clerk behind the counter and a
[Brad] security guard standing nearby both looked at me
[Brad] like I just walked in covered in blood
[Brad] or something. The guard asked kind of hesitantly
[Brad] who I'd been talking to upstairs. I said
[Brad] it was just a staff member giving me
[Brad] directions. That seemed to make things worse. He
[Brad] exchanged a look with the clerk, then quietly
[Brad] told me to wait a moment. I stood
[Brad] there confused as he walked over to a
[Brad] small office near the front desk. When he
[Brad] came back, he was holding a tablet or
[Brad] monitor, I can't quite remember, and asked if
[Brad] I'd mind looking at something. He pulled up
[Brad] security footage from the hallway I'd been lost
[Brad] in, not even fifteen minutes earlier. There I
[Brad] was on the screen, walking down the corridor.
[Brad] I could see myself pause, turn, and talk
[Brad] to someone. Only there was no one there.
[Brad] I watched myself nod and even shake hands,
[Brad] except my hand was just hanging mid air.
[Brad] At first, I laughed. I thought maybe the
[Brad] feed glitched or someone edited it to mess
[Brad] with guests, but the guard didn't look like
[Brad] someone pulling a prank. He looked unsettled. He
[Brad] told me in a low voice that the
[Brad] floor I'd been on had a history. People
[Brad] reporting strange figures, sounds, and even cold spots
[Brad] that came and went without reason. I asked
[Brad] if he was serious, and he just said
[Brad] that what I'd seen wasn't the first time.
[Brad] I replayed the footage a few times, trying
[Brad] to spot something that could explain it. Maybe
[Brad] bad lighting, maybe a camera blind spot. But
[Brad] from every angle, it was just me, alone,
[Brad] gesturing and talking to thin air. The weirdest
[Brad] part is that I felt that handshake. The
[Brad] pressure, the warmth, it was all there. And
[Brad] yet, there was nothing on the recording. I
[Brad] even checked both my palms later in the
[Brad] room like an idiot, expecting to see something.
[Brad] That night, I couldn't sleep. Every creak in
[Brad] the wall sounded louder than usual. The faint
[Brad] of the old pipes, the distant elevator bell,
[Brad] it all blended into something that kept me
[Brad] hyper aware. I replayed the encounter in my
[Brad] head a hundred times. The man's face though
[Brad] was starting to blur in my memory, like
[Brad] trying to recall a dream that slips away
[Brad] the harder you focus on it. When I
[Brad] told my family the next morning, they didn't
[Brad] buy it. They said I must have misread
[Brad] the footage or seen some reflection trick, and
[Brad] maybe they're right. Maybe it was all just
[Brad] a perfect mix of coincidence, lighting, and my
[Brad] brain wanting to make sense of random shapes.
[Brad] But even now, years later, I can't shake
[Brad] how real it all felt. The weight of
[Brad] that handshake, the calmness of the man's face,
[Brad] the way he appeared as solid as anyone
[Brad] else in that hallway. I've seen my fair
[Brad] share of fake ghost videos online, and I'm
[Brad] usually the first to point out editing flaws
[Brad] or lens smudges. But that day, I learned
[Brad] something strange about belief. It doesn't always come
[Brad] from seeing proof. Sometimes it comes from something
[Brad] so personal, so specific, that even when logic
[Brad] screams otherwise, a small part of you keeps
[Brad] whispering, what if? To this day, I still
[Brad] don't know who or what I met on
[Brad] that floor. Story five. Some buildings feel like
[Brad] they breathe. The old hotel where I work
[Brad] is one of them. All creaks in size,
[Brad] like it's stretching its bones after every gust
[Brad] of wind. Built in eighteen eighty five, it's
[Brad] the kind of place where even silence seems
[Brad] to echo. The walls have seen everything. Weddings,
[Brad] fights, laughter, and who knows what else. I've
[Brad] worked there for years long enough to stop
[Brad] jumping at every sound, or at least that's
[Brad] what I thought. It was a slow afternoon,
[Brad] the kind where time feels like syrup. I
[Brad] was assigned to clean one of the older
[Brad] rooms on the third floor, the kind that
[Brad] still had the original brass fixtures and clawfoot
[Brad] tubs. That floor always felt different, cooler even
[Brad] when the AC was off. I used to
[Brad] joke that it had its own microclimate. When
[Brad] I got to the room, everything was normal.
[Brad] The lights worked fine. The window was cracked
[Brad] open, letting in that old town smell. Dust
[Brad] and faint cigarette smoke from who knows how
[Brad] long ago. I plugged in the vacuum, hit
[Brad] the switch, and started working my way from
[Brad] one end of the carpet to the other.
[Brad] Halfway through, the vacuum cut off just stopped.
[Brad] The sudden silence made my ears ring. At
[Brad] first, I figured the plug had slipped out
[Brad] of the socket. It happens. So I went
[Brad] over, checked, still firmly in place. The outlet
[Brad] worked too, because the lamp beside it was
[Brad] still glowing. I frowned, squatted down, and gave
[Brad] the vacuum a once over. It was switched
[Brad] off. I knew I hadn't touched it. The
[Brad] switch was behind me the whole time. Maybe
[Brad] I'd snagged the cord and flicked it off
[Brad] by accident? I shrugged, flipped it back on,
[Brad] and went back to work. A few seconds
[Brad] later, off again. This time I paused longer.
[Brad] The room suddenly felt too quiet, like the
[Brad] air was holding its breath. I stood still,
[Brad] hands still on the vacuum handle, and waited.
[Brad] Nothing. Just the faint creak of the old
[Brad] pipes behind the walls. I told myself it
[Brad] was an electrical glitch. Old wiring, old machine,
[Brad] no big deal. I switched it on again.
[Brad] It whirred to life, louder than before, like
[Brad] it was trying to prove a point. Then,
[Brad] click, dead silent. That's when I got that
[Brad] prickling feeling, the one that crawls up your
[Brad] neck like static. I looked around. The room
[Brad] was empty, obviously, but something about the air
[Brad] felt wrong. Heavy, not hostile, just aware. I
[Brad] couldn't shake the thought that I wasn't alone.
[Brad] I tried one more time, turned the vacuum
[Brad] on, stepped away, and watched. It stayed on
[Brad] for maybe ten seconds. Then right when I
[Brad] exhaled, the switch clicked off again. I hadn't
[Brad] touched it. I could see it from where
[Brad] I stood. The switch physically moved. I froze.
[Brad] For a second, I considered saying something out
[Brad] loud, like asking it to stop, but I
[Brad] didn't wanna hear my own voice break. Instead,
[Brad] I forced a laugh, one of those shaky
[Brad] ones that sound more like a cough, and
[Brad] said under my breath that I'd come back
[Brad] later. I unplugged the vacuum, rolled the cord,
[Brad] and left the room. The hallway outside felt
[Brad] instantly lighter, like walking out of water. I
[Brad] stood there for a bit, just breathing. Then
[Brad] I went into the next room on the
[Brad] list, plugged in the same vacuum, and it
[Brad] worked perfectly fine. I cleaned two more rooms
[Brad] with no problem. But when I came back
[Brad] to finish that one room, because I couldn't
[Brad] leave it half done, obviously, I hesitated at
[Brad] the door. It was open a crack, though
[Brad] I knew I'd shut it earlier. That wasn't
[Brad] strange on its own. Doors there sometimes shift
[Brad] from drafts. Still, I hesitated before stepping in.
[Brad] The air inside was cooler again, almost fresh
[Brad] like the window had been open wider. I
[Brad] noticed the curtains moving slightly, even though the
[Brad] outside air was still. I half expected the
[Brad] vacuum to act up again, but it didn't.
[Brad] It ran smoothly the whole time. The only
[Brad] odd thing was that I kept hearing faint
[Brad] clicking sounds from the bathroom, like someone tapping
[Brad] their nails on porcelain. I'd stop, listen, and
[Brad] it would stop too. I finished quickly, avoided
[Brad] looking too closely at the mirror, don't ask
[Brad] me why, and left. When I shut the
[Brad] door behind me, the tapping stopped completely. Later
[Brad] that evening, I mentioned it casually to the
[Brad] night cleaner, half as a joke, half as
[Brad] a test. He chuckled and said, oh, room
[Brad] three twelve? Yeah, she's playful. Likes to mess
[Brad] with the vacuums, I laughed it off. But
[Brad] the way he said, she made me pause.
[Brad] I wanted to ask what he meant, but
[Brad] he'd already moved on to another topic. I
[Brad] don't believe in ghosts, or at least I
[Brad] didn't. I've worked in that hotel long enough
[Brad] to know it's full of weird wiring, ancient
[Brad] pipes, and creaky boards that play tricks on
[Brad] you. But sometimes, late at night when I
[Brad] pass that floor, I swear I hear faint
[Brad] humming from one of the rooms. It's soft,
[Brad] almost sweet, like someone tidying up long after
[Brad] everyone's gone. Maybe it's just the wind. Maybe
[Brad] it's the old building settling, or maybe it's
[Brad] something that never left. Something that still enjoys
[Brad] a good laugh, turning the vacuum off just
[Brad] to see who'll notice. All I know is,
[Brad] since that day, I never vacuum that room
[Brad] alone anymore. Story six. Old houses have their
[Brad] own kind of breathing. You can hear it
[Brad] if you stay quiet long enough. The creak
[Brad] of the floorboards, the inside the walls, the
[Brad] faint whisper of air sliding through cracks, that
[Brad] time forgot to seal. My sister's place was
[Brad] that kind of house. Built sometime in the
[Brad] nineteen thirties, it looked like it had lived
[Brad] several lives before we came along. She had
[Brad] just moved in with her little girl, and
[Brad] I was helping out by babysitting on weekends
[Brad] when she worked the night shift. That particular
[Brad] night was calm, too calm in the way
[Brad] only empty houses can be. I put my
[Brad] two year old niece to bed around nine.
[Brad] She fell asleep fast. That deep toddler sleep
[Brad] that looks like they've drifted into another world.
[Brad] I stayed in the living room, the TV
[Brad] on low, mostly for company. The house was
[Brad] dimly lit except for the glow from the
[Brad] screen. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and
[Brad] cleaning polish. And there was a constant ticking
[Brad] from the clock on the wall. Sharp, rhythmic,
[Brad] like the heartbeat of the house. Around eleven
[Brad] PM, I remember glancing toward the hallway. It
[Brad] was darker there, like the air didn't wanna
[Brad] move. I'd left the nightlight plugged in near
[Brad] her room, but it barely pushed back the
[Brad] shadows. That's when I saw something small and
[Brad] quick dart across the hallway. For a split
[Brad] second, I thought it was her, my niece,
[Brad] running barefoot toward the living room. I could
[Brad] see the movement clearly enough to recognize her
[Brad] size, her pale pajamas, even the bounce in
[Brad] her steps. It startled me more than scared
[Brad] me because I had just put her down
[Brad] a couple of hours ago. My first thought
[Brad] was that she had woken up and decided
[Brad] to play. I half smiled to myself, thinking
[Brad] she must have had a bad dream or
[Brad] was looking for her toy. So without thinking
[Brad] much, I stood up and called out softly,
[Brad] telling her she should be in bed. Of
[Brad] course, she didn't answer. Kids that age don't
[Brad] always listen, so I sighed and started down
[Brad] the hallway. The closer I got, the colder
[Brad] the air felt. Like the temperature dropped by
[Brad] a few degrees in those few steps. I
[Brad] tried the hallway light switch. It flickered before
[Brad] turning on, buzzing faintly. And that light somehow
[Brad] made the shadows stretch longer instead of shorter.
[Brad] The door to her bedroom was still shut.
[Brad] That stopped me for a second. I could
[Brad] have sworn I saw her run out, but
[Brad] now the door looked untouched, exactly as I
[Brad] left it. Slightly ajar when I tucked her
[Brad] in, but not enough to hide someone slipping
[Brad] past. I pushed it open slowly, half expecting
[Brad] her to giggle or peek from behind something.
[Brad] But she was there, sound asleep, completely out.
[Brad] Her tiny hand was clutching her blanket, her
[Brad] mouth slightly open, soft snores puffing out in
[Brad] rhythm. That's when something cold ran through me.
[Brad] Not fear exactly, but confusion that tightened into
[Brad] unease. I stood there for a moment, watching
[Brad] her chest rise and fall, trying to reason
[Brad] it out. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe the
[Brad] flicker of the TV reflected off something and
[Brad] tricked my eyes. Old houses play tricks, right?
[Brad] Still, the feeling that someone or something had
[Brad] just been standing in that hallway wouldn't let
[Brad] go. I checked the other rooms, half embarrassed
[Brad] at how tense I felt. The bathroom door
[Brad] creaked when I opened it. The guest room
[Brad] smelled stale like it always did. Nothing seemed
[Brad] out of place. But as I turned to
[Brad] head back to the living room, I heard
[Brad] it. The sound of light footsteps padding across
[Brad] the hallway behind me. Quick, like a child
[Brad] running. My first instinct was to spin around,
[Brad] but by the time I did, the hallway
[Brad] was empty again, completely still. The nightlight flickered
[Brad] once, twice before dying out. The air grew
[Brad] heavier, almost pressing on my skin. I stood
[Brad] there for what felt like a long minute.
[Brad] Every sound in the house amplified. The faint
[Brad] of the fridge, the steady tick of that
[Brad] clock, my own heartbeat thudding too loudly. Then
[Brad] somewhere deeper in the house, something tapped. Just
[Brad] a single sharp knock, like wood against wood.
[Brad] I told myself not to overthink it. I'd
[Brad] seen too many horror movies to let my
[Brad] imagination win. I forced a laugh under my
[Brad] breath, went back to the living room, and
[Brad] turned the TV volume up a little. Bright
[Brad] colors, canned laughter. It helped for a while,
[Brad] but I couldn't shake the feeling of being
[Brad] watched, like eyes were following from the hallway
[Brad] where the light didn't reach. Around midnight, I
[Brad] decided to check on my niece one more
[Brad] time. This time, I noticed something small. Her
[Brad] door, which I'd left cracked open earlier, was
[Brad] now wide open. The nightlight that had gone
[Brad] out was glowing again, faint but steady. I
[Brad] didn't hear her stir though. She was still
[Brad] asleep. Same position, same peaceful face, except the
[Brad] blanket that had been covering her earlier was
[Brad] now folded neatly at the foot of her
[Brad] bed. That was the moment something in me
[Brad] said enough. I stayed up the rest of
[Brad] the night with every light in the living
[Brad] room on, glancing at that dark hallway every
[Brad] few minutes, waiting for another flicker of movement.
[Brad] Nothing else happened, but I didn't sleep. When
[Brad] my sister came home in the morning, I
[Brad] told her what I thought I'd seen, or
[Brad] maybe what I wanted to believe I saw.
[Brad] She gave me a strange look and said
[Brad] the landlord had mentioned something once about the
[Brad] previous tenant keeping her daughter's toys in that
[Brad] same room even after moving out. I didn't
[Brad] ask any more questions after that. Maybe it
[Brad] was just exhaustion. Maybe the shadows in that
[Brad] old house knew how to move when the
[Brad] light hit them right. But even now, I
[Brad] can still picture the small figure running down
[Brad] that hallway just before the light came on,
[Brad] Clear as day and gone before I could
[Brad] take a second breath. I've babysat in plenty
[Brad] of houses since then, but I've never gone
[Brad] back to that one. Story seven. It's strange
[Brad] how ordinary days can twist into something you
[Brad] never forget. That day started like any other,
[Brad] slow and quiet. The kind that makes you
[Brad] think nothing bad or unusual could ever happen.
[Brad] The afternoon light was slipping through my blinds,
[Brad] laying stripes across my room like lazy shadows.
[Brad] And I was lying on my bed watching
[Brad] TV, not really paying attention. I remember feeling
[Brad] calm, normal, safe. The kind of comfort you
[Brad] don't even realize you have until it's gone.
[Brad] I was twenty three then, still living with
[Brad] my parents. My dad was home, asleep in
[Brad] his room on the main floor. The house
[Brad] was peaceful, except for the faint sound of
[Brad] the TV and my friend's voice through the
[Brad] phone. We were chatting about nothing. Random weekend
[Brad] plans, work, the kind of conversation you forget
[Brad] five minutes later. I got up to grab
[Brad] a cigarette, phone still in hand, and headed
[Brad] downstairs. The air outside felt cool, smelled faintly
[Brad] of rain, and cut grass. I sat on
[Brad] the back steps, smoked, scrolled my phone, and
[Brad] didn't think about anything deeper than what to
[Brad] eat for dinner. I was gone maybe seven
[Brad] minutes, maybe less. When I came back upstairs,
[Brad] everything looked the same, or so I thought.
[Brad] I walked into my room mid conversation, dropped
[Brad] onto my bed, and looked toward the TV
[Brad] again. Then something shifted in the corner of
[Brad] my eye. At first, I thought it was
[Brad] nothing. Just a trick of the light. Maybe
[Brad] a reflection. But when I turned my head,
[Brad] I saw it. A single sheet of paper
[Brad] was standing upright at the foot of my
[Brad] bed. The top edge sticking up, like it
[Brad] had been carefully tucked between the blanket and
[Brad] the frame. For a few seconds, my brain
[Brad] refused to make sense of it. I froze.
[Brad] My body knew before my mind did that
[Brad] something wasn't right. The room suddenly felt too
[Brad] still, like the air had thickened. My friend's
[Brad] voice on the phone blurred into background noise,
[Brad] and I couldn't even respond. It was as
[Brad] if all the sound had been sucked out
[Brad] of the world, leaving me in this thick,
[Brad] silent bubble. I remember whispering his name, trying
[Brad] to say what I was seeing, but my
[Brad] throat felt tight. He kept asking what was
[Brad] wrong, his voice getting more urgent, but I
[Brad] couldn't explain. I told him I'd call back
[Brad] and hung up immediately. Then I took a
[Brad] photo. Not because I thought it was supernatural,
[Brad] but because I needed proof of what I
[Brad] was seeing before my brain convinced me it
[Brad] wasn't real. The paper wasn't new. It looked
[Brad] old, like something that had been tucked away
[Brad] for years. When I leaned closer, my stomach
[Brad] dropped. It was an old economics paper I'd
[Brad] written three years earlier in college. I hadn't
[Brad] seen it since. The edges were dark and
[Brad] burnt, but not like they'd been on fire.
[Brad] More like they'd been singed, the kind of
[Brad] brown that fades into ash. In the middle
[Brad] of the page, there was a huge yellow
[Brad] triangle, as if someone had drawn over it
[Brad] with a highlighter, except it seemed to glow.
[Brad] The light from my lamp reflected strangely off
[Brad] it, almost like the way a dollar bill
[Brad] catches the light. I sat there for a
[Brad] long time just staring at it. The paper
[Brad] was talking about the US government and political
[Brad] division, random class stuff that had nothing to
[Brad] do with anything. But the second page was
[Brad] missing, torn cleanly away. That's when the fear
[Brad] really sank in. The rest of my school
[Brad] papers were in a closed plastic bin in
[Brad] my closet, under old clothes and boxes. There
[Brad] was no reason, no possible way for that
[Brad] paper to end up on my bed like
[Brad] that, let alone standing upright. I kept trying
[Brad] to come up with an explanation. Maybe I'd
[Brad] pulled it out earlier and forgotten. Maybe there
[Brad] was a draft that moved it, or my
[Brad] dad came in for something. But my door
[Brad] had been closed and he was still asleep
[Brad] downstairs. The logical part of me kept repeating
[Brad] that someone had to have done it. The
[Brad] other part of me, the part that was
[Brad] sitting in that silent room, staring at something
[Brad] that shouldn't exist there, didn't believe that. I
[Brad] picked up the page with shaking hands half
[Brad] expecting it to feel hot. It didn't. It
[Brad] was just paper. Burnt, strange, and very real.
[Brad] I couldn't stand to be in the room
[Brad] anymore. I stuffed a few things into a
[Brad] bag, locked my door, and drove to a
[Brad] friend's place. I remember not even explaining it
[Brad] properly, just saying I needed to crash for
[Brad] the night. They laughed at how freaked out
[Brad] I looked until I showed them the photo.
[Brad] The laughter stopped after that. Later that night,
[Brad] I went through my photos again, zooming in
[Brad] on that weird yellow triangle. It didn't look
[Brad] drawn. It looked embedded like it was part
[Brad] of the paper itself. And under certain light,
[Brad] it almost pulsed. My friend said maybe it
[Brad] was some kind of chemical reaction from the
[Brad] burn marks or an old highlighter reacting to
[Brad] heat. I wanted to believe that. I really
[Brad] did. For days after, I kept thinking about
[Brad] it, about how I'd been gone for exactly
[Brad] seven minutes. Not long enough for anyone to
[Brad] sneak in, find that specific paper, burn it,
[Brad] and leave it standing like that. The house
[Brad] didn't feel the same afterward. Every creak sounded
[Brad] louder, every shadow deeper. I started sleeping with
[Brad] the lights on, half expecting to wake up
[Brad] and find another paper waiting for me somewhere.
[Brad] Eventually, I went back home, but I moved
[Brad] my stuff downstairs after that. I couldn't sleep
[Brad] in that room again. The photo of the
[Brad] paper is still in my phone. I've shown
[Brad] it to a few people, and everyone says
[Brad] the same thing. That it's probably just a
[Brad] coincidence, or maybe I forgot putting it there.
[Brad] But no matter how I try to rationalize
[Brad] it, I know I didn't. I never figured
[Brad] out what the burns meant, or why that
[Brad] one sheet appeared the way it did. Maybe
[Brad] it was nothing. Maybe it was something trying
[Brad] to tell me something. I don't know. What
[Brad] I do know is that ever since that
[Brad] day, I haven't looked at an empty room
[Brad] the same way. Sometimes when I'm alone and
[Brad] everything goes quiet, I still think about that
[Brad] yellow triangle glowing faintly on the end of
[Brad] my bed, and how seven minutes was all
[Brad] it took for everything I believed about the
[Brad] world to start unraveling. Story eight. Some houses
[Brad] don't creak. They whisper. They stretch their old
[Brad] bones in the dark like they're remembering things
[Brad] you'd rather they forget. That's the kind of
[Brad] house I was in that night. It wasn't
[Brad] mine, thank God. I was just doing a
[Brad] favor for one of my parents' friends, babysitting
[Brad] their little girl while they went out for
[Brad] dinner. I was around twelve, old enough to
[Brad] think I was brave, but not old enough
[Brad] to realize how wrong that confidence was. The
[Brad] house was one of those refurbished ones, built
[Brad] sometime in the nineteen twenties, but polished up
[Brad] to look modern. Everything smelled faintly of old
[Brad] wood and cleaning polish. The kind of place
[Brad] where even silence felt heavy. The baby was
[Brad] only about a year old. A quiet kid.
[Brad] I put her to bed upstairs around seven
[Brad] thirty, made sure the nightlight was on, and
[Brad] then went back downstairs to sit on the
[Brad] couch with my phone. For a while, it
[Brad] was peaceful. The baby monitor hummed faintly beside
[Brad] me. The kind of static you don't notice
[Brad] until it stops. The TV was on low
[Brad] volume, just enough to fill the space. I
[Brad] remember thinking how weird it felt to be
[Brad] alone in a house that old. Even with
[Brad] the lights on, the corners stayed dim, like
[Brad] the shadows there didn't wanna leave. It started
[Brad] around eight thirty. A soft creaking, like weight
[Brad] shifting on wooden floorboards. At first, I didn't
[Brad] even look up. Old houses make noise all
[Brad] the time, right? But it came again, slow
[Brad] and deliberate, moving across the ceiling above me.
[Brad] My stomach did that weird flip thing. It
[Brad] wasn't loud, but the sound felt purposeful, like
[Brad] someone walking carefully. The baby's room was upstairs
[Brad] and she was too small to even stand
[Brad] properly, let alone walk around. I told myself
[Brad] maybe the pipes were expanding or something. I
[Brad] turned the TV up slightly, but that didn't
[Brad] help much. The sound stopped for a bit,
[Brad] and I started to relax again. That's when
[Brad] I realized the baby monitor had gone completely
[Brad] silent. No static, no soft breathing, nothing. I
[Brad] can't explain why that silence felt wrong, but
[Brad] it did. I turned the volume wheel, tapped
[Brad] it, still nothing. The house suddenly felt too
[Brad] still. I got up, grabbed the baby monitor,
[Brad] and started heading upstairs. The creaking didn't return,
[Brad] but the air felt heavier, colder. Halfway up,
[Brad] I noticed a faint draft on my face,
[Brad] like walking into a refrigerator. The hallway upstairs
[Brad] was dim, lit only by a weak bulb
[Brad] near the baby's door. Her room was quiet,
[Brad] but she wasn't lying down anymore. She was
[Brad] sitting up in her crib, staring at something
[Brad] down the hall. The door opposite hers, the
[Brad] one that led to an old storage hallway,
[Brad] was slightly open. That door was definitely closed
[Brad] earlier. I remember checking. I said her name
[Brad] softly, but she didn't even blink. Her little
[Brad] eyes were fixed on that narrow crack between
[Brad] the door and its frame. For a second,
[Brad] I thought I saw movement there. Not something
[Brad] clear, just a darker patch of dark, like
[Brad] a shadow shifting inside. I told myself it
[Brad] was my imagination. I stepped closer, every board
[Brad] under my foot groaning just enough to remind
[Brad] me how old that place was. When I
[Brad] reached the door, I put my hand on
[Brad] it and pushed it open the rest of
[Brad] the way. The cold hit me instantly, wrapping
[Brad] around my ankles. There were no open windows
[Brad] in that hallway, no vents nearby, but the
[Brad] air felt like it had come straight out
[Brad] of a freezer. The light from behind me
[Brad] didn't reach far into the room. It just
[Brad] sort of died after a few feet, and
[Brad] that's when I saw it. Not a figure
[Brad] exactly. More like a shadow moving against the
[Brad] wrong surface. The shape shifted across the far
[Brad] wall, stretching, bending around the corners, as if
[Brad] someone had walked through the hall, but left
[Brad] only their shadow behind. It moved into the
[Brad] next room and disappeared. I stood there frozen,
[Brad] every muscle locked. My brain kept trying to
[Brad] come up with explanations. Maybe a car passed
[Brad] outside. Maybe the trees cast a weird shadow.
[Brad] But there was no window, no light source,
[Brad] nothing. The baby let out a small whimper.
[Brad] Not a full cry, just a sound like
[Brad] she'd been holding her breath too. That snapped
[Brad] me out of it. I scooped her up
[Brad] and practically ran down the stairs. My hands
[Brad] were shaking so badly, I could barely get
[Brad] the reading room door latch to close, but
[Brad] I managed. We stayed there, her half asleep
[Brad] against my chest, me sitting in a stiff
[Brad] armchair, listening to the faint creaks above us
[Brad] for what felt like forever. Every time I
[Brad] thought the sound stopped, another one came. Sometimes
[Brad] faint, sometimes heavier, like someone dragging a footstep.
[Brad] But no one came down the stairs. I
[Brad] didn't dare check again. I just sat there
[Brad] with the baby until the headlights finally swept
[Brad] across the living room window around midnight. When
[Brad] her parents walked in, I didn't even try
[Brad] to explain what happened. They thanked me, asked
[Brad] if everything went fine, and I nodded. I
[Brad] didn't mention the cold air or the shadow
[Brad] or how the baby refused to look at
[Brad] that hallway again when I tried to take
[Brad] her up. The funny thing is, I still
[Brad] don't know what I saw. Maybe it really
[Brad] was just light and nerves playing tricks. Maybe
[Brad] the old wiring messed with the temperature somehow.
[Brad] But every now and then, when a house
[Brad] creaks at night or a draft brushes my
[Brad] legs for no reason, I remember that hallway.
[Brad] And I swear, it felt like something in
[Brad] that house had been waiting for someone to
[Brad] notice it. Story nine. Sometimes ordinary mornings feel
[Brad] heavier than they should. That day, the air
[Brad] in my apartment felt like wet cloth, clinging
[Brad] still and oddly watchful. I remember thinking how
[Brad] strange it was for seven AM to feel
[Brad] that silent. Usually, the faint buzz of traffic
[Brad] or the occasional slam of a door downstairs
[Brad] filled the space. But that morning, everything sounded
[Brad] padded, like the world was wrapped in fog
[Brad] I couldn't see. I lived alone in a
[Brad] small apartment that used to be part of
[Brad] an old boarding house. It wasn't anything fancy,
[Brad] just creaky floors, thin walls, and a bathroom
[Brad] door that always stuck if you didn't pull
[Brad] hard enough. I was half awake when I
[Brad] went in for a shower, mostly trying to
[Brad] rinse off the heaviness of sleep. The water
[Brad] pressure was weak, as usual, but steady enough
[Brad] to drown out the faint of the refrigerator
[Brad] in the next room. The moment I turned
[Brad] off the water, the silence snapped back too
[Brad] quickly. Before I could even grab the towel,
[Brad] there was a single clear knock on the
[Brad] bathroom door. It wasn't loud, just firm enough
[Brad] that it made me pause mid motion. For
[Brad] a second, I thought it might be the
[Brad] neighbor upstairs. Maybe the sound traveled weirdly through
[Brad] the pipes. I didn't say anything. I figured
[Brad] if someone really needed me, they'd knock again
[Brad] or call my name. And they did knock
[Brad] again. This time softer, slower. I reached for
[Brad] the towel and opened the door right away,
[Brad] expecting maybe the building manager or a misplaced
[Brad] visitor. The hallway was empty, completely still. No
[Brad] footsteps, no closing doors, nothing. My living room
[Brad] stretched ahead, quiet and untouched. The morning light
[Brad] barely leaking through the blinds. I stood there
[Brad] dripping, half expecting to hear retreating footsteps or
[Brad] some kind of sound that could explain it,
[Brad] but there was nothing. I told myself it
[Brad] had to be the pipes or maybe the
[Brad] wood expanding from the steam. Buildings make noises.
[Brad] Right? That Dripping, half expecting to hear retreating
[Brad] foot sound that could explain it, but there
[Brad] was nothing. Is right? That Dripping half expect
[Brad] But I was more confused than scared. I
[Brad] walked up to the door and swung it
[Brad] open. The hallway was empty again, just like
[Brad] before. The air though, it felt charged like
[Brad] static before a storm. I remember brushing my
[Brad] arm and feeling goosebumps rise instantly. I stepped
[Brad] out and checked the locks on the front
[Brad] door. Still bolted. Windows closed. My phone showed
[Brad] no movement on the security app I had
[Brad] for the entryway camera. No sign of anyone.
[Brad] I told myself maybe the air pressure shifted
[Brad] when I turned off the bathroom fan earlier.
[Brad] Maybe that caused the door to move. I
[Brad] knew it didn't make sense, but the mind
[Brad] grabs whatever it can to keep things ordinary.
[Brad] For the rest of the day, I couldn't
[Brad] shake the feeling that someone had been standing
[Brad] just behind that door. The knocking hadn't been
[Brad] random. It had come right after the shower,
[Brad] right when the sound stopped, as if something
[Brad] had been waiting for silence. Later that week,
[Brad] it happened again. Not the knocking, but the
[Brad] faint creak of the door opening just before
[Brad] dawn. I didn't see it move that time.
[Brad] I just woke to the sound and saw
[Brad] the same gap, just a few inches wide.
[Brad] I tried to convince myself it was just
[Brad] humidity making the woods swell, or maybe the
[Brad] latch was loose. I even had the landlord
[Brad] check it, but he found nothing wrong. Said
[Brad] the hinges were fine, the frame was aligned,
[Brad] and it shouldn't open on its own. That
[Brad] night, I kept the light on. I didn't
[Brad] sleep much. It's been months since then, and
[Brad] the door hasn't moved again. But sometimes, when
[Brad] I take a shower early in the morning,
[Brad] I can still hear faint knocks echoing through
[Brad] the apartment. Too deliberate to be pipes, too
[Brad] quiet to be neighbors. Maybe it's just sound
[Brad] bouncing through the old walls. Maybe my half
[Brad] awake mind plays tricks. But the one thing
[Brad] I can explain is how the door opened
[Brad] that first time. Slow, careful, like whoever was
[Brad] there didn't wanna startle me. I never saw
[Brad] anything. Never heard footsteps, never caught proof on
[Brad] camera, just those knocks. Always right when the
[Brad] silence hits. Story ten. There's something strange about
[Brad] the highway at night. It feels alive in
[Brad] a quiet sort of way, like it's breathing
[Brad] through the bitumen, humming under your tires, watching
[Brad] you while pretending not to. I've been driving
[Brad] trucks for over fifteen years from Brisbane to
[Brad] Perth and back again, seen dust storms that
[Brad] turned noon into midnight and rues bigger than
[Brad] blokes, but I'd never had the road look
[Brad] back at me until that night on the
[Brad] Newell. I wasn't meant to take that route.
[Brad] My boss had warned me in that joking
[Brad] tone managers use when they know something, but
[Brad] won't say it straight. He said I could
[Brad] pull up before Koona Barabrand if I wanted.
[Brad] Some blokes don't go through at night, he'd
[Brad] said half laughing. I took it as banter,
[Brad] told him I'd keep rolling. I still had
[Brad] hours left, and the run needed to be
[Brad] done quick. I'd done tougher hauls, figured this
[Brad] was just another stretch of empty blacktop. The
[Brad] night was dry, the kind that makes the
[Brad] stars look too close. The CB was quiet,
[Brad] no chatter, no headlights ahead or behind. Just
[Brad] the of the tires and the deep groan
[Brad] of the trailer on the turns. Then out
[Brad] of nowhere, I spotted movement on the shoulder.
[Brad] My first thought was that it was an
[Brad] animal until the shape straightened up and waved.
[Brad] She was standing alone, an older woman, her
[Brad] arm raised like she'd been waiting just for
[Brad] me. It didn't make sense. There were no
[Brad] houses, no rest stops, nothing but bush for
[Brad] miles. But I slowed down anyway, instinct more
[Brad] than logic. The moment she climbed in, the
[Brad] cab went wrong. The air felt thick and
[Brad] a smell hit me so hard my eyes
[Brad] watered. Something rotten and old, like damp clothes
[Brad] that had been left to die. My skin
[Brad] prickled instantly, every hair standing straight up. I
[Brad] wanted to tell her to get out, but
[Brad] the words stuck somewhere behind my teeth. She
[Brad] didn't speak, just stared forward, hands tight around
[Brad] a small bag. The road swallowed the beam
[Brad] of my headlights, and it felt like I
[Brad] was driving through molasses. No other cars, no
[Brad] road signs, nothing moving except the clock on
[Brad] the dash. After what felt like forever, she
[Brad] mumbled something faint. I only caught the word
[Brad] here. I pulled over without thinking, the truck
[Brad] idling in a shallow gully. She opened the
[Brad] door, stepped down, and disappeared into the dark.
[Brad] I waited for her to switch on a
[Brad] torch or for a light to show where
[Brad] she was headed, but the bush stayed black
[Brad] and silent. When I tried to start driving
[Brad] again, the cab still reeked of that awful
[Brad] smell. It was bad enough that I cracked
[Brad] the window even though the night was freezing.
[Brad] I told myself I'd laugh about it later.
[Brad] Maybe she'd been homeless or sick. Maybe I
[Brad] was just tired. I stopped a few hours
[Brad] later on the other side of Narrabri, parked
[Brad] in a rest area, and decided to sleep
[Brad] in the trailer because the stench had sunk
[Brad] into everything. It clung to my clothes, my
[Brad] hands, even the steering wheel. At dawn, another
[Brad] truckie rolled in, checking his rig. He gave
[Brad] me a look that said, I look like
[Brad] hell. When I told him what happened, how
[Brad] a woman flagged me down, and how bad
[Brad] she smelled, his face drained right out. He
[Brad] asked where I'd picked her up. When I
[Brad] told him the stretch between Cunabarabran and Narrabri,
[Brad] he just nodded slow and said that wasn't
[Brad] funny. He said everyone knew that story. An
[Brad] old hitchhiker woman who used to walk that
[Brad] route until she was hit by a truck
[Brad] decades ago. I wanted to call bullshit, but
[Brad] something about the way he said it made
[Brad] me shut up. He looked shaken, not teasing.
[Brad] He said truckies had stopped for her before.
[Brad] Same spot, same story. But she was never
[Brad] there when they checked the dash cam. Back
[Brad] in Toowoomba, I told the boss about it,
[Brad] expecting another joke. He just smirked, said I'd
[Brad] earned a cold one, and told me to
[Brad] look at the footage. I didn't want to,
[Brad] but curiosity's a bastard. The video showed me
[Brad] talking, glancing toward the passenger seat, pausing like
[Brad] I was listening to someone. The door opened
[Brad] on its own, then shut. No one there.
[Brad] Just empty air and me looking straight into
[Brad] it. I didn't sleep that night, tried to
[Brad] convince myself it was a glitch, some wind
[Brad] pressure or sensor fault. But every time I
[Brad] remembered the smell, that heavy choking stench that
[Brad] made the cab unlivable, logic didn't fit. I
[Brad] scrubbed that truck out for two days and
[Brad] still caught whiffs of it weeks later. I
[Brad] never went back that way again. Doesn't matter
[Brad] what you believe. Ghosts, tricks of the mind,
[Brad] whatever. All I know is some roads don't
[Brad] want company. And if one ever waves you