The Note in the Dark

Every night, she heard the same thing: footsteps in the attic, soft but unmistakable.

She tried to ignore them, telling herself that it was just the house settling or a stray animal.

But deep down, she knew it was something more. Something that shouldn't be there.

One night, she couldn't take it anymore.

She grabbed a flashlight and climbed up the stairs to the attic.

The air was thick and musty, and cobwebs clung to her hair and clothes.

She shone her flashlight around, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just old furniture and boxes of junk.

She sighed in relief, thinking that she had imagined the footsteps.

But then she noticed something strange.

A piece of paper, folded neatly and placed on top of a box.

She picked it up and unfolded it, her heart racing.

"I'm still here."

The words were scrawled in red ink, and the handwriting was jagged and uneven.

She felt a chill run down her spine.

Who had written it?

And why?

She searched the attic again, but she found nothing else.

No sign of anyone else being there.

But the note was enough to make her feel like she was being watched, like someone was hiding just out of sight.

From that night on, the footsteps only grew louder.

They echoed through the house, like the sound of heavy boots stomping across the floorboards.

She tried to block them out, but they were always there, a constant reminder that she wasn't alone.

One day, she decided to call a handyman to check the attic. Maybe there was a rat or some other animal living up there.

But the handyman found nothing out of the ordinary, just like she had.

He shrugged and left, and she was left alone once again with the footsteps and the note.

She tried to move on with her life, but the fear never left her.

Every time she heard the footsteps, she imagined someone watching her, waiting to pounce.

She began to lose sleep, her nerves frayed and raw.

One night, she woke up to the sound of something scratching at her bedroom door.

She sat up, her heart pounding, and listened.

The scratching continued, growing louder and more frantic.

She grabbed a baseball bat and tiptoed toward the door, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

She flung the door open, ready to defend herself.

But there was no one there, just the empty hallway and the sound of the scratching growing fainter.

She was alone again, but the fear remained.

Days turned into weeks, and the footsteps continued.

She tried to ignore them, but they were always there, a constant presence in her life.

One day, she decided to leave the house, to get away from the fear and the uncertainty.

As she was packing her things, she found something hidden in a corner of her closet.

A small pile of clothes, stained with blood. And a note, written in the same jagged handwriting as before.

"I told you, I'm still here."

She screamed and ran out of the house, leaving everything behind.

The fear had become too much, and she knew she could never go back.

Years later, she heard that the house had been torn down.

No one knows what happened to the person who had written the notes and made the footsteps.

But she knew one thing for sure: they were still out there, somewhere, watching and waiting.