Whispers in the Night

Every night for the past week, Mia had heard footsteps in her apartment. Not the creaking

of old floors or the settling of pipes—these were slow, deliberate steps,

as if someone was walking barefoot, dragging their heels. She lived alone. At first,

she tried to ignore it. She kept the lights on while she slept, pushed a chair against

her bedroom door, even left music playing to drown out the sounds. But every night,

at exactly 2:43 a.m., the footsteps would begin. And every night

they came closer. One evening, exhausted, she set her phone to record while

she slept. When she woke, the chair was still against the door, untouched.