For months, I felt like someone was watching me. I also hear faint noises upstairs late at night even though I live alone. Yesterday, I came home to find my living room rearranged. Terrified, I called the police, but after searching, they found nothing. Just as they were leaving, one officer hesitated and asked, ‘Ma’am, have you ever been in the attic?’I blinked. “No. I didn’t even know there was one.”

He looked at his partner. “There’s a pull cord just above your hallway light. Mind if we check?”

My throat went dry. I nodded, heart racing. The officer stepped up and pulled the cord. A narrow, creaky ladder unfolded. A gust of musty air wafted down.

Both officers climbed up slowly. I stood frozen at the bottom, arms wrapped around myself. A few minutes later, one of them called out.

“Ma’am… you might want to come see this.”

Against every instinct, I climbed the steps. The attic was dimly lit by a single bulb. Old boxes lined one side, but what caught my eye was the other side.

A small mattress.

Blankets.

Food wrappers.

A diary.

My knees went weak.

Someone had been living in my attic.

Back downstairs, the officers tried to keep their tone calm, but I saw the concern in their eyes. They said they’d take the items for evidence and start checking nearby cameras and homeless shelter records. One of them gently suggested I stay with a friend for the night.

I couldn’t think straight. I ended up crashing on my cousin Thea’s couch.

I barely slept.

Every sound made me flinch. Every creak felt like someone creeping.

The next day, I called in sick and sat on Thea’s back porch with a hot mug of tea, trying to piece together what I’d missed. How had someone been living above me? For months?

I hadn’t noticed missing food. Nothing was obviously stolen. Just the occasional misplaced mug or flickering light. I chalked it up to forgetfulness.

But now?

Now I was questioning everything.

The police said they didn’t find anyone in the attic, just signs that someone had been there recently. The mattress was still warm.

A week passed. I got new locks, security cameras, motion detectors—the works.

No new signs of anything.

The police had no updates.

It started to feel like a nightmare I’d finally woken up from.

And then, just when I thought things were settling down… I found the note.

It was on my pillow.

Folded.

Simple.

Handwritten in block letters.

“I’m sorry. I never meant to scare you.”

I screamed.

The security footage showed nothing.

The attic was empty again.

I moved out the next day.

Months went by.

I got a new apartment closer to downtown, with neighbors on all sides and a front desk that buzzed in every visitor.

I started to feel human again.

But the mystery haunted me.

Who had been living up there?

Why?

Why didn’t they hurt me?

And how did they come and go without being seen?

I couldn’t let it go.

So one night, I opened the diary the police had returned.

It had no name.

But it had a story.

And it changed everything.

The entries were written in simple handwriting. Sloppy at times. Sometimes dated, sometimes not.

The first entry:

“Found a way in. She doesn’t go up here. Just need a place to stay. Just for a week.”

I kept reading.

The writer was young. Maybe late teens or early twenties. From the tone, I guessed male. But that wasn’t clear.

He had been kicked out of a group home. Said he’d rather sleep in an attic than under a bridge. He snuck in while the house was being shown for sale. Back when it sat empty.

And he never left.

“I always listen when she’s home. Don’t want her to see me. She seems kind. Sometimes she laughs when she watches TV. I miss laughter.”

The entries got more personal.

“I used to have a sister. We’d sit under the covers and tell stories. I miss her. I miss feeling like someone wanted me around.”

Another:

“She got a puppy. I hate that it barks. But I guess it’s good for her.”

I never had a puppy.

Weird.

The last few entries took a turn.

“She’s crying tonight. I wish I could help. But I know I can’t.”

And then:

“I think I scared her. I didn’t mean to. I moved the couch to find my phone. It slipped through the floor crack. I didn’t think she’d notice. I’m sorry.”

The final entry read:

“I’m leaving tonight. This was the safest I’ve felt in years. Thank you for letting me pretend I had a home.”

I cried.

For a stranger.

For someone who lived inches above me and was still invisible.

For someone who didn’t steal or harm, but just existed quietly, in my attic.

And then disappeared.

Years went by.

I moved again. Life carried on. I didn’t forget, but I also didn’t obsess.

Until one morning, while scrolling online, I saw a story.