I was curled up beside my wife, watching MasterChef like we always did. She’d taken her meds and was drifting off, so I followed her to bed. Just as I lay down, a loud clacking echoed from the kitchen—sharp, deliberate, and heavy. We froze. It sounded like someone was walking around. I locked the bedroom door while she called a friend, and we sat in silence as the sound continued for minutes before vanishing. I crept out, heart pounding, and searched the house. Nothing. Doors locked. Windows shut. No sign of anyone. But I know what I heard.
It wasn’t just noise—it felt like a presence. The kind that makes your skin crawl and your instincts scream. I replayed it over and over: the weight of the steps, the rhythm, the certainty that someone—or something—was there. I checked every inch of the house, even the attic. Still nothing. My wife was pale, shaken. We didn’t sleep that night. We just lay there, waiting for it to return. It never did. But the memory stayed, etched into our nerves like a scar.
Weeks passed, and we tried to rationalize it. Maybe a raccoon? A pipe? But nothing fit. The sound was too human, too intentional. I started doubting myself, wondering if stress had warped my senses. But my wife heard it too. We both did. That shared terror bonded us in a strange way—like survivors of something unexplainable. We stopped watching MasterChef. The kitchen became a place we avoided after dark. Our routines shifted, subtly but permanently.
Even now, I hesitate to talk about it. People roll their eyes or offer theories that don’t hold up. But I know what happened. I know what I felt. And I know that sometimes, the ordinary cracks open and lets something else in—something that doesn’t follow rules or leave evidence. It just walks through your life, loud and undeniable, and disappears before you can prove it was ever there.
