Strange things always seemed to happen in threes

I had been working hard all week and finally sat down to enjoy a quiet night with my coffee. It was late, and the air was still. But then, it happened again.

Strange things always seemed to happen in threes. This was the last time.

I was staying at my cousin’s house, out in the country. It was an old place, with a small guesthouse and a shed in the backyard. I parked my trailer next to the shed. The house had a back room that stretched across the whole width of the place, with a few big windows covered in heavy curtains.

One night, sometime after midnight, I leaned against the window from the outside, staring into the field behind the house. It was quiet. Too quiet. Then—footsteps.

Five of them.

They started at the far end of the room, inside the house. Slow, steady, heavy. Each step sounded exactly the same, like an old recording playing over and over. I knew if it took two more steps, whatever it was would be right at the window where my head was resting. I jumped back about fifteen feet.

Inside that room, there was no way anyone could walk. My cousin and her husband had piled boxes and old furniture in there—stuff just thrown in. No space to step. But the sound was clear. Something—or someone—was walking in there.

A few nights later, it happened again. Same time, same slow five steps. This time, I was leaning against a different window, farther down. And again, after the fifth step, I realized it was coming right toward where I stood. I backed away.

The third time, same thing. Different window. Five steps. Exact same sounds. Like a loop playing over and over.

Then, one night, I decided to test it. It was earlier this time, only around 9 p.m. I walked up to the window and knocked on it, hard. I knocked again. And again.

Nothing.

That was the last time I ever tried to figure it out.

Not long after, my cousin sold the house. Maybe she had her own reasons. Maybe she had heard the footsteps too. But I never asked. And I never went back.