Strange things

When my sister moved out, I got her old room. At first, I was happy—it was bigger than my last one. But after a few months, strange things started happening.

One night, I woke up because I felt something on my bed. It was like someone was stepping on the mattress near my feet. I couldn’t see anything, but I felt the weight shift as if invisible feet were walking. It moved in a slow circle around the bed, stopping now and then right behind my back, near my legs, or in front of my face. I was too scared to move, so I just watched. Eventually, I was so tired that I fell asleep just before morning.

This happened often, so I got used to it. I even gave it a name—”Walker.” Whenever I woke up and felt it moving, I’d mumble, “Hey, Walker,” and go back to sleep. It didn’t just stay in my bed, though. Sometimes, I’d be playing video games and feel it stepping on the chair next to me, like it was walking in circles around me.

At first, Walker only walked. But then, it started touching me. Once, I was home alone, and I heard my name being called. Another time, I was shaken awake, like a hand was on my shoulder—but it felt too light, like it wasn’t fully there. A whisper came close to my ear, but I only caught the last words: “You and me.”

After that, Walker touched me more often. A hand on my forehead, fingers trailing down my back, my pillow moving while I lay on it. Even during the day, I would feel something press against me, though I never saw anything. I was still used to the footsteps, but every time Walker touched me, the fear came rushing back.

Then I moved out. Walker didn’t follow.

Years later, I told my dad about it. He looked shocked. He said my sister had told him similar things, but he thought she was just imagining it. He called her, and we talked on speakerphone. She said that when she had the room, she heard footsteps too—but hers were on the floor, not the bed. Walker treated her differently. Instead of light touches, she was scratched and pulled. It whispered to her, but the words were cruel. “Why are you still here?” “You don’t belong.” She had hated that room.

My stepmom doesn’t like to hear about any of it. She won’t even let us talk about it when she’s around. But she has her own stories. She smokes outside near that room, and at night, she hears footsteps inside. Sometimes, they rush toward the door like something is trying to get out. She’s woken my dad up more than once to check, but there’s never anything there.

That room has been empty for years. But Walker is still inside, still walking in circles.