The House on Elm Street

I rented an old apartment for the college semester. The building had stood for over a century. Often, when I was alone and certain of it, I would hear clear footsteps from the apartment above. They paced from the living area to the bedroom, a steady rhythm unlike any normal creak or pop a building makes.

At times, a door would slam shut with a force that traveled through the walls. A cold feeling would sometimes settle in the air, a sure sense that I was not by myself. But the moment that truly changed my mind happened one quiet evening.

I was sleeping deeply when a woman with long black hair and a sharp, angry expression appeared in my dream. She did not speak, but her eyes held a deep resentment. I jolted awake to the sound of my bookshelf, which was full of novels, groaning as it tilted slowly and spilled all its books across the floor.