For the first year in my new apartment, everything was peaceful. Then the small radio in my bedroom began turning on by itself in the middle of the night. I finally had to remove its batteries to make it stop.
Months of quiet followed, until one evening while washing dishes. I felt a cold breath on my neck and heard faint, hurried speech, too muddled to understand. On several occasions, I’ve heard someone clearly call my nickname when no one else was home.
Last Tuesday, I was reading in the living room when a loud clatter came from the hallway. I thought my cat had knocked something over, but when I investigated, I found the coat closet door standing wide open, all the hangers scattered on the floor.
The most unsettling event happened just days ago. I was filming my young nephew building a block tower. When we watched the video later, a woman’s soft voice was clearly heard whispering a lullaby beneath his giggles. Neither of us had been singing, and the voice was unknown to our entire family.
Now, items like my keys or a book will vanish from where I left them, only to reappear in another room. The feeling of a constant, unseen presence is growing stronger. I am starting to feel a deep unease in my own home, wondering what shares this space with me.