Thinking it was my little brother

I’ve always thought my house had something… off about it. It’s not ancient, just around fifty years old, but there’s something about it that never felt right. Maybe it’s the old wooden furniture in my room—handed down from my great-grandma. Maybe it’s just my imagination.

Or maybe not.

A few months ago, my best friend Emily stayed over. I fell asleep early, but she stayed up reading. Around 1:30 AM, she heard footsteps—fast, heavy ones—racing down the hallway, straight into the bathroom. Then, the door slammed shut.

Thinking it was my little brother, she got up and knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Nothing.

She slowly turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

The bathroom was empty.

She woke me up, whispering frantically, but by then, the house was silent again. We never spoke about it after that night, but I could see it in her eyes—she was scared.

But I already knew something was in this house.

One afternoon, I was home alone. My mom had gone to pick up my brother and sister from school. I was at my desk, scrolling through my laptop, when I heard it.

Footsteps.

Not a quiet creak of the floorboards, not the house settling—actual running footsteps. Upstairs.

I froze. My dog was locked in the kitchen. The cat was outside.

But someone—something—was upstairs.

I grabbed the nearest thing I could find—a flashlight—and crept up the stairs. My heart pounded as I reached the hallway. I peeked into each room.

Nothing.

But the air felt different. Heavy. Like someone was there, just out of sight.

Then, another night, I was sitting on my bed, doing my homework while the TV played in the background. Suddenly—click. The TV shut off.

At first, I thought it was the remote, but it was on the other side of the room. Maybe a power outage? No. The lamp beside me was still on.

I turned the TV back on, trying to ignore the growing chill in my spine.

Then came the worst night.

I was lying in bed, just about to doze off, when I felt it—pressure at the end of the mattress. Like someone had just sat down.

I shot up, my heart racing. I expected to see my dog, but the room was empty. I reached for the lamp, fumbling to switch it on.

Nothing.

But I knew I wasn’t alone.

I could feel something watching me.

I don’t know who—or what—it is, but it’s still here. I hear the footsteps. The doors still slam when no one’s there.

And sometimes, at night, I swear I see a shadow standing at the foot of my bed.

Watching. Waiting.