When I inherited my grandparents’ house, it felt like a dream come true. This was the place where I’d spent countless summers as a child, playing in the garden, helping Grandma bake in the kitchen, and listening to Grandpa’s stories by the fireplace.

The house was filled with memories, and there was a deep sense of comfort that made me feel safe, even when I moved in by myself.

But lately, that comfort had turned into something else—something unsettling.

“What’s it like, Celia?” my mother asked me as we unpacked all my belongings. “Is it different without them?”

“Of course, Mom,” I said, putting the pots and pans in their cupboards. “It feels familiar and strange at the same time.”

“As long as there’s a sense of comfort, that’s all you need to get going in your new place,” she said.

And it was fine. I eased into my new house, slowly making it my own with yellow accent pieces all over.

It was only a few weeks ago that things started to feel very strange. For weeks, I’d wake up every morning to find the attic door slightly ajar. At first, I tried to brush it off as the house settling into itself or a draft, but the idea that someone was sneaking into the house I slept in gnawed at me.

I mean, I lived alone, and the thought of an intruder was terrifying.

“Stop, Celia,” I told myself one day as I made a salad and grilled some chicken for dinner. “There’s nothing scary happening here.”

One evening, after a long day at work, I came home and poured myself a glass of wine, ready to unwind with a hot bubble bath. But something caught my attention.

There, stuck to the kitchen door frame, was a small piece of paper.

“That definitely wasn’t here before,” I said, a cold shiver running down my spine.

The note was short but enough to shake my core:

Come to the attic at midnight. Come ALONE.

A wave of fear washed over me. I didn’t know what to do. Was it worth calling the police? And what would I say? That someone had broken into my home and left a note? There was no sign of a break-in, so it would be difficult to believe.

My mind raced with possibilities, none of them comforting. I told myself it had to be a prank, maybe some kids messing around, but the dread in my gut wouldn’t let me relax.

“You just need to talk to someone about it, Celia,” I told myself as I pulled my phone out.

I called my best friend, Laura, hoping for some reassurance.

“You won’t believe what I just found,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Laura asked.

“A note. Like, it was stuck to the attic door, Laura. It says that I should go up there at midnight. Alone.”

“Celia, that’s just creepy as hell! Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you should call the police and get to the bottom of this,” Laura said.

I could hear the nerves in her voice. She was stressing and would probably be pacing and biting her nails.

“I thought about that,” I admitted. “But what if it’s just some stupid prank?”

“Prank or not, Celia, the note says to come alone. To a room in your own house. I mean, what is that? How do you know if you’re safe right now?”

I was silent for a moment.

“This doesn’t feel right, Celia,” she continued. “Do you want me to come over?”

I thought about it, and I’ll admit, the idea of having her over was comforting. But I also knew that my best friend was a drama queen, and she was highly paranoid. If she did come over, every sound would send her into a frenzy.

“I appreciate it,” I said. “But the note says to come alone. Besides, I need to face whatever this is. But I’ll keep my phone with me at all times.”

“Okay, but promise me that you’ll be careful. And call me as soon as it’s over. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come right over.”

“I will,” I reassured her, smiling at her affection. “Thanks, Laura.”

The hours crawled by, each tick of the clock amplifying my anxiety. I couldn’t eat or sit still. I couldn’t focus on anything.

What was waiting for me in the attic? I debated calling my mother, but the note’s demand for solitude held me back. What if that was the reason that nobody showed up?

Or what if that angered them?

Finally, midnight arrived.

I grabbed a flashlight, my hands trembling as I made my way up the creaky stairs. The attic door was slightly ajar, just like every other night. I hesitated, taking a deep breath before pushing it open.

The attic was just as I remembered it. It was dusty and cluttered with old furniture and forgotten boxes. But tonight, something was different.

In the far corner, illuminated by the weak beam of my flashlight, was the shadowy outline of a person sitting on an old wooden chair. My heart raced as I froze, fear rooting me in my spot.

“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice trembling.

But there was no response. The figure remained eerily still. Summoning every ounce of courage, I stepped closer. With each step, my eyes adjusted to the dark a little more until the truth was revealed. It wasn’t a person; it was a dummy, dressed in old clothes, with a wig on its head. Relief flooded through me, but it was short-lived.

A sudden noise behind me made me jump.

I spun around, my flashlight flickering in the darkness, and there stood my neighbor, Mr. Evans. His face was twisted in an expression of surprise and anger.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sharp.

“What am I doing here?” I shot back, my fear quickly turning to anger. “What are you doing in my house?”

He hesitated, eyes darting around as if searching for an excuse.

“I thought I heard a noise and came to check on you,” he finally said, but the lie was clear in his tone.

“Liar,” I said, my voice shaking with fury. “You’ve been sneaking into my house, haven’t you? Leaving these notes, trying to scare me?”

For a moment, he just stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he admitted it.

“Fine, yes, Celia. I’ve been trying to scare you,” he said.

“Why? What’s wrong with you? I’ve done nothing to you!”

Mr. Evans’ eyes darkened as he replied.

“This house has been empty for years. I knew you were new to the area and thought you’d scare easily, that you’d move out. I wanted to buy the place at a low price and expand my garden. And maybe rent out the house.”

“You thought you could scare me out of my home?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You thought that by sneaking in and leaving creepy notes, I’d just pack up and leave? This is my grandparents’ house for goodness sake. You’ve known me for my entire life!”

He smirked, a twisted satisfaction in his eyes.

“It wouldn’t take much to convince you the place was haunted or unsafe. I heard your conversation on the phone…”

Fury bubbled inside me.

“Get out. Now. And if you ever set foot on my property again, I’ll call the police!”

The old man glared at me, but he knew he was caught. He turned and stomped down the stairs, muttering under his breath.

As soon as he was gone, I sat down on an old trunk, trying to calm myself.

The next morning, I called the police. They were understanding, taking my statement and assuring me they’d talk to Mr. Evans. But I wasn’t taking any chances.

I called a locksmith to come over and change all the locks. I installed a security system and set up cameras all around the property.

“I’d like to see you try now,” I said to myself.

A few days later, I sat on the porch, sipping my morning coffee. I saw Mr. Evans tending to his garden, and when he glanced over, I met his gaze without flinching. I wasn’t afraid anymore.