For months, I felt watched. Lights I turned off stayed on, doors I closed crept open. At first, I blamed my imagination—until I started hearing noises upstairs. Living alone, every creak sent chills down my spine.
Then it escalated.
Last week, muddy footprints trailed from the back door to the kitchen. Yesterday, I came home to a rearranged living room—coffee table moved, books scattered. Terrified, I locked myself in my bedroom and called the police.
They searched every corner but found no signs of forced entry. Just as they were about to leave, one officer paused and asked, “Have you checked on your cat?”
My heart dropped—then I remembered.
My little troublemaker. The real culprit. She’s been dragging in muddy shoes, knocking books over, even flicking light switches like it’s a game. Mystery solved.
Turns out, I’m not being haunted—I just live with a furry agent of chaos.
Sometimes, fear plays tricks on us. But the scariest thing in my house? A four-legged gremlin with a love for drama.
