It happened late at night, when the house was silent.
I was half-awake, staring at the ceiling, when something tapped my toe.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Not a twitch. Not a brush.
A deliberate tap.
I shot upright, heart racing, and scanned the room. The doorway was empty. No pets. No shadows. Nothing out of place. I told myself it was nerves, pulled the blanket tighter, and forced myself to sleep.
I wish I’d trusted the fear.
The next day, my brother told me he’d walked past my room and found my door wide open. He stepped inside to close it—and heard a low, guttural snarl right behind him. Not a growl. A sound with intent. He ran without looking back.
After that, the house changed. Doors creaked open. Footsteps echoed in empty halls. My room stayed cold, no matter how warm the rest of the house was. Every night, I felt watched.
A psychic healer came and stopped the moment she entered my bedroom.
“This started with an invitation,” she said.
“It’s not attached to the house. It’s attached to you.”
The toe tapping was a test. When I reacted, it followed.
During the cleansing, three slow knocks came from inside my closet.
“It doesn’t want to leave,” she said. “But it will.”
For months, everything stopped.
Then one night, as I drifted to sleep, something brushed my foot—just once.
I didn’t move.
And it eventually let go.
I still don’t sleep with my feet uncovered.
Some things don’t disappear.
They just wait.
