THE WOMAN WHO LIVED IN MY HOUSE

Claire bought the house because it was cheap.

Not affordable.

Cheap.

The kind of cheap that made people ask questions.

The house was an old two-story property at the end of a quiet road, surrounded by tall trees and neglected gardens. It had been empty for almost four years after the previous owner died.

The realtor called it “a fantastic opportunity.”

Claire called it a warning sign.

But she had just gone through a difficult breakup and wanted to leave the city. She wanted somewhere quiet where nobody knew her.

The house was perfect.

Or so she thought.

On the first night, she noticed something strange.

There were two toothbrushes in the upstairs bathroom.

Claire stared at them.

One was hers.

The other was pink.

She assumed the previous owner had forgotten it.

The Divorce Papers

She threw it away.

The next morning, it was back.

Claire thought she had made a mistake.

She threw it away again.

That evening, she found a woman's sweater hanging inside her bedroom closet.

She had never seen it before.

She put it in a box and left it downstairs.

The following morning, the box was gone.

Claire searched the entire house.

Nothing.

She called the realtor.

“Did the previous owner leave anything behind?”

The realtor hesitated.

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Was there a woman living there?”

Another pause.

“Why?”

“Because I'm finding women's belongings.”

The realtor laughed nervously.

“Old houses have old things.”

Claire didn't find that funny.

That night, she locked every door.

At 2:17 AM, she heard footsteps downstairs.

Slow footsteps.

Someone walking across the wooden floor.

Claire sat upright in bed.

She listened.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

She grabbed her phone and called the police.

Before they arrived, the footsteps stopped.

The officers searched the house.

Nothing.

One officer checked the basement.

He came back upstairs.

“There's no one here.”

Claire asked, “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

Then he looked at her strangely.

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

He glanced toward the basement.

“Then I'd keep the basement door locked.”

“Why?”

He didn't answer.

The next morning, Claire installed security cameras.

One in the hallway.

One in the kitchen.

One facing the basement door.

One outside the house.

For the first few days, everything was normal.

Then things started moving.

A chair would be in the wrong place.

A cupboard would be open.

Food would disappear.

Claire began writing everything down.

Monday:

Milk missing.

Tuesday:

Bedroom window open.

Wednesday:

Pink toothbrush returned.

Thursday:

Basement light switched on.

Friday:

Women's perfume found in bathroom.

She began sleeping with a chair pushed against her bedroom door.

Then, one morning, she found a note on her kitchen table.

Three words.

STOP LOOKING FOR ME.

Claire called the police again.

They searched the house.

Nothing.

This time, Claire demanded they inspect the walls.

They refused.

The officer told her that unless there was evidence of an intruder, there wasn't much they could do.

Claire knew there was someone inside.

So she checked the cameras.

Every night.

Nothing appeared.

No doors opening.

No windows moving.

No person entering.

But the objects continued appearing.

Then Claire found a second bedroom.

It wasn't on the floor plan.

She discovered it accidentally while cleaning the basement.

Behind a large wooden cabinet was a narrow door.

She opened it.

A staircase went upward.

Claire climbed.

At the top was a tiny room hidden between the walls.

Inside were clothes.

Dozens of them.

All women's clothes.

Some looked decades old.

Others looked brand new.

There were photographs pinned to the wall.

Women.

Different women.

Different years.

But every woman was standing inside the house.

Claire picked up one photograph.

The date written on the back was 1987.

Another was from 1996.

Another from 2004.

Another from 2015.

The last one was dated three months earlier.

Claire stared at it.

It showed a woman standing in the kitchen.

The same kitchen Claire had been using.

The woman looked frightened.

Claire didn't recognize her.

Then she looked closer.

The woman was wearing the pink sweater Claire had found in her closet.

Claire dropped the photograph.

She ran downstairs.

That night, she packed a suitcase.

She wasn't going to stay another night.

At 11:48 PM, she checked the cameras one final time.

The basement camera showed nothing.

The hallway camera showed nothing.

The kitchen camera showed nothing.

She was about to shut everything down when she noticed something.

The kitchen clock.

It was 3:14 AM.

Claire frowned.

She checked her phone.

11:49 PM.

The camera timestamp was wrong.

Then the kitchen light switched on.

Claire watched.

Nothing entered the room.

A cupboard slowly opened.

A glass moved across the counter.

Then the refrigerator door opened.

Still nobody.

Claire leaned closer to the screen.

A woman's voice whispered through the camera microphone.

“I'm hungry.”

Claire immediately unplugged the system.

She grabbed her keys.

She opened the front door.

And stopped.

Someone was standing outside.

A woman.

Barefoot.

Wearing Claire's clothes.

The woman stared at her.

Claire screamed.

The woman didn't move.

Then she whispered:

“You found my room.”

Claire backed away.

“Who are you?”

The woman looked toward the house.

“I've been here longer than you.”

“How long?”

The woman smiled.

“I don't remember.”

Then she stepped backward into the darkness.

Claire ran.

She drove straight to a hotel.

She didn't return to the house for three days.

When she finally went back with the police, the hidden room was gone.

There was no staircase.

No photographs.

No clothes.

Nothing.

The officers searched the walls.

They found nothing.

Claire began to doubt herself.

Maybe she had imagined it.

Maybe stress had affected her.

Maybe the woman outside had never existed.

She decided to sell the house.

That evening, she packed her things.

While moving a box from her bedroom, she noticed something beneath the bed.

A small camera.

She picked it up.

It was connected to nothing.

But it contained a memory card.

Claire inserted the card into her laptop.

There were hundreds of videos.

She opened the first.

The camera showed her bedroom.

Claire was sleeping.

The date was two weeks earlier.

She opened another.

Same room.

She was sleeping again.

Another.

Same.

Another.

Every night.

Someone had been recording her.

Claire kept watching.

Then she reached the newest video.

The timestamp was last night.

Claire was asleep.

At 3:14 AM, she suddenly sat up.

Her eyes were open.

But she wasn't awake.

She slowly walked out of the bedroom.

Down the hallway.

Into the kitchen.

She opened the refrigerator.

Drank water.

Then walked toward the basement.

Claire watched herself disappear down the stairs.

The video continued.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Then Claire came back upstairs.

But she wasn't alone.

Someone was walking behind her.

A woman.

The same woman from the photograph.

The same woman who had stood outside the house.

The woman leaned toward sleeping Claire.

Then whispered:

“Not yet.”

The video ended.

Claire sat frozen in front of the laptop.

A notification appeared.

NEW VIDEO FILE.

She hadn't noticed it before.

The file was dated:

TOMORROW — 3:14 AM.

Her hands began shaking.

She opened it.

The footage showed the same bedroom.

Claire was sleeping.

The bedroom door slowly opened.

The woman walked inside.

She stood beside the bed.

Then looked directly into the camera.

And smiled.

Behind her, Claire suddenly opened her eyes.

The woman whispered:

“It's time to move out.”

Claire stopped breathing.

Because the woman wasn't speaking to the woman in the bed.

She was looking directly at the camera.

At Claire.

Then the screen went black.

From upstairs came a sound.

A slow creaking noise.

Claire looked toward the staircase.

Someone was walking down.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

Her phone vibrated.

A message appeared from an unknown number.

YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT THE FIRST NIGHT.

Claire stared at the screen.

Another message arrived.

SHE KNOWS YOU FOUND THE ROOM.

Then a final message:

NOW SHE NEEDS YOUR ROOM.