"The Night I Wasn't Alone"

I often stayed up late working on my laptop. That night, everything felt perfectly normal... until a soft knock on my door changed everything.

It was almost 2 a.m. when I heard it — a faint tapping, barely there. When I checked the door, no one was there. I shrugged it off, blaming my tired mind. But what happened afterward still haunts me to this day.

I went back to my desk, trying to shake off the uneasiness. Maybe it was just someone drunk or lost. But five minutes later, I heard it again — three slow knocks, this time louder.

I froze. My heart thudded in my chest. I tiptoed to the door and looked through the peephole... Nothing. No one. Just the dim hallway light flickering like it always did. But when I turned back toward my room, I saw something that stopped me cold.

My bedroom door, which had been open a moment ago, was now slowly closing... on its own.

I stood frozen, my hand still resting on the doorknob. The silence in the apartment felt heavier than ever, like the air itself was waiting. I whispered, “Hello?” but got no reply — not even an echo.

Slowly, I walked toward my bedroom. Each step felt like it echoed too loud on the floor. I pushed the door open, expecting... I don’t even know what. Nothing. The room was empty.

I laughed nervously, trying to convince myself it was the wind, maybe a draft. But that laugh died in my throat when I turned to leave — and saw it.

A wet footprint. Bare, human-sized, right there on my bedroom floor. One single print. I hadn't stepped there. And I hadn’t come in with wet feet.

I stared at the footprint, my breath shallow. It was facing towards me — like someone had been standing there, watching while I slept.

My mind raced. I checked the windows — locked. The front door — bolted from inside. No signs of a break-in. Still, someone... or something had been there.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in my living room with every light on, phone in hand, staring at the hallway. But nothing happened.

The next morning, when sunlight poured in and the silence didn’t feel so heavy, I finally stood up to clean the footprint... but it was gone. No mark, no stain. As if it had never been there.

But something had changed — my cat, who always curled up on my bed, refused to enter the room anymore. She just sat by the door, growling at nothing.

Days passed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Lights would flicker randomly. I started waking up at 3:03 a.m. every night — always to silence, yet always with the same tightness in my chest, like something was in the room with me.

I installed a motion sensor camera in my bedroom. Just to be sure. I didn’t expect it to catch anything.

That night, I slept with the camera on. Next morning, I checked the footage. Everything was normal... until 3:03 a.m.

The camera glitched for a second — then a single frame appeared, just one. In it, there was something sitting at the edge of my bed.

Not a person. Not clearly. Just a dark shape. Humanoid. Head bowed. Still.

My hands shook as I paused the frame. I zoomed in. The shape had no face. Just darkness — like the shadows had formed into something almost human.

I showed it to a friend the next day. He laughed nervously and said, “Must be a camera glitch, bro.” But he avoided my eyes the whole time.

That night, I deleted the footage. I didn’t want that thing in my hard drive. I told myself it was over. That I imagined it.

But at exactly 3:03 a.m., I woke up again. No sound. No lights flickering. Just the cold. The kind that seeps into your bones. I pulled my blanket tighter—

—and felt it.

A hand.

Cold. Bony. Resting lightly on my shoulder.

I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. The hand on my shoulder gripped slightly — not to hurt me, but like it wanted me to know: “I’m here.”

Somehow, I forced my body to turn. There was no one there. Just the empty room. The cold faded. The lights stopped flickering. Silence returned.

That morning, I packed my things and left. I didn’t care about the lease or the deposit. I just needed to get away.

A week later, my friend texted me: “Bro… did you leave something in your apartment?”

He sent a photo. It was from the security camera in the hallway — a grainy image, timestamped 3:03 a.m.

In the frame, someone was standing outside my old door.

A figure. Head bowed. Still. Just like before.

The problem?

The photo was taken two nights after I left.

Some places are never truly empty.

Sometimes... when you think you’ve left, something stays behind. Or maybe, something follows you.

I still wake up at 3:03 a.m. sometimes.

And sometimes, I feel that cold hand on my shoulder again.

(The ones you can't see are the ones who never leave.)