You don't see his face… but he sees everything inside.

When my family traveled that winter, I wasn't overly concerned. They left me alone for just a few days, and the roads were safe despite the snow that had started piling up that morning. I thought the solitude would be simple, routine, nothing more than extra free time. I didn't expect that the tranquility would later transform into something else—not a loud terror, but a constant feeling like a cold hand touching my shoulder without me seeing it.

On the first night, I sat by the window watching the snow pile up and gradually erase the street from view. The outside light was dim, the air thick, but I felt nothing out of the ordinary. It was simply that the house felt bigger when I was alone. The echo was clearer, the sound of the door opening and closing was longer, and even my breathing seemed more audible.

The night passed peacefully. The second night too. There was nothing to worry about. I ate, studied, and dozed off near the fireplace. Everything was normal until the third night, when something very simple began —but it was the beginning of everything that followed.

I was in the kitchen washing an empty cup when I heard a slight rustling sound from the hallway, something like fabric scraping against each other. Not a fall or a door opening, just a very subtle movement, as if someone had walked past the wall. I paused for a few seconds, listening; the sound didn't repeat itself. I ignored it and went back to my work, but that moment left a small mark on my mind—a mark that said: You're not entirely alone.

In the middle of the night, I was just about to fall asleep when I heard the same sound , but this time from downstairs. Just one footstep. Quiet, clear, single. It wasn't repeated. I didn't dare go down, but stayed awake listening. Nothing. Five minutes. Ten. Half an hour. Then it was all over in complete silence.

Morning came as usual, and the cold was biting. But what worried me wasn't the sounds of the night, but the print I saw on the living room window: a small, very clear handprint from outside. Not traces of rain or fog—a real, solitary print, cold as if it had been placed there just minutes before. There were no children around, and the neighbors were away, like my family. I wiped it off. I went on with my day as usual. But I wasn't as at ease as I used to be.

The fourth night was the quietest—and that made it the worst. No movement, no sound, nothing but snow. But at three in the morning, I heard a light tapping on the window, only three times, spaced apart, far from violent but precise enough to be impossible to ignore. When I went closer and looked behind the curtain, I couldn't see anything in sight—just a shadow standing at the far end of the garden, a little tall, completely still, like a lifeless pillar. Just one blink… and it was gone.

I didn't turn on the light. I didn't dare.

The fifth day was the strangest. I woke up to find human footprints stretching from the front door to the far end of the garden, but they led from inside out —not the other way around. It was as if someone had spent the night with me and then left at dawn.

No door was broken, no window opened, and nothing was missing from the house. Only traces. And silence. And air a little colder than it should be.

I stopped thinking. I didn't look for an explanation, and I no longer went near the windows at night. There were only two days left until my family returned, and I decided to care about only one thing: not opening the door after midnight… no matter what.

The house is quiet now. The snow outside the window keeps coming. And sometimes, if I listen closely after 2 a.m., I hear a light footstep in the hallway. Just one. As if someone is passing by to make sure I'm still here.

And perhaps that's the problem.

He knows.

If you'd like me to write a sequel or a stronger ending — a real confrontation, a revelation, the intruder's entrance… just tell me, shall we continue? ❄👁️