When I inherited my grandparents’ house, it felt like a cherished dream. This was the place where I spent countless summers—playing in the garden, baking with Grandma, and listening to Grandpa’s stories by the fireplace.

The house was a sanctuary of memories, comforting even as I moved in alone. But a few weeks into my new life, that comfort turned unsettling.

One day, while unpacking, my mother asked, “What’s it like, Celia? Is it different without them?”

I replied, “It’s familiar and strange at the same time.”

She reassured me, “As long as there’s comfort, that’s all you need to get going in your new place.”

Despite the reassurance, I soon noticed odd occurrences. Every morning, the attic door was slightly ajar. Initially, I blamed it on the house settling or a draft. But the idea that someone might be sneaking into my home gnawed at me.

One evening, after a long day, I came home, eager for a relaxing bath. But something on the kitchen door frame caught my eye—a small piece of paper.

“That definitely wasn’t here before,” I murmured, feeling a chill.

The note read: *Come to the attic at midnight. Come ALONE.*

Fear washed over me. Should I call the police? But what would I say? That someone left a note in my home? Without clear signs of a break-in, it might seem far-fetched.

I considered it a prank—perhaps some kids. But my unease lingered.

I called my best friend, Laura, hoping for reassurance.

“You won’t believe what I just found,” I said, my voice trembling.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Laura asked.

“A note stuck to the attic door. It says I should go up there at midnight. Alone.”

“Celia, that’s creepy. Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you should call the police,” Laura suggested, her concern palpable.

“I thought about it,” I admitted. “But it might just be a prank.”

“Prank or not, Celia, it says to come alone. How do you know you’re safe right now?”

I was silent, weighing the options. Laura’s offer to come over was comforting, but her tendency to overreact made me hesitant.

“I appreciate it, but the note says to come alone. I need to face this. I’ll keep my phone with me,” I promised.

“Okay, but be careful. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come over.”

“I will,” I reassured her.

Midnight crawled in slowly, each tick of the clock amplifying my anxiety. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t eat. The thought of what awaited me in the attic was paralyzing.

Finally, I grabbed a flashlight and climbed the creaky stairs. The attic door was slightly ajar. I took a deep breath, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

The attic was as I remembered—dusty, cluttered with old furniture and forgotten boxes. But tonight, something was off.

In the corner, illuminated by my flashlight, sat a shadowy figure in an old wooden chair. My heart raced, and I froze.

“Who’s there?” I called, my voice trembling.

No response. The figure remained still. Summoning my courage, I stepped closer, and as the light revealed the truth, I saw it wasn’t a person but a dummy dressed in old clothes, with a wig on its head. Relief flooded me, but it was short-lived.

A noise behind me made me jump. I spun around, flashlight flickering, and found Mr. Evans, my neighbor, standing there with a mix of surprise and anger.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“What are you doing in my house?” he retorted, his voice sharp.

He hesitated, eyes darting around. “I thought I heard a noise and came to check on you.”

“Liar,” I said, my fear turning to anger. “You’ve been sneaking into my house, leaving these notes to scare me.”

Mr. Evans stared at me, then admitted, “Yes, Celia. I wanted to scare you into moving out so I could buy the house cheaply and expand my garden.”

“You thought you could scare me out of my home?” I was incredulous. “This is my grandparents’ house! You’ve known me for years!”

He smirked, satisfaction in his eyes. “It wouldn’t take much to convince you it was haunted. I overheard your conversation on the phone…”

Fury bubbled inside me. “Get out. Now. If you ever set foot on my property again, I’ll call the police.”

Mr. Evans glared but knew he was caught. He stomped down the stairs, muttering under his breath.

After he left, I sat on an old trunk, trying to calm myself. The next morning, I called the police. They took my statement and assured me they’d talk to Mr. Evans. I wasn’t taking any chances.

I called a locksmith to change all the locks, installed a security system, and set up cameras around the property. “I’d like to see you try now,” I muttered.

A few days later, sipping my coffee on the porch, I saw Mr. Evans tending his garden. When he glanced over, I met his gaze without flinching. I wasn’t afraid anymore.

So, what would you have done?