The Stranger Who Lived in Our Attic for 12 Days

I used to think ghosts were the scariest thing that could live in your house. That changed last summer—when we discovered a man had been living in our attic.

Not a ghost.

Not a shadow.

A real person. With a name. A phone. A plan.

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It Started with Sounds

I live with my older sister, Saba, in a two-bedroom house we inherited from our grandmother in the quiet edge of town. It’s the kind of place people forget exists—old paint, creaky floors, a half-dead garden.

About two weeks into July, I started hearing footsteps at night. Slow ones. Above my room.

I assumed it was just the house settling.

But then came the whispers.

At 2:41 AM, I woke up to what sounded like someone speaking directly above me. Faint, raspy, and almost... conversational.

I texted Saba:

"Are you up?"

She replied:

"Sleeping. Why?"

That night, I didn’t sleep.

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Missing Food and Moved Things

A few days later, Saba complained the cereal was gone. Not just eaten—gone. The whole box.

Then the juice disappeared. Then her charger. Then a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom.

We joked about it. “Maybe it’s grandma’s ghost.” But the tension in our eyes said otherwise.

We checked the locks. All secure.

Windows? Shut tight.

Still, every morning, something small was missing. It felt like being gaslit by your own house.

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The Phone Flash That Changed Everything

On the 11th night, I couldn’t sleep. The sound above me came back—dragging, like something heavy being pulled.

I stood in the hallway at 3:12 AM and pointed my phone camera up toward the attic door. Just to see.

I turned on the flash. Snapped a photo. Opened it.

And dropped my phone.

A man’s face stared directly into the lens—just inches above the attic hatch, as if he'd been watching me.

I backed away. Trembling. Saba woke up to my scream.

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We Called the Police

They arrived quickly. Armed, flashlights out, whispering to each other as they climbed into the attic.

Minutes passed. Then—

“We’ve got him.”

They pulled out a man in his mid-30s, barefoot, filthy, trembling but calm. In his backpack: five protein bars, a flashlight, my sister’s charger, a spoon, and a spiral notebook full of notes.

The first page said:

> “DAY 1 – She doesn’t know I’m here.”

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The Story He Told

His name was Amir. He’d been released from a mental health facility a month ago. No home. No family. No medication. No support.

He said he wasn’t trying to hurt us. Just needed “a place to think.”

He found the attic hatch unlocked one night while wandering through our neighborhood. Waited until the lights were off. Climbed in. Stayed.

For 12 days, he lived just above us. Listening. Writing. Stealing small things to survive.

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The Notes We Read Later

The police let us read his notebook after the case was closed.

Most pages were random thoughts. But a few stood out:

> “She hums in the kitchen. I miss music.”

“They don’t fight. I like it here.”

“Maybe I’ll stay. Maybe I’ll say hello.”

And then the last page:

> “Tomorrow I’ll leave. But part of me wants to stay forever.”

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What Haunts Me Most

It wasn’t the face.

Not the theft.

Not even the danger.

It’s the fact that we never knew. That someone was just above us while we laughed, showered, slept, cried. A silent presence, living in the shadows of our everyday life.

We replaced the attic lock. Got cameras. Moved houses a month later.

But some nights, when the air is too quiet, I still glance at the ceiling and wonder...

What if someone’s already there?

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