I stared at the new note for a long time.
"Some things are better left quiet."
It wasn't just unsettling now. It felt… intentional. Like someone wanted me to know something — or to fear it.
I didn't tell anyone.
Not the owner. Not Tanya. Not even Papa.
Instead, I kept watching. Listening.
Trying to act normal.
Two days passed.
Nothing new happened. No notes. No footsteps. Just silence.
But silence, I've learned, can be loud when you're already afraid.
That Saturday, I decided to reorganize my cupboard. A way to distract myself. I pulled everything out — books, boxes, a few snacks — and wiped down the inside.
That's when I noticed something strange.
The back panel of the cupboard didn't feel right. One side was smooth… the other felt slightly loose.
I pressed it.
Click.
The panel shifted slightly and popped open from the side — like a hidden door.
My heartbeat quickened.
Inside was a narrow, dark compartment. I hesitated, then reached in.
There was dust. And then… paper. Old, yellowed sheets — maybe two or three, folded together. And something wrapped in a torn scarf.
I pulled them out and sat on my bed, heart pounding.
The paper turned out to be handwritten notes. Faded, but readable.
"3 AM again. The footsteps. They stop near my door." "I told Aunty, she said it's rats. These are not rats." "He was here again. I heard humming. I'm not crazy." "I'm going to record it tonight."
The last line was underlined twice, with shaky handwriting.
The scarf-wrapped object was a small black tape recorder.
It was old — battery operated. I had no idea if it still worked.
I sat there, staring at it, the room suddenly colder.
Who wrote these notes? Why were they hidden? And what did they record that night?
That night, I placed the recorder on the table and sat in silence for a long time.
I wanted to know. But part of me didn't.
Still, I found myself buying batteries the next day.
And that night, I pressed "PLAY."
The sound of static filled the room.
And then — very faintly — footsteps. Then a pause. Then… humming.
A low, eerie melody. Childlike. Soft. Repeating.
I froze.
And then, suddenly, a whisper on the tape:
"You shouldn't be here."
Click.
The tape ended.
But my fear didn't.