text: Someone is living in my attic and no one will believe me. One year ago, my mother died after a decades long fight with cancer. My long term relationship had ended and I wasn’t moving on, I had no children or pets, my job could be done remotely. When mom was gone, there was nothing keeping me in the big city and its many bad memories. I packed up and got out months after she took her last breath. My apartment lease was over and I decided it was time for a fresh start. I moved into a studio apartment in a small coastal town, vowing to move to a new city every few months and experience the world. Instead, I found a cheap house in the second town I visited and bought it. I don’t think things through, I just do what I feel like doing in the moment. And I felt like living in this house. It was small, a living room and a kitchen the perfect size for someone who cooks just to survive. An upstairs with two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was cheap for the area it was in, though I assumed that was because of its age. The sliding glass door in the back of the house led to a small sandy field before it opened up to the spacious beach and ocean air. It was perfect for me to settle into, get through my work days, numbly watch TV on the couch and then listen to the waves as I read at night and in the mornings on the porch. Every time I read I was joined by the local wildlife. During the day deer would amble across the fields, fed by tourists who didn’t know to leave them alone. Dogs raced by, with their owners racing behind trying to gain control of them. When the moon was high I could hear the nocturnal creatures scuttling by though I didn’t see them as often. My favorite of these critters was a cat I called Shadow because she didn’t wear a collar. The first time I saw her I only saw the round, amber eyes glinting in the darkness when I glanced up from my book. It spooked me because she stared at me without blinking and I couldn’t see anything but her eyes. A few nights of this and she finally slunk out of the shadows and approached me. She didn’t seem afraid of me like I had thought. She just hadn’t decided yet if I was worthy of her time. She sniffed me gently, flinching if I moved at all. The porch light illuminated her fur which was surprisingly shiny for an outdoor cat. She was small and sleek, mostly black except her underbelly, neck, and face which was gray, black, and brown tabby stripes. I wondered if she had a home, if she just went from neighbor to neighbor looking for food and attention. She seemed comfortable with people. Shadow came around most of the nights that I sat on the patio and read. I started leaving my screen door cracked a bit when I was at home to see if she would come inside. Eventually, she did. Shadow was cautious at first, going room to room and sniffing furniture. After a while she owned the place. I put out cat food for her, wondering if a family was missing her when she spent all this time here. I didn’t want to take a cat away from some kid because I was feeding her. She was far too skinny though, so I kept putting food out. The house was the fresh start I needed. I spread my mothers ashes in the sand, kept some in an urn that I put on the fireplace in the living room. Made amends with exes and then never spoke to them again. I started to heal and move on with my life. I felt like my old self again. When I moved in, the house was peaceful. This lasted for a couple of months. I was tucked safely into bed when I heard the footsteps above my head. I had lived in so many apartments that the sound was unmistakable. Someone walked from one end of my roof to another. I shot up in bed, stories of Skinwalkers leaping from roof to roof danced in my head because I once traumatized myself by watching cryptid videos late at night. I listened to the deafening silence for a few moments after the steps faded but the quiet was almost more terrifying. I could feel a cool, clammy sweat pooling in the crevices of my body. Shadow flounced into the room like nothing was amiss, likely in her element since it was the middle of the night. She leapt onto the bed and I ran my hand across her soft fur as I listened for more of the sound but it was gone now. I felt comforted by the touch of another creature and was able to fall back asleep with Shadow curled into my side. A few nights later I heard it again while sitting in my living room. I had dismissed the first time as being a nightmare but I could not this time as I was wide awake watching television. The footsteps again, from one side of the house to another. This time there was some additional shuffling, the scrapings of moving objects. It was harder to hear it since I was on the ground floor but it was there and I was not dreaming. My heart raced in my chest as I reluctantly went to my front door. What would I do if someone was on top of my house? I had no weapons, the police in a small town could be many minutes away, and all I had was a small stray cat to defend me. I made sure to take my cellphone with me. My hand rested on the doorknob while I tried to stabilize my breathing. When I finally gathered the courage, rage also building inside of me as the sounds above me continued, I yanked the door open and sprinted outside while also yelling “Hey!” in the most booming voice a small woman like me could muster. As I wheeled around in the front yard to look back at the roof, I dropped my phone in the grass. No one was on the roof. It was completely empty and silent. I picked up my phone and retreated inside, which was once again eerily silent. Shadow greeted me at the front door with a waving tail, likely thinking I had abruptly left. I felt comforted by the sight of her. Throughout the time I had lived here, she had become a confidant. I could tell her anything and I knew it was safe with her. She was the only one there both the times I had heard the sounds which made me feel less alone and crazy. She was here more often than not, though I never barred her from going outside and back to whatever family she may have come from. The rest of that night was quiet, but I couldn’t shake what I had heard. I slept in hour long increments and the next day racked my brain for what could be happening. I struggled through work, giving my computer about 10% of my attention. After work, I started to look at my ceiling in every room. When I opened the closet door in the spare bedroom, I was shocked to see a door with a string hanging down. When I pulled on the string, the door pulled down with it and exposed a small staircase that led up into pitch black darkness. I didn’t have the courage to go up there so I shut the door quickly, shut the closet door and the guest bedroom door, and fled downstairs quickly. Someone was in my attic. I called the police as soon as I had my phone in my hand again. They took fifteen minutes to show up despite me telling them there was an intruder in my house which confirmed my fear that in a small town, the police department response time is lacking. They ascended the stairs while I waited outside by their direction. After a few painstakingly long minutes they came back out the front door and informed me the attic was empty as was the rest of my house. When I insisted I heard the noises they offered to take me up there to see it for my own eyes. They were right, it was empty. The attic was small, only about four feet tall so we all had to bend over to not hit the ceiling. It was dusty with no windows that would have provided an escape for my new houseguest. Shadow greeted the men on their way out and I shut the door behind them, alone in the house yet again save my tiny protector. That night the sounds were back again. Footsteps, shuffling, I was pretty sure I could hear the sound of the attic stairs coming down. As soon as I heard that I raced out of the house and called the police yet again. I had to wait even longer this time for them to arrive since it was late at night. They searched the attic again and when they came back out, they explained that it was probably just sounds of the old house shifting, it is windy on the coast after all. But I know what I heard. I spent the entire night in the living room, clutching a steak knife while Shadow laid on the couch next to me. The rest of the night was quiet but I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I called off of work the next day. I bought a lantern and a bright flashlight from the hardware store and ventured into the attic. With the space lit it looked even smaller up here. But it was no longer empty. An old, massively thick book laid on the floor next to a spread out blanket with unlit wax candles around it. I knelt down next to the book, running my finger over it’s cover. It was dark brown and tattered, with a symbol in the center and the words ‘Black Magic Craft’ written across the top in an old, italic script. I fell right on my butt and then scrambled backward across the dusty wooden floor to put space between the book and myself. With trembling limbs I climbed back down the stairs and practically glided down to the bottom floor I was running so fast. Another call to the police, another search of the attic. This time when they left, they suggested I contact a psychiatrist. They think I’m delusional. If I call again when I am in danger, they may not even respond. Feeling defeated and sleep deprived, I retreated back into the house. I slept on the couch, too exhausted to make it through the entire night awake this time. Shadow curled up in between my legs. There may have been more noises, but none were made while I was conscious at least. The next day, the sounds started up in the broad daylight. My houseguest was getting more bold and I was getting more afraid. I could no longer sleep and I lived in terror every day. This went on for a couple weeks, the cops no longer came, and I genuinely felt like I was losing my grip on reality. Maybe this was all in my head. Maybe my mother dying had been harder on me than I had thought. So I grabbed my phone and sat outside where I could have some peace. Then I googled my address. The list of times this house had been bought went on for multiple pages. Typically someone would move in and then leave just a couple of months later. The ones who stayed, died. Searching my address in another engine gave me the names of the people who had lived here so I pulled up any obituaries and social medias I could find. Every one had moved in seemingly healthy. Then their health deteriorated. Posts on social medias told me that one person had moved in, was looking for advice about rodents in walls, asking for help with sleep, and then suddenly the posts were from their family members expressing their grief over such a sudden loss. I hadn’t noticed the decline of my own health, both mentally and physically. No sleep was the main cause. The stress had caused me to stop eating unless absolutely necessary and I dropped twenty pounds that I couldn’t really afford to lose in the first place so now I was rail thin. I had started to see things that I don’t think were ever there, like shadows moving in my bedroom at night. Sometimes I would be coming to a corner and feel like someone was right on the other side but when I would pop my head around, Shadow would greet me with a meow and a wave of her tail. Tonight, I snapped. I was laying on the couch, waiting to be so exhausted that I would lull into a light sleep like most nights. My houseguest had other plans. The footsteps and shuffling started up again. This time, instead of fear rising from my chest it was anger. I am outraged. This is my house, my fresh start. How dare they take that away from me while squatting in my own attic? I am done. The police aren’t going to help me so it’s time to do it on my own. I grab my largest kitchen knife and slowly ascend the stairs to the second floor. Once I am at the top of them, I see the door to the guest room was ajar. I always left it closed. I put both hands on the knife, holding it so hard that my knuckles are white. I move to the closet, the doors on that also wide open. The attic steps were already hanging down and I could hear the shuffling louder than ever now. Whoever it is, they are just a few feet away. There are no barriers between us now. As silently as I could so that I could sneak up on them, I climb the stairs. I poke my head up into the door once I’m close enough to see inside. The candles are lit, the book in the middle of the floor. And sitting over it is a decrepit old woman. She looked up as my head popped into view, knowing already that I would be there. Long white hair hung in ratty locks around her wrinkled face, her skin glowingly pale. The eyes send a jolt straight to my heart. Round, amber, cat eyes. With just a wave of her hand, I suddenly feel out of my body, no longer in control of my own actions. My hand, by no control of my brain, takes the knife and plunges it directly into my side. As soon as the action is done, I’m shocked I had done it. I cough and blood spatters across my chin and the wooden floor. I tumble down the stairs and fall onto the floor of the guest bedroom. I was dizzy but through the fog covering my brain and vision, I watch as the old woman hobbles down the steps and crouches next to me. I look up into the amber eyes I had grown to know so well these past few months. She strokes my hair with a grim smile, as if this was a last resort she didn’t want to do. “You had so much grief.” She says. “So much fear and sadness. The best meal thus far.” And as my life drains out of my stab wound onto the floor below me in a dark red pool, I watch as the old woman transforms into a small, black tabby cat with large, round, amber eyes. I had been the houseguest in Shadow’s home.