The House That Kept Its Secrets
Arlind bought the house for its design—minimalist, elegant, a perfect blend of metal and stone. It was exactly what he needed: a fresh start. A place to rebuild after everything fell apart.
The first few nights were peaceful. The open terrace upstairs became his favorite spot to sip coffee in the morning, and the quiet surroundings felt like a reset to his chaotic life.
But then, the scratches appeared.
At first, they were small—barely noticeable marks on the metal siding near the bottom floor. He assumed it was the wind dragging branches or maybe a stray animal. But as days passed, the scratches became deeper.
And more disturbingly, they seemed to be moving upward.
By the end of the week, Arlind noticed something even stranger: his outdoor furniture shifted places overnight. The coffee table he had positioned near the railing was now against the wall. A chair he never used was suddenly facing the stairs.
Then came the whispers.
Soft at first. Like the wind. But they weren’t random.
They had rhythm.
He told himself it was just his imagination—until one night, his phone recorded something.
It was 3:41 AM when the camera caught movement. A shadow. But not outside. Inside. The reflection on the glass door showed a figure—tall, motionless—standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Watching.
He turned, expecting to see someone. But the space was empty.
The next morning, Arlind packed his bags. He had no intention of staying another night. But as he stepped out, his heart stopped.
The scratches had reached the second floor.
And near the entrance, carved deep into the steel, were three words:
“YOU’RE NOT ALONE.”
