It started with a knock. Soft, almost polite, at the front door. But when Emma opened it, no one was there. Only a small, neatly folded piece of paper, yellowed with age, resting on the doorstep.
It read: "I’ve been watching. I’m closer than you think."
Emma thought little of it at first. Perhaps it was a prank, a neighbor’s idea of fun. But then, the knocks began again. Each time she opened the door, the paper would be waiting, more urgent than before, each note more cryptic. The words shifted. "I know your secrets." "I’m waiting inside."
One evening, the knocks came louder, shaking the doorframe. Fear twisted in her chest. She opened it.
This time, the note was gone. Instead, the air grew cold. Her heart raced as she stepped inside, eyes scanning the darkened hallway.
There, at the far end of the corridor, stood a figure—motionless, silent. A tall, shadowed shape, dressed in something she couldn’t quite make out. The longer she stared, the more it felt like it was breathing, waiting for her to make the next move.
Frozen, she whispered, "Who are you?"
The figure didn’t answer, but as the silence stretched on, she realized something far worse—it was her own reflection.
The knocks came again. But this time, from the inside of the house.
