It was strange, the day we moved in.
I was at school, and when I came back, our old house was empty.
No note. No explanation. Just... gone.
At eight years old, my mind spun. Had they really left me behind?
The creepy neighbor - the one who smelled like tobacco and dirt confirmed my worst fear.
"They left you," he said with a crooked smile.
I never liked him.
But I remembered the new house was within walking distance. So I slung my school bag over my shoulder and trudged toward it. When I reached the gate, I broke down crying.
That was my grand entrance - red-eyed, dust-covered, and convinced I was unwanted.
The cement walls of the house still smelled raw, like they hadn't cured properly. The floors were covered in fine sand, no matter how many times we swept.
Our furniture was old and scratched from the move.
Our belongings - boxes of clothes, rusting steel trunks, battered books - were scattered across the rooms like forgotten offerings.
We didn't have neighbors.
Just open land, scrubby grass, and half-built houses waiting for families who hadn't come yet.
That first night, after the shouting and arranging and exhausted laughter had died down, we slept on the floor of the living room.
No beds. No curtains.
The walls looked too big. Too blank.
I woke up around 2 a.m.
At first, it was the heat.
The power had gone - the fan above a silent, dead thing.
Sweat clung to my back, neck, and scalp like a second skin.
Then we heard it.
Thud.
Thud-thud.
Like footsteps.
Above us.
Heavy. Deliberate.
Crossing the rooftop.
I held my breath.
Another step.
And another.
Someone was up there.
Walking.
Pacing.
We all woke up, startled and disoriented. Outside, somewhere in the distance, dogs howled.
Another thud.
For a moment, we thought it was a thief - someone who had seen the new family move in and decided we were easy prey.
My father got up - I watched him grab a cricket bat, his jaw set tight with sleep and anger.
We followed at a distance as he crept up the stairs, bat raised, barefoot on the concrete steps.
He reached the rooftop.
We waited in the stairwell, frozen.
Minutes passed.
Finally, he came back down. His face was pale.
"There's no one," he said.
And there wasn't.
No broken lock.
No shadow slipping away.
No disturbed tiles.
Just heat.
Silence.
And the undeniable sense that something had been there… and maybe still was.
We tried to laugh it off the next morning.
"New house noises," my father said.
"Concrete settling. Probably animals."
But that night - and every night after - we heard it again.
The slow, patient footsteps.
Sometimes pacing.
Sometimes running.
Eventually, we stopped checking.
It was easier not to.
It was easier to pretend the house had a life of its own - and we were just its guests.