I live alone.
That’s what I kept telling myself after the divorce, after the house started feeling too big for one person. Too quiet. At night, the silence pressed against my ears until I could hear my own heartbeat.
That night, I was brushing my teeth when it happened.
“Daniel…”
I froze.
The voice was soft. Familiar. It came from the guest room down the hall — the one I never use.
I stood there, toothbrush hanging from my mouth, staring at my reflection. My face had gone pale.
I turned off the bathroom light.
The hallway was dark, except for a thin line of light under the guest room door.
That was impossible.
I always keep it closed.
And the light doesn’t work in there.
“Daniel…”
Again. Closer this time.
My stomach tightened. It sounded like my mother’s voice.
She died three years ago.
I took a slow step forward. The floor creaked beneath my foot, louder than it ever had before. The voice stopped.
Silence.
I reached the door and placed my hand on the knob. It was warm.
I whispered, “Who’s there?”
No answer.
I opened the door.
The room was empty.
No furniture. No lights. No movement. Just darkness swallowing the corners of the room.
I exhaled, laughing nervously at myself.
Stress. Lack of sleep. That’s all.
As I turned to leave, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
Unknown Number
Why didn’t you come in?
My breath caught.
I slowly looked back into the room.
In the far corner, barely visible, I saw the imprint of someone sitting on the floor — as if an invisible body was pressed against the wall.
My phone vibrated again.
You used to answer when I called your name.
The door slammed shut behind me.
And from inside the room, right against the door, something whispered:
“Daniel… I’m still here.”