I'm renting a house. Old, wooden, with high ceilings and creaky floors. The landlady let it go cheap — at the time I figured I'd just gotten lucky. First month — nothing. A house is a house. But then I noticed that every evening when I got back from work, the front door was slightly ajar. Not wide open, no. A two-finger gap. Lock intact, bolt in place — yet the door was cracked open. Every single day. I changed the lock. Didn't help. Then came the footsteps. Not at night — during the day. I work from home on Wednesdays. I'd be sitting downstairs at my desk, and upstairs someone would be walking. Slowly, heavily, like an elderly person. Corner to corner. I'd go up — nothing there. I'd come back down — the footsteps would start again a minute or two later. As if it had been waiting for me to leave. I set up three cameras. One in the upstairs bedroom, one on the staircase, one by the front door. And this is where things got truly strange. The footsteps are AUDIBLE on the recordings. The camera picks up sound, the microphone catches impacts on the floor. But on the video — no one. An empty room where something is walking. I sent the footage to a few people. They all said the same thing: floorboards shifting from temperature changes. Right. Floorboards that shift exclusively on Wednesdays, when I'm home. And then something happened that kept me up for two nights straight. I keep a journal. Paper, just an ordinary notebook. I left it open on the kitchen table, went to the store. Came back — the notebook was open to a different page. A blank one. And right in the center, in pencil, in shaky handwriting, there was a single word. "wednesday" My pencil had been sitting next to the notebook. I remember this clearly, because it's always there. I took a photo, showed my friends — "you wrote it yourself and forgot," "you're messing with us," "someone comes over while you're at work." I live alone. The landlady doesn't have a spare key — I changed the lock. After that I deliberately started leaving the notebook open. Every day. Two weeks — nothing. Then, again on a Wednesday, a new entry. Same handwriting. Two lines: "dont leave dont like when it's dark" I started shaking. Not from fear. From the sudden realization — it doesn't just "exist." It's lonely. It waits for Wednesdays because on Wednesdays I'm home all day. It opens the door when I come back. It walks around upstairs while I'm downstairs — not to scare me, just... living alongside me. I wrote in the notebook: "Who are you?" The next morning, beneath my question: "been here a long time" And below that, smaller, almost hesitant: "you're good the ones before you were bad" I kept trying. Asked different things. Sometimes answers appeared, sometimes they didn't. The handwriting was always the same — large, trembling, the letters unsteady, as though the hand wasn't used to writing. Or had forgotten how. Many times I asked "Who are you?" There was never an answer to that, but one day a page simply read: "dont remember" Five months have passed now. I still live here. On Wednesdays I work from home, the door cracks open when I return, someone walks around upstairs. We correspond through the notebook. It's the most insane relationship of my life. Last week the landlady called, asked how the house was. I said fine. She went quiet for a long time, then just said goodbye. The notebook is almost full. Yesterday I bought a new one. Left it on the table, open to the first page. In the morning it said: "thank you" Nobody believes me. But I have a notebook where someone who's been here a long time writes to me.