Supernatural — Nobody Believes Me

I'm renting a house. Old, wooden, with high ceilings and creaky floors. The owner 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 have this notebook. Nothing special, just a regular notebook. I left it open on the kitchen table, went to the shop. Came back and 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 owner 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 realizing. 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, like 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 strangest thing in my life. Last week the owner 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.

So. I've been reading through your stories for a while now, and I finally worked up the nerve to share what happened to me. I'll try to keep it straightforward, but sorry in advance if I ramble — once I start thinking about this stuff, it's hard to stop. It was November 2019. My wife and I went to Cairo. Not one of those all-inclusive Red Sea resort deals — she's got a degree in History and had always wanted to see the pyramids in person. I'll be honest, I was more in it for the trip itself. I was never someone who believed in anything supernatural. I was always the guy who'd say "there's a rational explanation for everything." Was. On day three we headed to Giza. We'd hired a local guide, Ahmed, solid guy, spoke great English. It was about 30 degrees out — November and still that hot, go figure. There were tourists around, but it wasn't packed. Off-season, I guess. The Great Pyramid up close is quite something. Photos don't do it justice. You stand there looking at those stone blocks — each one comes up to your chest — and there are millions of them. Your brain just can't process it. Ahmed asked if we wanted to go inside. My wife didn't even hesitate, and I tagged along. We paid the entrance fee and in we went. The passage is narrow, low, stuffy. I'm not claustrophbic, but I won't pretend it was pleasant. We started climbing up the Grand Gallery — this long, sloping corridor with a high ceiling.And that's where the first thing I can't explain happened. I'd fallen a few metres behind my wife and Ahmed. They'd gone round a corner, and for just a moment — I'm talking two or three seconds — I felt completely alone. Not in the "they walked ahead" sense. Alone in the world. Every sound vanished. All of them. No footsteps, no tourist chatter, no echo off the walls. Dead silence, thick and almost physical. And the smell changed — instead of that stale, damp air, there was something sweet, like incense but not quite. I can't describe it any better than that. It lasted two, maybe three seconds. Then my wife called out to me and everything snapped back — the sounds, the smells, the feeling of reality. At the time I told myself it was the heat, the thin air, and I didn't mention it to my wife. We made it to the King's Chamber. It's a room with a granite sarcophagus, bare, with a massive echo. Ahmed was explaining things, my wife was taking photos. And I was standing by the far wall feeling strange. Not sick — strange. Like there was someone else in that room besides us and the three or four other tourists. It wasn't threatening, more like... being watched. You know that feeling when you walk into someone's house and the owner is just standing there in the doorway, silently looking at you? That. I wanted to get a photo of the sarcophagus on my phone. Pulled it out, aimed the camera — and it switched off. Just died. Battery was around 70 percent. I pressed the power button — nothing. Held it down — nothing. My wife was right next to me photographing away on hers, no issues whatsoever. I shoved mine back in my pocket and figured I'd deal with it later. It turned itself back on about fifteen minutes later, as we were leaving the pyramid. Screen lit up like nothing had happened. Battery — 70%. But in the photo gallery there was one picture I definitely didn't take. Black, almost entirely black. But when I turned the brightness all the way up, you could make out the wall, the corner of the chamber, and something like a shadow near the sarcophagus. It wasn't my shadow, it wasn't any tourist's — it was different. Elongated, the shape didn't match anything. My wife said it was probably a camera glitch. Maybe it was. Right, so up to this point you can still come up with a rational explanation for all of it. What came next — I'm not so sure. That evening we got back to the hotel. I had a shower, lay down, absolutely shattered. Fell asleep instantly. And I had a dream that I remember in vivid detail to this day — and I'm someone who normally forgets dreams before I've finished breakfast. I was inside the pyramid, but it was different. Not crumbling — new. The walls were smooth, covered in drawings and symbols. Oil lamps were burning. And I was walking down a corridor, and I knew where I was going — as if I'd walked that route hundreds of times. I could feel the clothes on my body — some kind of rough linen. And I could feel that I wasn't me. The body was different, the hands were different — dark skin, calluses, and bracelets on both wrists. I reached a room. Not the King's Chamber — a different one, smaller, lower ceiling. There was a stone vessel, and I knew I had to place something inside it. I can't remember what. But I knew it was important and that it wasn't the first time I'd done it. Then I heard a sound. Low, vibrating, as if the pyramid itself was humming. Not unpleasant,but powerful — I felt it through my whole body. And at that moment I looked up and the ceiling was gone. Instead of stone, there was sky. But not a normal sky — the stars were closer, brighter, and they were moving. Rotating slowly. I woke up at 3:47 a.m. I remember the exact time because I checked my phone straight away. Heart hammering, t-shirt soaked. And here's the part that proper scared me: on my left wrist there were two red marks. Parallel, like something tight had been pressing against the skin — a cord, a bracelet. They weren't scratches — they were pressure marks. They stayed visible for about two hours and then faded. My wife was asleep. I didn't wake her. The next day we went to the Egyptian Museum. I was looking at the exhibits when I stopped dead in one of the halls. There were items from tombs — vessels, figurines, jewellery. And I saw bracelets. Bronze, wide, with etched markings. I recognised them. Not "they looked like the ones in the dream" — I recognised them the way you recognise somthing that belongs to you. My hands started shaking. I could feel the weight of them on my wrists. Ahmed was with us. I asked him what those bracelets were, who wore them. He told me they were worn by the "hemu netjer" — temple servants, a kind of junior priest who worked at temples and tombs. Not the high priests, but the ones who carried out the daily rituals. I asked what rituals. He said: offerings,preparations, looking after sacred objects. Basically, what I'd been doing in the dream. I hadn't told Ahmed anything about the dream. It's been over six years now. The dream never came back, the marks on my wrists never reappeared. The phone works fine. That black photo is still sitting in my cloud storage — every now and then I open it, stare at that shadow, and just sit there not knowing what to think. I only told my wife the whole story about six months later. She took it the way you'd expect — "well, maybe it was genetic memory, maybe it was all the impressions from the day getting jumbled together." She's like that, rational, practical, feet firmly on the ground. I used to be too. I don't know what it was. I'm not claiming anything — not past lives, not spirits, not pyramid energy. I've told you what happened, that's it. If anyone's been through something similar, write it up too — I'd love to compare notes.

my daughter was two and a half. she'd just started putting sentences together. one evening im sitting in the kitchen, shes playing in the other room. I hear her talking to someone. kids talk to themselves, to their toys, whatever. but then I listened more closely — she was clearly responding to someone. pausing. laughing. like a real back-and-forth. I went in — nobody there. shes sitting in the corner by the window, looking toward the armchair. the armchair is empty. I ask, who were you talking to? she says, grandpa. I say, which grandpa? both her grandfathers are alive, she knows them by name. she just shrugged and goes, the one sitting over there. points at the armchair. I say, theres nobody there. she looked at me like I was stupid and went back to playing. I would have forgotten about it. kids say all kinds of things. but then it kept happening. several times a week. always the same spot, always that armchair. one time I asked, what does he look like, your grandpa? she goes, old. wearing stripes. and then she pointed to her wrist and said, he has something drawn here. I nearly fell over. my grandfather died eight years before she was born. I barely remember him — I was about six. but I clearly remember he had a tattoo on his wrist. an anchor or something, I didnt really understand it as a kid. and he wore striped shirts — I remember that well, he had a few of them. there are no photos of him in our house. my husband and I moved to another city, all the family photos are back at my parents house. there is no way she could have seen any of this. I called my mom. told her what my daughter had said. she went quiet and said, yeah. dad had an anchor on his wrist. gave it to himself when he was young. then it just stopped. at some point she quit talking to the armchair. I asked, wheres your grandpa? she said, he left. and that was it. never again. shes seven now. doesnt remember any of it. says she doesnt remember any grandpa by the armchair.

i dont even know where to start because every time i try to tell this out loud i hear how it sounds myself anyway. three years ago i was traveling to a funeral for a distant relative. bus becausse i cant drive, five hours, i slept the whole way. woke up at some stop — fifteen-minute rest stop, everyone got off to stretch. i got off too, grabbed coffee from a little stand, sat down on a bench. there was a woman sitting next to me. elderly, ordinary looking. we started talking, just to pass the time. she asked where i was headed, i said to a funeral. she said she was sorry for my loss. then she asked, do you think about it much? about death? i said well, lately yeah, stressful job, anxiety. she went quiet for a moment and said "you know,everything is going to be okay for you. you in particular. i can just see it." i didnt think much of it. people say all kinds of things. the bus started moving. i went back to my seat. after a while i looked around — the woman hadnt come back. she wasnt on the bus. i figured she must have gotten off at that stop. okay, fine. arrived, funeral, the usual. two days later heading back. and heres the thing. im waiting for the bus, talking to a distant aunt i hadnt seen in years. i tell her about the stop, the woman. i describe her — gray coat, hair pulled back, thin wire glasses. my aunt gives me this strange look and goes, wait. takes out her phone. scrolls through photos. shows me. it was her. the same woman. my aunt says thats my neighbors mother. she passed away. in april. i was going to the funeral in october. i still think about it — maybe it was just someone who looked similar? maybe i remembered wrong? but i have a very strong visual memory, its actually something people notice about me. and the coat. and the glasses. and the way she was sitting. and thats not even the strangest part. the strangest part is that things geniunely did get better for me after that. and i dont know what to do with that.

I have a son. He's still little. We started noticing strange things back when he was just a baby. During the period when he cried a lot from colic, a glass baby food jar would crack — and it happened more than once. Once a vase cracked too. But at the time we were just puzzled, wondering how his crying could possibly cause something like that. Then it got worse. When he got a bit older, my wife and I had a serious argument one day — we weren't screaming at each other, but we were definitely raising our voices. Our son wasn't crying, but he was just standing there staring at us, and then we heard a crack. A fracture had appeared on the window. We were in shock. At that point you can't just chalk it up to a weird coincidence or loud crying anymore. He doesn't go to kindergarten. He went for about a week, and then something bad happened. He came home and said he never wanted to go back — that the kids were mean, that two boys kept pushing him around and calling him names. And wouldn't you know it: that very same day, a window in his classroom shattered. The teacher said someone must have thrown a rock from outside. Let's just say there's reason to believe the glass wasn't broken from the outside. Have we taken him to any specialists? No. I don't want my child hauled off for some kind of experiments. But I don't know what to do either. I can't keep him locked away at home his whole life just so nobody notices. I'm posting this in case anyone has already dealt with something like this. If you have, hit "Been there." At least I'll know we're not the only ones — and that everyone else is just keeping quiet about it too.