Footsteps on the bookshelf
A few years ago, I moved to a new apartment. The house was very quiet, and the neighbors were very friendly. However, not long after moving in, I started hearing some strange noises. Especially in the dead of night, I could always hear faint footsteps coming from the direction of the bookshelf, as if someone was slowly walking on the carpet.
At first, I thought it was the occupants upstairs or sounds coming from outside, but those footsteps were always very clear, even with some rhythm, as if coming towards me. One night, waking up in the middle of the night, I saw some books on the bookshelf inexplicably falling to the ground. As I got up to pick them up, I found the bookshelf slightly shaking, as if someone had just touched it.
I didn't pay much attention to the matter until one day when I decided to organize the bookshelf. I accidentally found a very old diary sandwiched in a compartment at the bottom of the bookshelf. I curiously flipped through it, only to discover that it was left by the previous tenant. The diary contained many records describing insomnia, revealing his anxiety and unease between the lines, and the last page read: "I can't stand those footsteps anymore."
Later, I moved the bookshelf away and placed the diary by the window for ventilation, trying not to think about the experience of that night. Strangely, since discovering that diary, the footsteps have never appeared again.
At first, I thought it was the occupants upstairs or sounds coming from outside, but those footsteps were always very clear, even with some rhythm, as if coming towards me. One night, waking up in the middle of the night, I saw some books on the bookshelf inexplicably falling to the ground. As I got up to pick them up, I found the bookshelf slightly shaking, as if someone had just touched it.
I didn't pay much attention to the matter until one day when I decided to organize the bookshelf. I accidentally found a very old diary sandwiched in a compartment at the bottom of the bookshelf. I curiously flipped through it, only to discover that it was left by the previous tenant. The diary contained many records describing insomnia, revealing his anxiety and unease between the lines, and the last page read: "I can't stand those footsteps anymore."
Later, I moved the bookshelf away and placed the diary by the window for ventilation, trying not to think about the experience of that night. Strangely, since discovering that diary, the footsteps have never appeared again.
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