Son compartido

I used to think the worst thing about living alone was the silence. I was wrong. The house I rent is old—older than most of the buildings in the village. The kind with crooked stairs and doors that never quite close properly. When I first moved in, people joked about it being haunted. I laughed w…

I used to think the worst thing about living alone was the silence. I was wrong. The house I rent is old—older than most of the buildings in the village. The kind with crooked stairs and doors that never quite close properly. When I first moved in, people joked about it being haunted. I laughed with them. Old houses make noises. Pipes knock. Floorboards creak. Wind slips through cracks. That’s what I told myself during the first few weeks. Then I started hearing footsteps upstairs. The stra