Then, footsteps, light but constant, as if someone was pacing back and forth. Sometimes, I even heard the rustling of paper, as if someone was quietly turning the pages of a book. I told Stephen one morning while we were having breakfast in the kitchen.
I tried to keep my voice calm, but I couldn’t help feeling unsettled. «Honey, I’ve been hearing noises in the attic lately. It’s not the wind. It sounds like someone is up there.»
Stephen yawned without looking up from the newspaper in his hands. He replied distractedly, «It’s just rats, Emily. Our attic is old. It’s full of junk. It’s a paradise for mice. Tomorrow, I’ll buy some traps, set them, and that’s it.»
The next day, just as he promised, Stephen brought home some big metal traps, the kind that make a loud clack when they snap shut. He placed them at the foot of the stairs, leading to the attic, right under the old wooden door. «There,» he said, dusting off his hands. «Now, you can sleep peacefully, love.»
Strangely, the noises disappeared completely after that. No more footsteps. No more dragging chairs. No more rustling paper.
I sighed with relief, convincing myself that Stephen was right. Maybe it was just mice, and I had worried for nothing. But then, other strange things started happening. Things impossible to ignore.
One afternoon, I bought a piece of spicy sausage from the local market, my favorite for its intense flavor. Stephen, on the other hand, had never liked spicy food. He wouldn’t even taste it.
I carefully wrapped the sausage in paper and put it in the refrigerator, planning to enjoy it over the weekend. The next morning, when I opened the door, I froze. A large piece was missing.
The cut was uneven, as if someone had sliced it in a hurry. I asked Stephen, who was reading the paper in the living room, «Did you take some of the sausage from the fridge?» He looked up, frowning, as if my question was absurd.
«Yesterday, I felt like trying something spicy, so I cut off a little piece,» he replied distractedly. «It was good, actually.»
I stood there frozen, not knowing what to say. Stephen had never been able to stand spicy food. He even complained when I cooked something with too much seasoning.
But I didn’t want to argue, so I just nodded and walked away, doubt stuck in my chest. A few days later, the sausage had disappeared completely. I searched the refrigerator, checked the trash, but found no trace.
This time, I didn’t ask Stephen anything. An uncomfortable feeling, like a cold stone, began to settle inside me.
Until one Saturday afternoon, Stephen and I went to a nearby city to visit some old friends. We left early in the morning and got back late at night. When we entered, the house was as silent as always.
I went up to the second-floor bathroom to wash my face and shake off the day’s fatigue. But when I stepped inside, I felt something cold and wet. The floor was soaked.
The water seeped between my sandals, icy. The floor was completely wet, as if someone had just taken a shower. I looked around and saw drops still sliding down the tub walls, shining in the light.
My heart was pounding. No one had been home all day. How was this possible? I called for Stephen, my voice trembling. «Come here, please. The bathroom is soaked, like someone just took a shower!»
He came in, looked for a moment, and shrugged. «It must have been the afternoon rain that got in through the ceiling vent, love.»
I looked out the window. The street in front of the house was dry under the streetlights. «It hasn’t rained, Stephen,» I said, trying to sound calm.
He frowned, a little annoyed. «Then it must be a leak in the old pipes. You’re always worrying about nothing. I’ll call a plumber tomorrow.»
But he never called a plumber. In the following days, the bathroom floor was dry, as if nothing had happened. I checked the vent and the pipes, too, but everything seemed normal.
Stephen’s explanation, though it sounded reasonable, didn’t erase the growing unease inside me. The noises in the attic, the missing sausage, the puddle of water with no source… it all seemed like disconnected fragments. But when I put them together, they formed a contradictory image I couldn’t stop thinking about.
A week later, I decided to clean Stephen’s library. It was his pride and joy, a small room on the second floor with dust-covered oak shelves filled with hundreds of old books and documents. I always thought we should donate some of the books we barely read to the city library so they could get into the hands of people who needed them.
That day, I stood in the middle of the room, starting to sort books on Stephen’s desk. There were piles of drafts, notes, and papers stacked chaotically, as if he never intended to organize them. When I lifted a heavy pile, my hand trembled, and all the papers spilled onto the floor.
The sound of the paper hitting the floor broke the silence of the room and made me jump. I bent down to pick them up, and just then, a small wooden drawer that had been stuck for years popped open with a dry click. I hesitated for a moment and looked inside.
There, under a pile of yellow drafts, was a small hardcover notebook: dark brown leather with worn corners. It looked old. It didn’t look like it belonged to Stephen.
He always liked modern, neat things. Laptops, pens, and pristine white paper. That notebook with its worn leather cover and a loose string seemed like it was from another era.
With a mix of curiosity and fear, I picked it up, my hands shaking a little as I opened the first page. Inside were pages full of handwriting. The handwriting was soft, elegant, clearly a woman’s.
I flipped through the pages, skimming. They were story outlines, character descriptions, and plot ideas. There was a fragment that spoke of a small village on a mountainside where a woman lived alone, waiting for someone who would never return.
Another mentioned a buried secret with details that gave me chills. These ideas, though different, had a similar feel to the plots of Stephen’s most famous novels, the ones that made him famous. My heart was pounding, my throat dry.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. I know Stephen too well. He hates writing by hand.
He always said it was slow and messy, a waste of time. Everything he did—from novel drafts, work notes, to shopping lists—he did on the computer. I remember one time when I asked him to write down a restaurant’s address, instead of grabbing the pen right next to him, he turned on the computer to type it.
So whose notebook was this? A secret collaborator? A fan who had given it to him? I sat in the chair, the notebook feeling heavy in my hands.
A part of me wanted to show it to Stephen as soon as he got back; I wanted to hear his explanation. But I hesitated. I know him too well.
Stephen always knows how to make everything sound logical. He would smile. He’d say it was a gift from a reader or an old idea from when he tried writing by hand.
And I, like so many times before, would nod and let it all sink into silence. But not this time. I wouldn’t let it go.
Carefully, I put the notebook back in the drawer and pushed it all the way to the back, as if I was afraid it would disappear if I didn’t keep it hidden.
That night, I was sleepless again. Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and listened to the ticking of the clock in the darkness. Around 2 in the morning, a faint creak came from the hallway.
It was a small noise, but in the silence of the night, it was perfectly clear, like a disturbing whisper. I sat up straight, my heart racing. I don’t know why, but I immediately thought of the small door that led to the attic.
The one Stephen and I almost never opened. I got up carefully, without turning on the light, afraid the brightness would shatter the truth I was about to discover. The faint moonlight came through the window, just enough for me to see a crack.
The attic door was ajar. A cold, damp draft drifted down, bringing the smell of old paper and confinement. I stood frozen, my feet glued to the floor.
Fear mixed with curiosity paralyzed me. I went back to the room and gently shook my husband’s shoulder. «Stephen, wake up. The attic door is open.»
Stephen groaned half-asleep and got up, annoyed. He put on his slippers and walked ahead of me down the hall without a word. But when we got there, the door was closed with the latch in place, as if no one had touched it.
I stared at it, looking for any sign: a scratch, a crack… nothing. Stephen turned to me with an expression of exhaustion and disappointment. «Emily,» he said in a grave, tired voice.
«You’re too tense lately. You’re not sleeping well. That’s why you’re seeing things that aren’t there. Go back to bed. Go on.»
He walked me back. I lay down, but kept my eyes open, fixed on the ceiling. For the first time, I began to doubt myself. What if I really had imagined it all?
In the days after I found the mysterious notebook, I tried to keep everything normal, though inside I was consumed by unease. I started watching Stephen’s every move, every look, every word. He had recently picked up a new habit that only increased my suspicions.
Around ten at night, when I was already in bed with a book in my hands, ready to sleep, he would say he had to keep working in the library. «I need to concentrate a bit, Emily,» he’d say in a soft but firm voice. «The manuscript is at a difficult part. You go to sleep first.»
I would nod, smiling, but every time the library door closed, I felt an invisible distance growing between us.
One night, I woke up thirsty. The clock on the table marked almost one in the morning, and the second hand seemed to be counting something in the darkness. I reached out to touch Stephen, but the bed was empty.
The sheets were cold, as if he had never even been in bed. My heart skipped a beat. A wave of anxiety washed over me.
Where was he? I put on a thin robe and went out into the hallway, thinking maybe he had fallen asleep at his desk, like other times when the publisher’s pressure exhausted him. I walked down the dark hallway.
The dim light from the living room cast strange shadows on the walls. I pushed open the library door, but the room was empty. The computer screen was dark, the chair perfectly placed under the desk as if no one had been there.