It Followed Me Home

I used to work nights cleaning an old courthouse built in the 1800s. The top floor was shut off after a fire years ago, but I had to check it once per shift. One night, while sweeping near the scorched staircase, I heard footsteps overhead—slow, deliberate, pacing back and forth. I called out, thinking maybe someone snuck in, but no one answered. As I turned to leave, I heard something run down the stairs behind me. But when I looked back, the steps were empty. Just the blackened banister and the thick smell of smoke.

When I got home that night, my dog wouldn’t come near me. He just stood at the doorway, growling low, backing away. Later, I saw smudges—like ashy handprints—on my bedroom mirror. I haven’t worked there in years, but sometimes, when the house is quiet, I hear that same steady pacing just above my ceiling.