I heard footsteps at night coming from the ceiling. But when I pulled down the ladder and checked, there was no-one there. From the hole in the floor I shone my torch, the beam lit up the corners of the dusty attic to reveal nothing but dust motes and old furniture.
I swear I heard someone descend the stairs as I tried to sleep, keeping my eyes scrunched tight. The footsteps on the stairs, the creaks of the floorboards unsettled me greatly. But, when I checked, the stairwell was empty. The hallway dark but uninhabited.
I swear food went missing from the fridge and from the cupboards. But I could never be sure.
In a last ditch effort to allay my fears, I asked a local building company to brick up the top floor. I lost a fourth of my house, but the peace of mind that it would allow me was worth its weight in gold.
In the weeks after, I swear I still heard the footsteps. But from the floor below it was hard to tell. I slept better, but still with one eye open.
I swear I heard knocking and banging, however I could not be sure.
Within six months the sounds were gone, really gone and I was happy to live in my house again.
With the increased sleep, it allowed me to improve my performance at work, this afforded me with a promotion to the big city, which in turn meant the house went on the market. I told the realtor of what I did, and he scoffed at the proposal that the building was haunted. He told me it would be best to re-open the top floor, to allow any prospective buyers to see what was available.
He phoned me at work and asked me to return home, there had been some complications. I hoped it wasn’t a structural issue, that would disrupt the selling process.
I ascended the stairs to see what resembled a building site. The upper floor’s walls were decorated with scratch marks, and in the corner stood a uniformed officer, next to the near mummified remains of a man.
I swore there was someone living in my loft.