Today's story is going to remind us that sometimes the scariest thing isn't what we can see.

It's what we can't.

And in the stillness, in the quiet, something might just be listening.

My name is Edwin, and here's a scary story.

Living alone has its perks.

My house is my sanctuary.

It's quiet, peaceful, and entirely mine.

No one to bother me, no one to judge me for my weird habits, dancing around on my way to the bathroom, leaving the door open,

and things like talking to myself.

I've always done it.

I'll narrate my day, tell a joke to no one in particular, or just ramble about whatever

comes to mind.

It's not like anyone's listening.

My house is small, but cozy, nestled at the edge of town.

It's kind of old, and the floor's creek when I walk, the wind whistles through the old windows,

and at night the silence settles in like a thick blanket.

It's muted, muffled, a little bit uncomfortable. Sometimes it's so quiet that I can hear

my own heartbeat. And that's when I talk the most, to break the stillness, to remind myself that I'm here,

I'm alive, and this is my space. I'm guilty of listening to YouTube channels at night, true crime,

scary stories, anything to keep my mind on while I get sleepy.

It's usually okay.

But Lely, some things felt off, and it's hard to explain.

...