It was a cold January night. I was working a late-night shift at a delivery company, and it was almost 12:45 AM when the office car dropped me off in front of my house. The fog was thick, and the cold wind added to the eerie silence of the night.
Our house is an old two-story building. My parents live on the ground floor, and I stay in a room upstairs. As I climbed the dimly lit staircase, the flickering light bulb above me cast unsettling shadows. Reaching my door, I froze. The door was slightly ajar, though I distinctly remembered locking it before leaving.
Summoning my courage, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was quiet, almost too quiet. A chill ran down my spine as I noticed my blanket lying crumpled on the floor. As I picked it up, a faint sound reached my ears—a slow, steady breathing sound coming from behind me.
“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice trembling.
No answer.
I turned slowly, but there was no one. My heartbeat quickened. I decided to leave and head downstairs to call my father. But as I descended the stairs, my eyes locked on a figure at the bottom. A woman, draped in a burial shroud, stood motionless. Her hair was tangled, and her face was hidden in the shadows.
My body froze. The figure began to ascend the stairs, her movements slow yet deliberate. My mind raced, but my body refused to respond. The only thought echoing in my mind was a memory of my grandmother’s words: “Never bring burial shrouds into the house before the burial.”
I remembered that earlier that day, my father had brought home a piece of burial cloth from a funeral. My breath hitched as the figure came closer. I wanted to scream but no sound escaped my lips. And then—darkness.
When I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window. My mother was pounding on my door, her voice filled with concern. I stumbled to the door and let her in. She asked why I hadn’t come down for breakfast.
I glanced around the room, half expecting to see the figure again. But all I found was a torn piece of white cloth lying on the floor. Without hesitation, I took it outside and burned it.
Even now, whenever I pass by the staircase at night, I feel a presence watching me from the shadows.