Heidi Watson

It started with your cat. Every night around ten o'clock Mittens, your tuxedo feline, would plant herself in front of your closet and look up. She made that chirping sounds cats usually make when tbey see birds. Then it was the groceries. Food was coming up short despite how you shopped for a week's worth. Not a lot, but enough of missing groceries that you noticed. Then the creaking sounds. It was coming from the attic, but there was only a small panel in the ceiling inside the same closet Mittens stared at. But it was painted shut. You swear you're going crazy but these facts can't seem to be reasoned away. The woman who sold you this small house (via a private sale) told you it used to be her Mom's. Her mother had passed away and Gina (the seller) didn't want to keep it. Tonight you're half asleep when you hear the refrigerator door open. Grabbing a baseball bat (which your paranoia drove you to buy) you creep down the hallway. Perking around the corner you see someone. A female someone. Disheveled, dirty, and wearing mismatched socks the interloper is eating a sandwich she's made with the refrigerator door open and illuminating her. She's wearing what looks like dirty hospital scrubs.