Posted at 12:41 AM
I think I have already broken the first rule. But I didn’t know it was a game until tonight.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s a prank.
But I found a note in my kitchen today.
I live alone.
The kitchen felt colder than usual. Not winter cold—wrong cold. Like the inside of something that used to be full but isn’t anymore.
The note was sitting on the counter, written in cramped black ink, on yellowing paper like from an old notebook. It just said:
Rule #1: Lock the fridge. He’s drawn to cold things—like food, metal, and skin.
I thought it was some kind of joke. I called my sister, sent her a pic, and she said it was probably someone at work messing with me. But…I don’t bring people over. And the doors were locked.
There was a weird smell too. Like moss or rusted iron. Cold and sour, like a place the sun never dried.
It’s probably nothing. Just thought I’d post it here for the creep factor. Internet’s good for that, right?
[Top Comments]
- BrokenLens (12:43 AM): Wait, the note was INSIDE your kitchen?
- ThreadVein (12:45 AM): This is some Ring-level shit.
- MildlyHollow (12:47 AM): Just to be sure—did you check your locks again?
[Update Post by NightGlass] Posted at 1:32 AM
Okay. This isn’t funny anymore.
I locked everything before I went to bed. Doors. Windows. Even the garage side door. When I woke up an hour ago to pee, I found a second note. It was sitting on the closed toilet seat. My cat was standing in the hallway, staring in.
She didn’t blink. Just stayed there. Like she was waiting for something to leave the bathroom.
Rule #2: Don’t answer if you hear your name.
That line keeps looping in my head: “if you hear your name.” Like it’s waiting for me to forget that part.
I have not told anyone my name on here. And I haven’t said it aloud tonight. But the way that’s worded, “if you hear your name” it’s like it’s warning me. Like something might say my name.
I did not go back to sleep.
[Replies]
- IronPenny (1:36 AM): This just went from prank to stalker. Call the cops.
- StillHungry (1:39 AM): You said you had a cat? Check your security cams. Anything trigger them?
- MuteVein (1:41 AM): This sounds like someone is already in the house.
[Update Post by NightGlass] Posted at 3:05 AM
I checked the cameras. Nothing. At least, nothing obvious.
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One second of static. Then a flash of something tall.
It did not move like a person.
It tilted—not turned. Like it was remembering how motion worked.
One second of distortion in the kitchen cam. Then it cleared.
And my fridge was open.
I did not do that.
I keep it shut. It clicks when it closes, you know? You have to pull it a little hard to open it. But it was hanging open just enough to let out the light.
And I found another note.
Rule #3: Don’t sleep with your feet uncovered.
This one was in the living room. On the couch. Where I napped yesterday.
I’m starting to think whoever this is—they’ve been in here for a while. They know where I sleep. Where I sit. What I eat.
And now they’re leaving rules.
The weirdest part? I’ve started following them. Like, I tucked in the sheets around my feet tonight.
I don’t even know why. But I felt safer.
[Update Post by NightGlass] Posted at 4:12 AM
More things are moving. I woke up to find my phone charger plugged into the wall, but the cord was cut in half. My cereal box was emptied into the sink. My cat won’t leave my closet.
And there was a fourth note.
Rule #4: He watches from small places. Don’t open them after midnight.
I never leave the closet open. But it was cracked. Just an inch.
I don’t remember opening it.
I called the police. They came by, looked around, found no signs of forced entry. I showed them the notes. They took them in a bag. Said it was probably a prank.
But one of the officers looked…uncomfortable. He didn’t say much, but when the other cop wasn’t looking, he looked at the attic and muttered, “Old houses were made with space for other things. Before insulation, before drywall.”
He would not elaborate.
I chose not to leave.
I felt like if I left, something worse would happen. Like it was waiting for me to go.
[Update Post by NightGlass] Posted at 4:47 AM
The lights went out.
Not all at once—one by one. Kitchen, hallway, then the bathroom. I lit a candle. I’m writing this in the dark.
There was a fifth note.
Rule #5: If he knocks, don’t listen. He doesn’t speak with a voice you can understand.
Something knocked on the wall behind my bed. Three times. Slow.
I stayed still. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
And then I heard it—my own voice. Whispering. From under the bed.
“Alison Gale.”
It sounded like me—but younger. Like it was remembering how I used to say my name.
It didn’t get it exactly right.
Like someone copying a song they only ever heard through a wall. Like it was proud of getting close. As if it thought it was doing me a kindness.
And yet it said my name.
My full, actual name.
I am not crazy. I’m not dreaming. This is happening. I need to run.
God save me.
[Final Post by NightGlass]
Posted at 5:03 AM
I found something in the attic.
The entrance was covered with a box, but I heard scraping. Something pacing above the ceiling.
So I pushed a chair under it, climbed up, and opened the hatch.
The smell hit me first—damp cloth, copper, rot. Like breath that had been waiting too long to exhale.
And then I saw the nest.
My clothes.
Food wrappers.
One of my socks.
Hair. My hair.
All tangled together like a shrine made by something that doesn’t understand why it collects—only that it must.
And a sixth note: Rule #6: “ He hides during the day. Don’t forget—he has a key now.”
There was movement in the far corner of the attic.
He was crouched there. Watching.
Not a ghost.
Not a monster.
Just a man.
But not one born of now.
Bent at the neck like time had folded him wrong.
Eyes too still.
And when he smiled, it wasn’t with joy.
His teeth were blackened. Not from decay—from flame.
Like someone tried to burn the scream out of him…
and he just kept smiling through it.
I slammed the attic shut.
I ran.
Now I’m in my car. Driving. Anywhere.
I don’t know where I’m going.
But I know where I can’t go again.
[Thread Closed: User NightGlass has been inactive since this post. Last login timestamp: 5:08 AM]
[Moderator’s Note]
A follow-up investigation found the home abandoned. All belongings remained.
The fridge stood wide open.
Lights were still on.
And in the bedroom closet, inside the wall, a final note was found.
Rule #7: “If they stop writing, it means he doesn’t need to warn you anymore.”
The paper had no ink.
Just pressure.
As if each rule had been traced over and over by something that never learned how to hold a pen—only how to wait.
[System Message: Rule #8 was deleted by another user.]