Poltergeists — Nobody Believes Me

I'm renting a house. Old, wooden, with high ceilings and creaky floors. The owner let it go cheap. At the time I figured I'd just gotten lucky. First month, nothing. A house is a house. But then I noticed that every evening when I got back from work, the front door was slightly ajar. Not wide open, no. A two-finger gap. Lock intact, bolt in place, yet the door was cracked open. Every single day. I changed the lock. Didn't help. Then came the footsteps. Not at night, during the day. I work from home on Wednesdays. I'd be sitting downstairs at my desk, and upstairs someone would be walking. Slowly, heavily, like an elderly person. Corner to corner. I'd go up, nothing there. I'd come back down, the footsteps would start again a minute or two later. As if it had been waiting for me to leave. I set up three cameras. One in the upstairs bedroom, one on the staircase, one by the front door. And this is where things got truly strange. The footsteps are AUDIBLE on the recordings. The camera picks up sound, the microphone catches impacts on the floor. But on the video, no one. An empty room where something is walking. I sent the footage to a few people. They all said the same thing: floorboards shifting from temperature changes. Right. Floorboards that shift exclusively on Wednesdays, when I'm home. And then something happened that kept me up for two nights straight. I have this notebook. Nothing special, just a regular notebook. I left it open on the kitchen table, went to the shop. Came back and the notebook was open to a different page. A blank one. And right in the center, in pencil, in shaky handwriting, there was a single word. "wednesday" My pencil had been sitting next to the notebook. I remember this clearly, because it's always there. I took a photo, showed my friends. "You wrote it yourself and forgot," "you're messing with us," "someone comes over while you're at work." I live alone. The owner doesn't have a spare key. I changed the lock. After that I deliberately started leaving the notebook open. Every day. Two weeks, nothing. Then, again on a Wednesday, a new entry. Same handwriting. Two lines: "dont leave dont like when it's dark" I started shaking. Not from fear. From realizing. It doesn't just "exist." It's lonely. It waits for Wednesdays because on Wednesdays I'm home all day. It opens the door when I come back. It walks around upstairs while I'm downstairs. Not to scare me, just... living alongside me. I wrote in the notebook: "Who are you?" The next morning, beneath my question: "been here a long time" And below that, smaller, almost hesitant: "you're good the ones before you were bad" I kept trying. Asked different things. Sometimes answers appeared, sometimes they didn't. The handwriting was always the same. Large, trembling, the letters unsteady, like the hand wasn't used to writing. Or had forgotten how. Many times I asked "Who are you?" There was never an answer to that, but one day a page simply read: "dont remember" Five months have passed now. I still live here. On Wednesdays I work from home, the door cracks open when I return, someone walks around upstairs. We correspond through the notebook. It's the strangest thing in my life. Last week the owner called, asked how the house was. I said fine. She went quiet for a long time, then just said goodbye. The notebook is almost full. Yesterday I bought a new one. Left it on the table, open to the first page. In the morning it said: "thank you" Nobody believes me. But I have a notebook where someone who's been here a long time writes to me.

In Indonesia, stories about spirits or “things” that live in forests and villages are very common. We grow up hearing them. But honestly, I always treated them as just part of the culture—old stories, nothing more. Until last year. I live in a small village not far from Yogyakarta. I have a motorbike, and sometimes at night I visit a friend in a neighboring village. It’s about a 25-minute ride, through rice fields and a stretch of old forest. The road is narrow, the asphalt is uneven in places, but I’ve taken it hundreds of times. That night felt normal. It was around 9:30 PM—already dark, but not completely, because the moon was almost full. I was heading home from my friend’s place when, about halfway through the route—right where the forest begins—I noticed something strange: it was too quiet. It’s hard to explain. Usually at night you still hear things— insects, crickets, sometimes dogs in the distance. But this time it was like… someone had turned all the sound off. At first, I didn’t think much of it. But a couple of minutes later, I saw someone standing in the middle of the road. That was already unusual. No one really walks there at night. I slowed down and got closer. It was a man, dressed normally—a shirt and pants. He was standing with his back to me, completely still. I stopped about five meters away and called out, “Hey, are you okay?” No response. Nothing at all. I thought maybe he was drunk or not feeling well. I turned off the engine and started walking toward him. That’s when things got strange. Every step I took forward, it felt like the distance between us didn’t change. I stepped again—same thing. It was like he stayed exactly where he was, even though I was clearly moving closer. I stopped. At that moment, he began to turn his head… very slowly. Not his body—just his head. And the way it moved… it wasn’t right. Too slow, and at an angle I can’t really describe. I didn’t wait for him to fully turn around. Suddenly I had a strong feeling that I needed to leave. Not even fear exactly—more like instinct. I quickly turned back, started my motorbike, and sped off. After about 20 or 30 meters, I heard footsteps behind me. At first soft, then faster. I looked in the mirror—and I saw him. He was walking behind me. Not running. Just walking… but getting closer. I accelerated as much as I could. The road doesn’t allow high speed, but I pushed it anyway. I checked the mirror again—he was closer now. And that’s when I noticed something that still scares me: his legs weren’t moving the way they should. It was like… he was gliding. I don’t know how long it lasted—maybe 20 seconds, maybe a minute. Then suddenly, the sound stopped. I looked back again—no one there. I didn’t stop until I was out of the forest. Only when I got closer to the village did I finally stop and realize my hands were shaking. I went home and didn’t tell anyone. I thought maybe I was just tired, or imagining things. But a few days later, I noticed something else. On the back of my motorbike, there were marks—like dirty handprints. Not mine—I know where I usually hold. These were higher… and the fingers looked longer. I later asked my friend, carefully, if he had ever seen anyone on that road at night. He said he tries not to go that way after dark. I asked why. He just said, “Just don’t go there at night.” Since then, I never take that road at night anymore. During the day, everything feels normal. But every time I pass that part of the forest, I get this strange feeling… like someone is watching me from behind. I know this sounds made up. I’m not trying to convince anyone. I just wanted to share it, because even now, I still can’t explain what I saw that night.