About six months into living in the house, the oddities intensified. Items she never touched appeared in the wrong place. Cupboard doors she’d never opened were ajar. A faint creak in the hallway when she was sure she was alone. Each event chipped away at her certainty.
She started documenting everything. Kept a notepad in her purse. Jotted down what she locked, what she turned off, what she touched. On milk cartons and cereal boxes, she marked levels with Sharpie lines. But even with all this, she’d come home to things moved. Her boxed food, always slightly depleted.