I booked the Airbnb because it was cheap. That alone should’ve tipped me off.

I booked the Airbnb because it was cheap. That alone should’ve tipped me off.

I needed a last-minute escape to Northern California—three days to reset, get some remote work done, and breathe somewhere quiet. Most places were booked or insanely expensive. Then this one showed up: half the price of anything else, “Entire home. Private. No shared spaces.” The photos? Pretty standard. Small two-story house tucked in the woods, clean kitchen, nothing fancy but it looked comfortable.

The host’s name was Daniel, but his profile was brand new. No reviews. Another red flag, but I shrugged it off. I needed a place, so I booked.

Getting there was a slog, and it was already dark when I finally pulled up. The house matched the photos exactly—stands all by itself, tall trees all around, with just a lonely porch light over the door. I punched in the code Daniel sent me. Stepped inside.

It was dead quiet inside. Not the cozy kind of quiet you’d expect in a cabin—more like the air was pressed down, heavy. I tried to shake it off.

The place smelled a little stale, like it hadn’t been aired out in a while. But it was spotless. No clutter, no dust. I tossed my bag on the couch and wandered around. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Everything matched the listing.

Then I spotted the stairs—leading up to the second floor. There was a tiny sign at the bottom: “Upstairs is locked. Not included.” That wasn’t in the listing. I checked my phone: “Entire home.” No mention of locked rooms.

So I messaged Daniel: “Hey, quick question—listing says entire home, but there’s a sign saying upstairs is locked?” He shot back right away: “Yeah, just storage. Nothing up there. You have full access to everything you need downstairs 👍” The instant reply creeped me out a little. Like he knew I’d ask.

I stared at the stairs for a while, feeling weird about it. But eventually, I let it go.

First night was fine. I ordered some takeout, lounged on the couch, watched Netflix. Tried to relax. Around midnight, I went to bed.

At some point, I woke up. Not sure why. Just this sound—a faint step from above me. I froze, listening. Heard nothing else. I told myself it was old house noises—piping, temperature changes. Tried to sleep again.

Then another thud. Slower. Definite. Like someone was shifting weight upstairs. My chest got tight. I sat up, super still. “Hello?” I called. Silence.

I checked my phone: 3:12 AM. Classic. I almost laughed at myself. This was dumb. Tried to sleep. Barely managed it.

Morning came, and honestly, everything felt normal again. Sunlight makes things less creepy. I made coffee, settled by the window, tried to focus on work.

Around lunch I checked the WiFi settings. Just habit, really. That’s when I saw it—two devices connected: my laptop, and something labeled “Device_Upstairs.” I stared at the list. Maybe it was a smart thermostat or something… but the name? Too specific.

I took a screenshot and sent it to Daniel. “Hey, is there another device connected to the WiFi? Something called ‘Device_Upstairs’?” This time, he didn’t write back right away. Five minutes. Ten. Finally: “Probably just an old device. Nothing to worry about.” That was it. Not even a real answer.

I messaged again: “Okay, but I heard footsteps last night. Are you sure no one’s up there?” He read it, then nothing.

That night I locked my bedroom door. I don’t even know why—wouldn’t stop anyone already inside. It just made me feel less exposed. I kept the lights on late. Eventually, around 1 AM, I climbed into bed.

I woke up again at 3:12 AM. This time, the noises weren’t subtle. Pacing. Slow, back and forth, right over my head. My heart was pounding. “Nope,” I whispered. “Nope, not doing this.”

I grabbed my phone, about to message Daniel again. Before I could hit send—the footsteps stopped. Dead silence.

Then that dragging sound. Furniture scraping on the floor right above me. Something heavy. I couldn’t breathe.

“Hello?” I said—louder this time. Nothing.

I got up. Couldn’t seem to stop myself. Panic, curiosity, adrenaline—who knows. I went out to the hallway. The stairs waited. Black, still. Every instinct in me wanted to run, but I climbed them anyway.

The sign was still there: “Upstairs is locked.” But the door at the top was ajar. Light spilled through the gap.

I don’t remember deciding to go up. I just did. One step at a time, the air getting colder. My hand shook as I pushed the door open.

The room wasn’t for storage. Someone was living up there—a mattress, empty food containers, water bottles, clothes thrown around. And then I saw the photos. Dozens, spread across the floor.

I picked one up—it was me, sleeping, in the bed downstairs. My hands were shaking. More photos. All of me, from different angles, different nights. Some taken from the hallway. Some from inside my room.

In one photo, I saw a reflection in a window. Someone was standing behind me, watching.

I dropped the photos.

That’s when I heard a voice, just behind me, quiet. “You weren’t supposed to come up here.”

I turned.

I saw him.

I don’t remember running out of that house. Just barefoot, tearing through the woods until I hit the main road. I called the police. When we went back, the house was spotless—nothing upstairs. No mattress, no photos. Like nobody had ever been there.

They told me I’d probably imagined everything. Stress, lack of sleep.

Before I left, I checked the WiFi again. Still connected—Device_Upstairs.

I messaged Daniel: “Who was in that house?” He replied instantly: “You weren’t supposed to go upstairs.”

I reported the listing. It’s gone now. Completely wiped.

But here’s the part that really gets me: last night, at home, I checked my phone. There was a new device on my WiFi. I’d never added it.

The name?

Device_Downstairs.