Each of us will eventually find ourselves in a circumstance when the impossible becomes a reality. Sleepless nights can have an impact on this, but other times the cosmos sets the backdrop for happenings we might only fathom in a movie.
Strange key and new coffee shop.
One evening, after a long day at work, I was going home. The streets were quiet, and I could only hear my own footsteps. As I passed an ancient structure that I hadn’t noticed previously, something bright drew my attention. Curious, I moved over and noticed a little, rusted key on the ground. It felt warm in my hand, but I simply put it in my pocket and continued walking.
A few weeks later, I decided to visit a new coffee shop. The moment I walked in, everything felt eerily familiar. The barista smiled and handed me a coffee, saying, “It’s on the house. You remind me of someone I used to know.” Confused, I accepted the drink and sat down. That’s when I saw something strange: the café’s emblem on the wall was the same form as the key I found.
I took the key from my pocket, which was now cold, and walked over to question the barista. But by the time I turned around, the café was gone. I was standing alone in an empty alley, holding the key in my hand. Nobody recognized the café or the barista, and I’m still not sure if it actually happened. But the key is still on my desk, and I believe I hear whispering when I grasp it.
Something is behind the door.
I moved into an old, charming apartment downtown. The rent was low, and the space had a unique vibe with exposed brick and high ceilings. The only strange thing? A small, lockable door in my bedroom closet, roughly three feet from the floor. The landlord said it was sealed up during renovations, so I didn’t think much of it.
One night, I awoke to a faint tapping sound. Half sleeping, I assumed it was simply the wind, but the sound continued, steady and rhythmic, from the closet. When I stood up to check, the tapping had stopped. I attempted to ignore it and went back to bed, but it happened again the next night—this time louder.
The next day, I asked my neighbor, an elderly man who had lived in the building for years. He looked concerned and continued, “That door used to lead to a storage space, but the last tenant had it sealed after strange things started happening. No one ever stayed long in that apartment.” Curious, I decided to peek closely at the door. I ran my hand around the edges and discovered a little secret clasp.
With some effort, I opened it. Inside was a little, dirty space only big enough for a human to crawl through. I shined a flashlight inside and noticed an old, solitary shoe sitting in the corner, as if someone had left it behind in a haste. That night, the tapping would not cease. It became louder and more frantic, as if something—or someone—was attempting to escape. I moved out a week later. I still wonder what was behind the door.
Weird man on the bus.
Years ago, I would take the same bus home every evening, always sitting in the back. One day, a nice but distant man sat beside me. We briefly discussed various topics—nothing special. As I approached my stop, he glanced at me and said, “We’ll meet again, but next time, things will be different.” I simply smiled, thinking that was a funny thing to say.
He didn’t take the bus the next day, and I never saw him again. Weeks later, I discovered him in an old family photo with my grandmother. There he was—a younger version of the man on the bus, standing next to my grandma in an old photo.
I was sh0cked and asked her who he was. She looked at the photograph and remarked, with a sad grin, “That’s your grandfather. He pa:ss:ed away when you were just a baby.” I couldn’t believe it—the man I’d spoken with on the bus was my grandfather, who had ᴅɪᴇᴅ before I could remember him. I still travel the same bus on occasion, wondering if I’ll ever see him again, as he promised.
Ghost from the past.
I was staying in a little bed & breakfast while going across the countryside. It was one of those quaint old places with creaky wooden flooring and vintage furnishings. The owner, a kind older lady, escorted me to my room and gave me an old-fashioned key. Inside, I noticed an old photograph on the wall of a young woman standing in front of the house, gazing into the distance.
That night, at around 2 a.m., I awoke to the sound of footsteps outside my door. At first, I assumed it was another guest, but the sound became louder and slower, as if someone was pacing back and forth. Curious, I opened the door to check, but the corridor was vacant.
The following morning, when packing, I noted the footsteps to the owner. Her expression became serious, and she inquired if I had observed anything unusual. I had not. She pointed to a photo on the wall and said, “That’s my great-aunt. She lived here long ago, but one night she disappeared and was never seen again. Some believe her spirit still walks these halls, waiting for something—or someone.” I left later that day, but I have never been able to shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone that night.
Dusty prediction of the future.
I was helping my grandfather clear out some old crates in his attic. Among the dusty photo albums and faded notes, we discovered a little, tattered envelope bearing my name. I was startled because I had never seen it before. My grandfather smiled and instructed me to open it.
A short note inside stated, “In one year, you’ll meet someone who changes your life forever.” Confused, I inquired as to what it meant, but he simply smiled and said, “You’ll see.”
Exactly one year later, on a trip I almost missed, I met the lady who would eventually become my wife. We clicked immediately away, and our lives became intertwined in ways I never anticipated.
Months after we married, I remembered the note. I tried to find it, but the envelope had vanished. My grandfather ᴅɪᴇᴅ a year later, and I never understood how he knew. But whenever I think about that day, I get shivers, as if he witnessed something I couldn’t even comprehend.
Man in the library.
One rainy afternoon, as I was reading to my kid, he suddenly exclaimed, “Why does the man in the library always stare at the books?” Surprised, I looked around our modest study, which had empty shelves. I told him that no one was there to reassure him. But he insisted, pointing to the far corner and claiming, “He’s there, by the old books.”
My son talked about this man for days, describing him as an old man with glasses who held a book but never read it. He wasn’t terrified, but it still made me uneasy.
Curious, I examined the shelves for dusty volumes that had not been touched in years. I discovered a faded journal buried between two tomes. Inside, I saw a name: Property of Samuel Hartley, 1824. I’d heard the name before: Samuel was the original owner of our property, a book collector who vanished many years ago, leaving behind his library. My son had never heard of him, but his description matched an old photo I saw in the journal.
Even when the library door is closed, I occasionally detect a slight odor of old paper in the air. The books may remain in place, but I have a sense they are still being observed.
