Every night at 3:13 a.m., Sarah heard footsteps in the attic. They were soft but steady—pacing, always pacing. Her husband insisted it was just the house settling. But she knew better. They had just moved in. The house was old, yes, but not that old. One night, determined to prove herself wrong, she crept up the narrow staircase with her phone flashlight trembling in her hand. The attic door creaked open. Dust hung thick in the air. No one there. Then she saw them—footprints. Fresh ones. Bare, small, and child-sized, weaving in chaotic circles across the dusty floor. She turned to flee—but the attic door slammed shut behind her. Her flashlight flickered out. Silence. Then, from the far corner, a voice whispered: "You finally came to play." The police found the attic empty when they arrived. No sign of Sarah. But every night since, at exactly 3:13 a.m., her husband hears laughter overhead—high-pitched, giddy, and not quite human.