Episode 218: The House That Watched Us – A Rental Home, a Hallway, and the Presence That Never Left

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Some houses don’t creak.
They breathe, not with wood or

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wind, but with memory.
They hold a presence.

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They wait.
And when night falls, they

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watch.
Welcome to Paranormal Night

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Shift, where the shadows
whisper, the walls remember, and

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the chilling stories you send us
come to life.

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I’m your host, Andy, and every
week I guide you through real

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experiences from listeners who
brushed up against the

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unexplainable.
What you’re about to hear isn’t

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just eerie, it’s intimate, and
it just might change how you

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feel walking through your own
hallway at night.

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Before we slip into tonight’s
story, I’ve got something just

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for the brave ones out there.
Head to paranormalnightshift.com

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to claim your free copy of The
Birth of Dimensional Desperado,

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the first book in our
supernatural time travel saga

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starring Buck Shadow.
Sheriff Freeman.

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The second book is coming soon,
and if you’re on our e-mail list

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or Patreon, you’ll get an
exclusive early look before

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anyone else.
Plus, I’ve been sharing stories

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to the e-mail list that are just
too creepy for the podcast.

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If you want to read what can’t
be said out loud, that’s where

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you’ll find them.
Now let’s turn our attention to

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the dark.
Tonight’s story, The house that

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watched us, comes from a
listener named Cassie.

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It’s about a home that didn’t
just haunt, it observed.

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And it made one thing clear.
They were never alone.

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So a couple of years ago, my
husband and I rented what at

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first glance felt like the
perfect home.

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It was beautiful, big windows
that let the sun pour in during

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the day, cool tiled floors that
made the whole house feel clean

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and modern, and soft carpet in
the bedrooms that made

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everything feel just a little
more homey.

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The backyard was private, the
kitchen was open plan, and for a

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rental it felt like we’d won the
lottery.

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If only we had known what came
with it.

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We moved in during the summer.
The days were long, warm, and

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uneventful.
Boxes were unpacked, furniture

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was arranged, and everything
just felt right.

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But then night fell and
everything shifted.

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I can’t explain it exactly, not
in a way that makes sense on

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paper, but that first night, the
moment the sun dipped below the

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trees and darkness crept through
the windows, my stomach

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tightened.
My husband looked at me from

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across the couch with that same
unsettled look on his face, like

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we were both hearing a sound we
couldn’t identify.

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A sound that didn’t exist.
The house, so welcoming in the

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daylight, turned cold, not in
temperature, but in energy.

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We both felt it like we’d
intruded on something, like we

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weren’t alone.
The first thing I noticed was

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walking.
Our home had a long hallway that

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connected the open plan kitchen,
dining, and living room to the

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bedrooms and the bathroom.
The layout meant that anytime

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you were sitting in the living
room, your back was to that

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hallway.
You couldn’t help it in that

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hallway that became its favorite
place that first night as we sat

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watching TVI heard it.
Bare feet padding softly up and

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down the hallway.
The sound was unmistakable.

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Not shoes, not slippers.
Bare skin slapping gently

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against cold tile.
Heel to toe, heel to toe.

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I paused the show and looked at
my husband.

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You heard that too, right?
He nodded slowly.

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There was no one there.
That same night, I got up to use

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the toilet.
The hallway was dark except for

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a night light.
We plugged in by the wall.

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I tried to walk quickly, but
something in me, something

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primal, made the hairs on the
back of my neck stand up.

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It felt like there was a laser
sight pinned between my shoulder

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blades, like I was walking into
danger I couldn’t see.

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By the time I made it back to
the bedroom, I was shaking.

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My husband didn’t need to ask
what happened.

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He already knew He’d felt it,
too.

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Over the next few weeks, it
didn’t stop.

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The footsteps at night were
constant, sometimes soft,

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sometimes heavy, like someone
was pacing with purpose, always

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up and down the hallway, always
stopping just a few feet behind

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the couch.
We’d feel it too, a sudden shift

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in the air, a heaviness in the
room, then a presence behind us.

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Not just the feeling of being
watched, but something stronger,

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like invisible eyes boring into
the back of your neck.

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You’d instinctively pull your
shoulders up, turn, half

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expecting someone to be standing
there.

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And sometimes someone was a
figure, always faint, never

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quite in focus, like the outline
of a person caught in the corner

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of your eye.
Tall, slender, and pacing.

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It would walk up the hallway,
pause at the edge of the living

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room, and just stand there,
watching, waiting.

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Once, I felt a hand on my
shoulder.

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I was sitting on the couch, my
husband was in the kitchen, and

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I was alone in the living room,
scrolling on my phone.

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I heard the steps behind me,
slow, deliberate.

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I didn’t turn around.
I didn’t need to, because the

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next thing I felt was the
unmistakable weight of a hand

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not resting gently, not a
breeze.

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A full on hand, cold but somehow
also tingling right on my

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shoulder.
And then it was gone.

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It didn’t just stay inside the
house.

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We never went outside at night,
ever.

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The moment the sun went down,
the backyard transformed.

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It wasn’t fear of animals or
strangers.

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It was something more primal,
like if you stepped onto the

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back porch after dark, something
would be waiting for you just

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outside your line of sight,
Something that wanted you to

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come closer.
I began dreading late work

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shifts.
If my husband wasn’t home when I

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got back, I’d sit in the car for
too long, trying to psych myself

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up to walk through the front
door.

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Once I was inside, I’d lock it
behind me and check every room

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with the lights on, even though
I knew nothing.

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Living had broken in, but
something had already made

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itself at home.
Eventually the energy changed.

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It didn’t feel murderous
anymore, just mischievous, like

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it had accepted us but still
wanted us to know who was boss.

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It didn’t like visitors.
One night, my sister came over.

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We were sitting in the dining
room, chatting casually.

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I was in mid sentence when the
oven behind me slammed open,

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then shut again with enough
force to make the pan rack

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inside rattle.
My sister jumped out of her

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chair and I tried to laugh it
off, but then, right beside me,

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the chair shifted.
Not a subtle nudge, not like

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someone brushed against it.
The chair pulled back and rocked

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forward again like someone had
scooted out, then sat back down.

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We were being told you’re fine
but she isn’t welcome.

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There was 1 moment I’ll never
forget.

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Not because it was the scariest,
but because it felt the most

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personal.
I was in the bathroom getting

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ready to go out.
My husband was playing

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PlayStation in the living room.
I could hear the sounds of the

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game faintly through the door.
Then I heard him say it.

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I love you, again I love you,
and again I love you, I love

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you, I love you.
It kept going over and over, the

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same inflection, same rhythm,
almost mechanical, like a child

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mimicking what it thought humans
were supposed to sound like.

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I rolled my eyes.
I love you too.

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I shouted back, half laughing,
half annoyed.

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Then I heard him respond from
the other side of the house.

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His voice was puzzled.
What was that for?

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I froze.
I stepped into the hallway.

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He was still sitting on the
couch, controller in hand.

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He looked up at me, confused.
You were saying I love you over

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and over.
I said.

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He shook his head.
No, I wasn’t.

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I didn’t say a word.
That house stayed weird the

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whole time we lived there, but
we grew used to it.

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The fear faded into familiarity.
Whatever lived there had

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accepted us, maybe even liked us
in its own twisted way, but it

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made one thing very clear.
We were renting the house, but

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it still belonged to something
else, and it always would.

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And you know what?
Cassie’s story is a reminder

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that the most unsettling
hauntings aren’t the loud ones.

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They’re the aware ones, the kind
that wait, that listen, that

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mimic love and wear it like a
mask.

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Some houses never want to be
empty, and, and when you live in

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one, you don’t forget.
Even if the lights are off and

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the doors are locked, part of
you still flinches at the sound

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of footsteps behind you because
you remember how it felt when

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they were real.
Thank you for joining me

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tonight, for sitting with
Cassie’s experience, and for

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holding space for things we
don’t always have words for.

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And if this story gave you
chills or stir something deeper,

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no, you’re not alone.
And if you’re craving more

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stories like this, ones that
press too close or dig too deep,

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be sure to join the e-mail list
at paranormalnightshift.com.

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That’s where I share the
exclusive stories we can’t put

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on air, and where you’ll get
first access to Book 2 of

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Dimensional Desperado when it’s
ready to rise from the past.

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00:10:17,800 –> 00:10:21,280
And of course, if you want to
support the show, Patreon is the

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way.
You’ll get ad free episodes,

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early access, and a front row
seat to every shadow Buck

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Freeman faces in the books.
As always, keep your eyes open

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and your instincts sharper,
because if a house ever makes

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you feel watched, it probably
is.

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Until next time, stay aware,
stay brave, and if something

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whispers your name from the
hallway, whatever you do, don’t

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answer.
And have a good night, time

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travelers.