I was 19 years old, living in student accommodation in Liverpool in the middle of the 1980s, and I thought the worst part of coming back after summer would be the cold, the damp, and another year of trying to act tougher than I felt. Instead, from my first nights back, something in that house began pressing itself into my life in ways I could not explain and could never fully escape. What started as unease slowly turned into a kind of fear that got inside my head, my sleep, and even the way I saw my own room after dark. I kept trying to tell myself there had to be a normal reason for it, because admitting the truth meant accepting that I was sharing that place with something deeply wrong. Even now, years later, I can still feel what it was like to lie awake knowing I was not alone, and to realise that whatever had noticed me was not just haunting the house. It wanted me afraid.