7 True Home Alone Horror Stories | "The Door Was Locked… But They Were Inside" 😱 That Made Silence Feel Dangerous

Hello everyone and welcome back to horror stories. I know many of you use these episodes to fall asleep so before you drift off, I'd love it if you could leave a comment letting me know where you're listening from around the world. Also don't forget to like and subscribe if you're enjoying the episodes. 3-1 In Colorado, October evenings arrive sooner than most people anticipate. By 4-30 that Thursday afternoon, long shadows had already begun spreading over our kitchen floor when I returned from school. I was 15, a sophomore at Ridgeview High, and I had recently started catching rides home with my friend Jenna's older brother after our soccer practices were switched to the mornings. My father was an engineer at a technology company downtown and generally arrived home around 630. My mother managed a dental practice 40 minutes away, so she almost never returned before 7. Our house stood in one of the newer subdivisions near Highway 6, where all the home shared roughly the same layout but had siding in different colors. Ours had pale grey siding bordered by white trim. During the week the neighborhood stayed fairly peaceful. Most of the residents were families whose small children were still at daycare, or older people who mostly kept to themselves. Nothing about that afternoon initially seemed unusual. I had collected the mail from the mailbox, dropped my backpack beside the staircase, and put some leftover pizza in the microwave. Then I heard the back door creak open. The man my parents employed for miscellaneous repairs around the house was named Brett. For approximately six months he had been stopping by whenever something required attention. He looked somewhere between 38 and 40, although it was difficult to be certain. Early streaks of grey ran through his brown hair and his hands were rough, with traces of grease or paint permanently lodged beneath his fingernails. Whenever I saw him, he had on the same worn blue coveralls. His name was embroidered in red on the front pocket, but the stitching around the edges of the letters had begun to unravel. My mother had discovered him through a neighborhood Facebook group after a severe storm left our fence coming apart. His prices were about half of what established contractors had quoted, and he was perfectly happy to accept cash. Since then Brett had repaired the fence, replaced the tiles in the downstairs bathroom, cleared out our gutters, and just the previous Saturday completed the installation of heavy-duty storage shelves in our garage. My father had paid him that afternoon. I remembered it clearly because I had been doing homework at the kitchen table while Brett counted the money twice, moistening his thumb between every $20 bill. "Mom," I called, despite knowing her car wasn't parked outside and that she never finished work this early. Behind me the microwave sounded its final beep. I made no move to take out the pizza. The back entrance led into a little mudroom adjoining the kitchen. Starting beside the counter, I had an unobstructed view of anyone entering through it. Brett came in to sight in the doorway, dressed in his usual coveralls, yet there was something different about him. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn't knocked or announced his arrival. Both things he normally did. For a moment he simply stood there, his broad body occupying most of the doorway. Then he came inside and shut the door behind him. The porch light which switched on automatically hadn't activated yet, leaving part of his face in shadow. Even so I could make out the battered red toolbox in his hand. Its latch was broken so he had to keep a hand over it to prevent it from opening. "Hey kiddo," he said. He had always called me that. I had always disliked it, but I had never asked him to stop. His voice was heavier than I remembered as though he had just woken up or possibly had something to drink. I couldn't really tell. I wasn't trying to scare you. I forgot my good drill in the garage Saturday. The de-walt. Your parents told me I could come collected whenever. It was possible they had said that, but my parents were careful about keeping me informed and if someone planned to visit while I was alone, they always sent me a text beforehand. I took out my phone and checked. Neither of them had messaged me. By then, Brett was already crossing the kitchen toward the garage entrance. His workboots left light smudges of dirt across the floor my mother had cleaned. There was an ease to his movements that bothered me. He looked far too relaxed, far too familiar with the place, almost as though it were his own home. I went after him, stopping near the garage door with my phone still in my hand. I could bring it out to you, I offered. I tried to keep my voice ordinary, although my mouth had suddenly become dry. Just let me know where you put it. Brett twisted the door knob but paused before opening the door. As he shifted his weight between his feet, I caught an odor coming from him. It wasn't quite the smell of alcohol. It was harsher. Something chemical that reminded me of gasoline or paint thinner. The contents of his toolbox clanked against one another when he changed his grip. "Nah, I'll get it. Could be a couple of other things I forgot, too. I've had so many jobs lately, it's tough remembering where all my tools end up." He pushed the door open and switched on the garage light. Instead of heading directly for the shelving he had installed, however, he stayed where he was and slowly looked around, studying the room as though he wanted to commit its arrangement to memory. My father's mountain bike was suspended on the wall. My mother's gardening equipment sat neatly sorted in transparent plastic containers. Boxes holding our Christmas decorations were piled in one corner. The garage seemed unusually chilly. Then I noticed that the side door opening onto the backyard was slightly ajar. The breeze nudged it against the frame, producing a quiet scraping noise. Brett must have entered through there. That meant he had gone all the way around the house, instead of simply approaching the front entrance the way most visitors would. Actually finding everything might take a little while, he said. He lowered his toolbox onto my father's workbench with a solid thump. I had some drill bits here as well. Special ones. Why don't you head back inside? It's warmer in there. By that point he wasn't even making an effort to look for the drill. He began opening the workbench drawers, removing objects and placing them to one side as though we were checking what we owned. My father stored money in one of those drawers tucked inside an old Altoid's tin. He referred to it as his emergency cash. There was usually around $200 in it. I watched Brett's hands move nearer to that drawer, and I decided to tell a lie. "Dad's coming home early today," I said. The steadiness of my own voice surprised me. He sent me a text about ten minutes ago. He had to leave the office for a dentist appointment so he should get here any second. Brett's hands became still. He raised his head and looked directly at me. It was the first time since coming inside that he had really met my eyes. His eyes were bloodshot with dark shadows beneath them. A small cut marked his left cheek. It looked recent, perhaps only a day or two old. Is that so? His voice gave nothing away. He left the drawer unopened and lifted his toolbox from the bench, but he made no move toward the exit. "That's funny. I passed his office coming over here. His truck was still in the lot. My heartbeat pounded so loudly that I could hear it. How did he know where my father's office was? Had he been observing our family, figuring out when we came and went? He took mom's car today," I answered quickly. His truck was due for an oil change. It began to hum. It was the same aimless, tuneless sound he often made while working. In the cold garage, though, it suddenly felt threatening. He moved past me and returned to the house. I couldn't think of anything to do except follow him. Instead of walking toward the back entrance he had used, he took a left and entered our living room. "Just remembered something," he said, trailing his unoccupied hand along the back of the couch. I may have left a few screws on the mantel last month when I checked that loose panel over your fireplace. There had never been a loose panel above our fireplace. He had never done any work in the living room. I remained in the opening between the kitchen and living room, trying to judge the distance to each exit. The front entrance was too far away. Before I could get it unlocked, he would reach me. The back door was nearer, but now he stood between me and that route. I still held my phone, but dialing 911 seemed like it would take too much time. Besides, what was I supposed to tell the dispatcher? That the man who did repairs for our family was searching for his equipment. Brett lifted a framed photograph from the mantel. It was a picture of us during our trip to Yellowstone the previous summer. He examined it closely. "Good photo," he said. Your mother looks young in this one. Does she still wear her hair that way? The question brought a sour surge of bile into my throat. Then footsteps sounded on the floor above us. We both stopped moving. They were heavy footsteps, slow and purposeful, traveling from one upstairs room to the next directly overhead. Brett glanced at the ceiling before turning his attention back to me. "I thought you told me nobody else was here," he said softly. He replaced the photograph with an almost exaggerated gentleness. My thoughts scrambled. I knew there shouldn't have been anyone upstairs. I had been in the house for 20 minutes. If somebody else had been there, surely I would have heard them. But the footsteps kept going. Then an upstairs door slammed with enough force to shake the photographs hanging on the wall. Nothing about Brett's posture changed. His shoulders tightened. His grip closed more firmly around the toolbox handle, whitening his knuckles. "Who's up there?" he demanded. He advanced a step toward me. I retreated into the kitchen and struck my hip against the edge of the counter. "I don't know," I told him. It was the truth. My bewilderment must have shown clearly enough because he appeared to believe me. Another door banged shut overhead, then a third, as though someone were moving through the bedrooms one at a time. Suddenly, the explanation came to me. Our neighbor, Mrs. Shaw, had a key to the house in case of an emergency. She was 73 and sharp as a tack. She had probably noticed Brett's unfamiliar vehicle parked in our driveway. "I ought to leave," Brett said suddenly. Yet he didn't head for either door. He remained completely motionless, listening as the footsteps moved toward the staircase. Whoever was upstairs seemed determined to create as much noise as they could. I even heard a sound like furniture scraping across the floor. Brett was breathing more heavily now. Beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead, despite the cool October weather. Let your parents know I'll stop by another time to get the drill, he said. He was already edging backward toward the mudroom. And they're here. The footsteps began descending the staircase, slow, heavy, deliberate. Every stair gave a loud creek, which was odd because our staircase never normally made that sound. Brett didn't state a find out who was coming down. He turned and hurried across the kitchen, his toolbox knocking against his leg. I heard the back door open, then shot. A moment later, running footsteps across the yard behind the house. I remained flattened against the kitchen counter, too frightened to move while the person on the stairs reached the ground floor. Mrs. Shaw appeared in the doorway. She carried my old middle school aluminum baseball bat in one hand and her phone in the other. Her silver hair normally arranged so neatly was mossed and she was breathing hard after rushing over. I saw him sneaking along the side of your house, she told me. Her voice trembled, but there was determination in it. I've already called the police. They're coming. She had been preparing her afternoon tea and looking out through her kitchen window when she noticed Brett. First she watched him test the side gate. Then he continued around toward the backyard. But what had truly frightened her was something she had seen earlier. Before approaching the house, he had spent nearly an hour sitting in his van at the far end of our street, doing nothing except watching. Mrs. Shaw had retrieved the spare key my mother had given her. The bread and I were in the garage she slipped in through the front entrance, went upstairs, and deliberately caused all that commotion. I thought that if he believed another person was here, somebody larger and more frightening than either of us. He might go away, she explained. She still hadn't loosened her hole in the bat. We remained together in the kitchen until the officers arrived. While Mrs. Shaw described what had happened to the police, I called my parents. This van turned up two streets away. It had been deserted with the engine still running. The police discovered that he had recently lost his apartment after being evicted and had spent several weeks living in the vehicle. They also found a notebook containing information about a number of families who had hired him. He had recorded their daily schedules, the hours when their children were alone, the places where they hid spare keys, and even descriptions of valuable possessions inside their houses. There were several pages devoted to our address. Among his notes was the fact that I was generally home by myself from 345 until 630 on weekdays. The Dewalt Drill he said he had forgotten was right there in the van. Beside it were several other tools that he had probably taken from other customers. Three days later, police arrested him while he was attempting to break into a house two towns away. He had installed a ceiling fan there the month before. The family's teenage son happened to be home from school because he was sick, but Brett hadn't been aware that their usual schedule had changed. We never learned what he had intended to do at our house that Thursday afternoon. Honestly, I'm thankful we didn't. The following week, my parents had a security system installed and replaced every lock. After that, we never again hired someone through a Facebook group. This is shall continues to keep an eye on our home whenever I'm there alone, and her number stays on my speed dial. Every so often when nobody else is around, I still imagine hearing footsteps overhead. Now though, I understand that it's only the old house settling, rather than somebody arriving to help me. Story 2 I never intended to live by myself in that duplex in the suburbs of Milwaukee for very long. I moved in during August 2018 shortly after my divorce because I needed somewhere inexpensive and peaceful while I worked out what to do next. There wasn't anything particularly remarkable about it. The walls were beige, the kitchen looked dated, and a sliding glass door opened onto a little backyard I hardly ever set foot in. At the time, I worked overnight shifts at a warehouse, so I usually slept through the day and spent the evenings finding ways to pass the hours before work. The neighborhood was pleasantly uneventful. There were families raising children and retired couples who maintained immaculate lawns. For the most part, people left one another alone. That Tuesday and early September began like any other day when I wasn't scheduled to work. I got up at around three in the afternoon, brewed some coffee, and noticed I was missing a few things. Going there and coming back should have taken ten minutes at most. I pulled into the mostly deserted parking lot and headed toward the entrance just as two men were leaving. One was tall and thin, probably in his early thirties. He wore an old Packers jersey that hung loosely off his narrow body. The other was shorter and more heavily built, with an odd patch of bleached hair surrounded by dark hair, as if he had begun dying at an lost interest halfway through. They each carried beer cases and were making their way toward a battered Chevy Tahoe. When I passed them, the taller man knocked into me with enough force to make me lose my footing. I turned and he flashed a grinful of yellow teeth. "Watch where you're walking, Princess," he said, or something close to that. His companion let out a shrill little giggle that seemed completely wrong coming from someone built like him. I continued toward the store without answering, but I could feel their eyes following me. Once inside, I could still see them through the window. They hadn't gotten into their vehicle. They were standing beside it, sharing a cigarette and watching in my direction. I collected the things I had come for, milk, bread, and a few frozen meals. All the while I tried to put the strange interaction out of my mind. The cash here was a young guy named Brandon. I had seen him working there more times than I could count. Apparently he noticed that something was bothering me because he asked whether I was okay. I brushed it off. Nothing serious, just a couple of drunk morons outside. But when I stepped out of the store, the Tahoe was still in the lot. Its engine was running now, and it had been moved into the space directly beside my Ford Ranger. The tall man sat behind the wheel with his window lowered, wearing the same idiotic smile. While I put my purchases in my truck, he leaned toward the open window. Good looking truck princess. I bet your house is nice, too. Something in the way he said it sent a prickling sensation over my skin. The other man had his phone raised and was filming me. He wasn't being subtle. He seemed to want me to notice exactly what he was doing. I gave them no response. I climbed into my truck, backed carefully out of the space, and watched their vehicle in the rear view mirror as I left. They stayed behind me for approximately two blocks before turning down a side road. To be cautious, I avoided going straight home. I took a longer route and made two loops through the neighborhood before finally turning into my driveway. Nothing unusual happened during the remainder of the afternoon. I cooked dinner, washed some clothes, and called my brother in Phoenix. We talked for a while about things that didn't really matter. By 730, when darkness settled in, the men from the parking lot had almost slipped out of my thoughts. I stretched out in my recliner, switched on the brewer's game, and drank a couple of beers. For the first time that day, I was beginning to unwind. The living room overlooked the front of the property. Its windows had heavy blinds that I generally shot after dark. I hadn't turned on any lamps, so the television provided the room's only illumination, throwing shifting shadows across everything as the night time game played. At about 10.45 during the bottom of the eighth inning, a car door slammed nearby. That wasn't especially strange. Paul, who lived next door, also kept irregular working hours. Then footsteps began moving up my gravel driveway. They were measured and slow. The kind of steps someone takes when they're attempting to stay quiet without quite succeeding. I muted the television and remained absolutely motionless, listening. The footsteps came to a halt just outside the living room window. My heart was beating so violently that the sound filled my ears. A narrow opening between the blinds gave me a glimpse of two people standing in the driveway. The street light near the end of it cast enough light for me to recognize them. The tall man, and his shorter friend with the bleached patch in his hair. Both had put on dark rubber gloves, the sore people used for washing dishes. The taller one was studying my front entrance. The shorter one was looking over the windows. As silently as possible, I eased myself out of the recliner and lowered my body toward the floor. I reached for my phone on the coffee table. My immediate thought was to dial 911, but I stopped myself. What if they could hear my voice? What if they disappeared before the officers got there, only to return some other night when I wasn't prepared? While I crouched behind the couch, the front door knob rattled. They were testing the lock. Next came a scraping noise, metal rubbing against metal. They were either attempting to pick it or working on some other way to pry it open. I got onto my hands and knees and crawled toward the hallway, keeping below the windows where they couldn't see me. My bedroom was in the rear of the duplex. In its closet I kept the old Remington 870 that had belonged to my grandfather. I had never aimed it at another person. Until then I had never imagined being in a situation where I might have to. I took it from the closet and made sure it was loaded. As I did, I heard the two men speaking outside. Their words were muffled, but I could understand enough. The shorter man said something about trying the rear entrance. That was when fear really took hold. The kitchen sliding glass door had a weak lock that hardly functioned. If they went around the house, getting inside would take them only seconds. I moved to the bend in the hallway, a spot that gave me a view of both the front entrance and the kitchen. The shotgun was cold and heavy against my palms, which were slick with sweat. Beyond the kitchen a flashlight beam traveled across the backyard. The sliding doors handled shunk. Then came a particular scraping, lifting sound as though someone were trying to force the door upward and out of its trunk. My mouth dried out completely. I worked the shotguns pump once. That unmistakable cha-chaun carried through the otherwise silent house. Every other sound stopped. The flashlight became motionless. Its beam shining through the glass and onto the kitchen floor. For what felt like ten seconds, nothing moved at all. Then quick footsteps raced along the side of the duplex toward the front. I hurried to the living room window and looked through the blinds just in time to see both men running for the Tahoe. Before climbing inside, the tall one turned and glanced at my house. They accelerated away so violently that their tires left black streaks on the road. Those marks remained visible for weeks afterward. I stayed where I was for perhaps five minutes, keeping the shotgun raised and waiting to be certain they weren't coming back. A adrenaline had left my entire body trembling. When I finally felt able to move safely, I called 911 and switched on every light in the duplex. Two police officers arrived about fifteen minutes later. Neither looked much older than Brandon, the cashier at the convenience store. They discovered primarks around the front entrance and footprints scattered across the property. The sliding door also bore unmistakable evidence that somebody had tried to force it open. One of them, officer Noak, photographed the damage while the other questioned me. I described what had happened earlier at the store, told them what both men looked like, and explained that one of them had recorded me with his phone. Noak said they would find out whether the 7/11 had surveillance footage. The officers remained for roughly an hour. Before leaving, they suggested stronger locks and possibly a home security system. After they were gone, I hauled my recliner into the bedroom. I stayed in it until daylight with the shotgun resting across my legs. I called work and told them I was sick. There was no chance I was going to leave the house that night. At approximately six in the morning, I finally fell asleep for a couple of hours. As soon as I woke, I got online and ordered replacement deadbolts, security cameras and lights activated by motion. The following days were difficult. The smallest noise made me flinch. I repeatedly checked the doors and found myself looking through the windows every few minutes. I replaced the deadbolts on my own, then devoted an entire Saturday to putting up the cameras and installing the lights. Paul noticed me working on a ladder and came over to lend a hand. When I explained what had happened, he told me he had noticed a taho passing our home slowly several times during the week before the attempted burglary. At the time, he hadn't considered it significant. He had assumed the driver was trying to find an address. Hearing that turned my stomach. These men had been preparing for this. They had been observing my habits and working out when I would be there by myself. I began leaving my truck in different parking spots and changing the times I departed for work. Whenever a vehicle appeared to be staying behind me, I noticed it immediately. Living with that level of suspicion wore me down. During breaks at the warehouse, I constantly pulled up the camera feeds on my phone. Sometimes I even asked co-workers for favors, having them pass my house during their lunch breaks to check that nothing looked out of place. Approximately two weeks after the incident, officer Noke phoned with news. Both men had been taken into custody after attempting to enter another home three neighborhoods away. That household owned a German shepherd. When the men tried its back door, the dog erupted into such furious barking that everyone in the family woke up. The husband kept the intruders at gunpoint until officers reached the property. Apparently the two men had been running an entire operation. They watched homes determine when occupants would be alone and then broke into steel electronics, money and prescription medication. The taller man's name was Robert Henley. His criminal history included years of burglary and assault offenses. His accomplice was Vincent Russo. Before these incidents, most of his record involved smaller thefts. Investigators recovered recordings of at least twelve different houses from Russo's phone. My duplex was among them. The prosecutor told me that if the case reached trial, I would likely need to take the stand. Never happened. Both men accepted plea agreements. Henley received a three-year sentence. Russo received eighteen months. Knowing they were behind bars didn't immediately fix anything. It was months before I started getting decent sleep again. Every creek woke me. So did the slam of a car door or a dog barking somewhere nearby. Eventually I adopted a dog of my own. A rescued pit bull mix I named Brutus. He reacts to practically every sound and sleeps at the foot of my bed. The funny part is that he's an absolute sweetheart. The vacuum cleaner terrifies him and there's nothing he enjoys more than having his belly scratched. Still having him there makes me feel more secure. I remained in the duplex for one more year before moving somewhere better, an apartment on the second floor, in a building with a door man and only one entrance. A few people have told me I went too far. They think I should have phoned the police immediately that night instead of reaching for the shotgun. Perhaps they have a point. But when you're alone inside your own home and somebody is trying to force their way in, somebody who has been studying you and preparing for this. You don't calmly examine every sensible choice available. You respond. I believe the noise of that shotgun being pumped spared me from whatever those men intended to do. And I haven't regretted it for a moment. That Tahoe still shows up in my dreams sometimes. When I'm drifting in and out of sleep, I can still hear shoes moving over the gravel outside. My current place probably has more security equipment than it needs. Cameras, smart locks, motion detectors, the whole setup. But I sleep better because of it. Last month I happened to see Brandon from the 7/11 at a bucks game. He hadn't forgotten that afternoon. He told me the two minutes spent hours hanging around the store before I arrived. They were already intoxicated and plainly looking to cause problems. He felt guilty that he hadn't found some way to caution me. I assured him that none of it was his responsibility. Nobody could have known they would trail me home and later try to get inside. Yet one thought continues to bother me. If I hadn't needed to visit the store that particular afternoon, or if I had gone or now or sooner or an hour later, the whole thing might never have happened. They selected me at random. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong moment. Sometimes that's the part that prevents me from sleeping, realizing how suddenly your entire feeling of security can be taken away, all because you went out for milk and bread on a Tuesday afternoon. 43. Most people have no idea what genuine terror feels like until they're 16, home alone. On the house around them suddenly seems far too large, far too silent, and far too vulnerable. This happened on a Saturday afternoon in early June 2016. It was one of those sluggish summer days when the heat seems to slow everything down. My parents had gone to Boston for a weekend college reunion, leaving me responsible for our two-story colonial and a peaceful Connecticut suburb. I was stretched across the living room sofa, partway through a Netflix marathon and a family size bag of Doritos, thoroughly enjoying having the house to myself. The air conditioner produced a constant hum that covered most of the noises outside. I remember thinking I couldn't have asked for a better afternoon. My irritating little brother wasn't around. My parents weren't reminding me about schoolwork. There was just me, the couch, and another six episodes of whichever series had become my obsession that summer. At approximately 430 somebody knocked on the front door. They didn't ring the bell. That struck me as odd because everyone who visited our house normally used it. The knocking followed a particular pattern. Three rapid taps, a short pause, then another two. It sounded like somebody trying to remain courteous while making sure they weren't ignored. Then a voice came through the door. "Hey kiddo, it's Uncle Steve. Could you open up? I've locked my keys in the car and my phone's out of battery." The thick oak door muffled his words, but the voice sounded just like my uncles. It had the faint Boston accent he had never completely shaken, along with the familiar way he drew out the word "kitto." Uncle Steve lived about 20 minutes from us and visited frequently, often without telling anyone he was coming. He usually brought butterscotch candies which I acted like I had outgrown even though I secretly still loved them. My immediate impulse was to get off the couch and let him inside, but something stopped me. That morning mom at said Uncle Steve was spending the weekend Vermont, visiting his girlfriend's relatives at their cabin. I approached the front entrance slowly, my socked feet making no sound against the wooden floor, and looked through the people. The curved lens warped the view, but I could make out someone standing on the porch. He wore a baseball cap, pulled down over his forehead, and what appeared to be Uncle Steve's favorite Navy windbreaker, the one with the worn red socks emblem on the chest. The porch light was off, the late afternoon sunlight was falling at an awkward angle, leaving his face covered in shadows. Come on sweetheart, he continued, "A tight feeling spread through my chest." Uncle Steve didn't call me "sweetheart." He called me "kitto" or "squirt" when he was trying especially hard to annoy me. Never sweetheart. I know your home, your cars right there in the driveway. That gave me another reason to hesitate. I didn't own a car. I had only received my learners permit three weeks earlier, and I wasn't permitted to drive by myself yet. The person outside moved slightly. For an instant I saw his hand rise to straighten the baseball cap. Nothing about his fingers was wrong. They seemed too broad and too long, with yellowish nails that looked nothing like Uncle Steve's. "Listen, I really have to use your bathroom," he said. His voice had become tense as those sounding relaxed now required effort. Remember Thanksgiving last year? You got cranberry sauce all over Grandma Dorothy's tablecloth, and I helped clean it before your mother saw. I never said a word about that to anybody. Just let me come in for a minute. My entire body stiffened. There had been an accident involving cranberry sauce the previous Thanksgiving. But the tablecloth had belonged to Aunt Marie. Grandma Dorothy had been dead for three years, and Uncle Steve hadn't helped me clean anything. He had been outdoors having a cigarette with my father. The man on the porch had enough information about our family to sound almost convincing, but he didn't know enough to get the details right. I stepped backward from the door my heartbeat thundering in my ears and retrieved my phone from the coffee table. The knocking started again. This time the blows were stronger and more demanding. I can hear you walking around. Don't treat your uncle like that. My fingers stumbled over the screen as I tried calling Mom. The call immediately went to voicemail. She had already told me the reception at the reunion location was awful. I called Dad next and got the same result. For a moment I considered dialing 911, but I couldn't work out how to explain it. Someone was standing outside my house and pretending to be my uncle. The knocking escalated into heavy pounding. The decorative wreath hanging on the door trembled with each hit. "All right, I was trying not to frighten you, but I think something's wrong with me." The voice said. It abruptly became faint and short of breath. "My chest, I forgot those pills I'm supposed to take. You remember my heart problem, don't you?" The one they discovered after I passed out at your birthday party. Another false detail. Uncle Steve did have a heart condition, but the doctor had diagnosed it during an ordinary physical examination. He had never collapsed at one of my birthday parties. Whoever this person was, he was combining genuine facts with things that had never happened. He was as though he had been collecting little scraps of information about our lives while watching us from somewhere outside them. I sent Mom a text. Someone's at the door claiming to be Uncle Steve, but it isn't him. What should I do? Several times the little bubbles showing that she was typing appeared and then vanished. No reply reached me. Without warning the pounding ceased. The quiet that replaced it felt even more frightening. I moved carefully toward the living room window and drew the curtain aside only far enough to see the porch. The man was no longer standing at the front entrance. He was making his way around the side of the house toward the backyard. Our rear entrance consisted of glass-french doors. Mom adored them because they filled the room with sunlight. Their lock, however, was flimsy. Dad had repeatedly said he would strengthen it, but he had never gotten around to doing it. I rushed into the kitchen, my socks getting over the tiles. He was already on the deck. His face was pressed close to the glass. With the light falling more clearly on him, I could finally see what he looked like. His body resembled Uncle Steve's. He had that same thick, stocky build. His face was another matter. The features were close but somehow stretched and distorted as if someone had attempted to recreate my uncle's appearance from a vague memory. His eyes disturbed me most. They were the correct shade, a greenish hazel, but they looked blank and didn't blink. He examined me with the detached attention someone might give an insect trap beneath glass. When he realized I was looking at him, he smiled. His teeth were immaculate, almost unnaturally white, like veneers or dentures. They bore no resemblance to Uncle Steve's slightly uneven coffee-stained smile. "There you are," he said. He was still imitating my uncle's voice, although the impression was beginning to falter around the edges, like an actor struggling to maintain an accent. As he spoke, his breath clouded the glass. I also noticed the gloves. He was wearing thin latex medical gloves, which made his already peculiar-looking hands seem even stranger. Why don't you open the door? I won't be here long, I promise. I only need to collect something I forgot last week. To watch your dad borrowed, you remember it, right? My father had never borrowed a watch from Uncle Steve. He didn't even wear one. He always complained that watches made his wrist itchy. The man reached for the handle and began moving it. At first he shook it lightly, then he applied more force. The lock stayed in place, but the entire frame rattled. I knew it probably couldn't withstand much more. I pulled the largest knife from the wooden holder on the kitchen counter. A carving knife mom used for turkey. I gripped it with both hands, trying desperately to keep them steady. That's not very friendly, he said when he noticed what I was holding. He abandoned the imitation completely. The voice that replaced it was deeper and harsher. I only want to come inside and have a conversation. Then I heard a noise that made every muscle in my body seize, glass breaking upstairs. It wasn't a loud crash or the sound of an entire window being smashed. It was quieter and more controlled. The deliberate noise of somebody cutting through glass. It reminded me of the sound's dad had made when he replaced a damaged pain in the bathroom window the summer before. The man outside must have noticed my gaze shoot toward the ceiling. He laughed. It was a low satisfied chuckle, utterly unlike anything I had ever heard from Uncle Steve. It'll be my friend, he said casually as though he were commenting on the weather. You see I figured you'd make things difficult. Children always do. Your parents ought to have taught you some manners. Footsteps began moving across the floor overhead. They were slow and purposeful, traveling from what sounded like my parents bedroom toward the staircase. The man at the French door stopped tugging at the handle. He simply watched me with those vacant eyes, waiting. That was when I understood that getting through the back door was no longer his immediate goal. He was holding my attention. keeping me in the kitchen, making certain I didn't escape before his accomplice came down stairs to reach me. The footsteps arrived at the top of the staircase. I probably had only seconds to make a decision. The knife suddenly felt worthless. What exactly did I imagine I could do with it? Defend myself against two adult men. Then I remembered the panic button connected to our alarm. My parents had installed the system after several houses in the neighborhood were broken into the previous year. The button was mounted on the wall beside the door leading to the garage. It was only 15 feet from where I stood. At that moment the distance might as well have been a mile. Outside the man began tapping the glass with a single gloved finger. The rhythm was steady, almost like a countdown. You should set that knife down before anybody gets injured, he said. His voice carried a sickening imitation of concern. We wouldn't want you having an accident. The footsteps were descending now, heavy and without any sense of hurry. A shadow appeared in the hallway growing larger as its owner approached. Something inside my head suddenly became clear. I wasn't going to remain there and let them carry out whatever they had planned. I turned and raised toward the garage entrance. My palm struck the panic button with so much force that it hurt. The alarm erupted throughout the house, a sharp piercing scream that left my ears ringing. The man outside began hammering on the glass with both fists. His expression twisted with anger. Every trace of pretending was gone. I heard the glass crack, fine lines spreading outward in a web from where he was striking it. The footsteps on the staircase became a rush. As the second man came around the corner into the kitchen, I got a clear look at him. He was tall and slender dressed in dark clothing. His ski mask had been pulled upward far enough for his mouth to show. His lips were moving as though he were swearing, but the alarm drowned out whatever he said. I pulled the garage door open and ran through it, still holding the knife. My socks slipped against the smooth concrete beneath me. Mrs. Kowalski, our neighbor, was already outside on her front lawn with her phone in her hand. She was probably speaking to 911. She was a tough, Polish woman in her 70s who had very little patience for anyone's nonsense. When she saw me coming out of the garage in my socks with a knife in my hand, she didn't stop to ask for an explanation. She caught my arm and moved me behind her. She was shouting something, but I couldn't make out the words over the alarm. I looked back. Both men were standing inside our garage watching us. Neither tried to chase me. For perhaps three seconds they stayed there looking at Mrs. Kowalski and the phone she was holding. Then they turned around and walked calmly back through our house. The police reached us in less than four minutes. I later learned that three separate neighbors had called 911 after hearing the alarm. By the time the officer's entered, nobody was inside. The glass on the French doors was cracked. Upstairs someone had cut a perfectly round opening in my parents' bathroom window. These edges were smooth as though professional equipment had been used. Nothing in the house had been stolen. Somehow that made the whole thing more disturbing. The detective who spoke with me was a woman named Ferretti. She had gentle eyes and strands of gray running through her black hair. She assured me that I had handled everything correctly. According to her, the men had likely been observing our home. They knew my parents' vehicle wasn't there. They knew Uncle Steve was out of town. They might have learned those things from social media. Or they might simply have watched closely enough. They had assembled enough facts to make their explanation sound plausible, relying on a teenager being too courteous or too uncertain to challenge somebody who claimed to be a relative. What upset me most was her suggestion that they had probably used the same approach successfully before. That other children might have missed the small inconsistencies. They might have unlocked their doors because they believed a family member needed help. But the discovery that still wakes me at night, even six years later, was what officers found in the garbage bin beside our curb. Inside was a manila folder filled with printed material. There were photographs of our family taken from Facebook, including recent pictures on Mom's page showing Uncle Steve at Easter dinner. There were notes about our daily schedules, all written in tidy handwriting. There was also a list of relatives, with information explaining how each person was related to us. The worst item was a photograph of me on my walk home from school. It had been taken from the other side of the street with a long lens. The date on it was two weeks before that Saturday. This hadn't been something they thought up that afternoon. They had spent time preparing, learning about us, and waiting until the circumstances were right. And police never located either man. Fingerprints recovered from the folder failed to match any records in the system. Mrs. Koalski remembered part of a license plate, but that information didn't lead anywhere either. Afterward, my parents replaced our entire security setup. They put cameras everywhere, reinforced the doors, and added everything else they could think of. None of it restored the way I had felt in that house before. I never felt truly secure there again. The following year we relocated to Virginia. Even now I check every lock twice before going to sleep. I still hesitate whenever somebody knocks rather than rings the bell, and under no circumstances do I open a door before seeing exactly who is standing on the other side, regardless of how familiar their voice may sound. The wallpaper in my apartment came away from the walls and lengthy strips, stained yellow by decades of cigarette smoke left behind by former tenants. Each morning I seemed to discover another section that had dropped to the floor overnight. It was February 2022. I had spent roughly three months in that deteriorating building on Detroit's outskirts, working warehouse night shifts, and putting aside whatever money I could toward a better place. The apartment was miserable, but the rent was only $400 a month. After my divorce forced me to begin again at 34, it was all my budget could handle. On most nights I returned at around 2 in the morning. I would warm up whatever food remained in the refrigerator, using a microwave that refused to run unless I physically held its door closed. Then I would collapse on my used couch with a true crime podcast talking away in the background. There were 12 apartments in the building. Mine was on the third floor, immediately beside 3b, which belonged to the car-mikers. At least that was the surname printed on the mail that occasionally ended up in my box by mistake. They arrived approximately a month after I moved in. From the beginning I had a feeling they would cause problems. The husband was a thick-set construction worker with a scorpion tattoo on his neck. Whenever he became angry, the thing appeared to throb. Next days he returned from work coated in drywall dust and simmering with fury. His wife was thin with bleached hair whose roots had developed a strange orange shade. She worked at a gas station and constantly wore enormous sunglasses. It didn't matter whether it was nighttime or whether she was simply walking through the hallway. She kept them on. At first their arguments consisted of raised voices filtering through the walls, which were barely thick enough to block a conversation. I would hear them while trying to get some sleep before work. Within two weeks those disagreements had become screaming confrontations loud enough to make the light fitting in my bedroom tremble. Furniture crashed across the floor. Glass shattered. She sobbed and pleaded with him to stop. I stayed in bed with a pillow pressed over my head, watching the minutes crawl toward the time I had to leave. I kept assuring myself that their problems weren't mine. Stepping into the situation would only complicate an already difficult life. That changed one Monday night in early March. A different sound came through the adjoining wall. It wasn't shouting or crying. It was a damp heavy impact like somebody pounding a piece of steak with a meat hammer. Afterward there was absolute silence. That quiet frightened me more than the screaming. When I could hear her crying at least I knew she was conscious. I sat upright in bed. I was still wearing my warehouse uniform, having arrived home only 20 minutes before. I put my ear against the wall, nothing. Then heavy footsteps began moving back and forth. He was muttering but I couldn't distinguish the words. Approximately ten minutes later their apartment door opened and shut. His boots thudtered along the corridor toward the stairs. I watched through my people as he left with a rolled rug balanced over one shoulder. One end was darkened by something that looked like a stain. My mouth became dry. Since that dreadful thudding sound I hadn't heard anything from her. For the next hour I walked restlessly between my kitchen and living room. They were essentially one space, divided by a counter whose cabinets were missing their doors. I wanted to knock next door and find out whether she was alright. But I couldn't stop remembering the single occasion when I had encountered her husband in the hallway. Her size had been pale grey, the color of grimy eyes. They had followed me with the attention of an animal evaluating something it might attack. At about four in the morning, I finally reached the point where I couldn't keep doing nothing. I took my phone into the bathroom, the room farthest from their apartment, and switched on the shower so the running water would conceal my voice. Then I called 911. I explained that I had heard what appeared to be domestic violence, that everything had suddenly become quiet, and that I feared someone might be badly injured. The dispatcher told me officers would be sent to investigate. They recorded my name and apartment number, instructed me to remain inside, and said the police would contact me if they needed a statement. The officers arrived roughly half an hour later. Through the people I watched two of them approach the car Michael's door in knock. She answered, "She was alive, thank God. She had on a turtle neck despite it being March. And she kept her face angled away from the corridor light. Even with my restricted view, I could see her hands shaking as she held the door barely open. The officers spoke to her for perhaps five minutes, their voices calm and business like. She repeatedly shook her head. Everything was fine she said. Her husband was working. She had dropped a few dishes, and that must have accounted for the noise I had heard. They requested permission to step inside and look around. She refused explaining that she needed to prepare for her shift because they had no warrant and she wouldn't let them enter. They left. One officer came to my door afterward. I described what I had heard, but they told me their options were limited without her cooperation. He was young with a mustache so thin it looked as though somebody had sketched it onto his face with a pencil. He gave me a business card and asked me to call again if anything else happened that concerned me. I attempted to sleep once they were gone, but I kept picturing her in that doorway, positioned so neither the officers nor I could see the left side of her face. I kept hearing the emptiness in her voice when she claimed nothing was wrong. Around noon a violent slam from their door woke me. It struck with enough force to send one of my frame pictures off the wall. The frame hit the floor and broke. Through the partition, I heard him screaming at her. He called her a stupid and demanded to know whether she thought she was smart, whether she believed he wouldn't discover what had happened. Then he said my name, my full name. He must have learned it from the officers or possibly from the mailboxes downstairs. He shouted that I should mine my own business if I had any sense of what was good for me. The walls were so insubstantial that I could hear him striking something with his fists. It might have been a door of the wall itself. Each blow sent a vibration through the floor beneath me. That continued for 20 minutes. Then the noise stopped again. But this wasn't a reassuring silence. It felt like the heavy stillness before a tornado. I needed to leave for work at 5 that afternoon. Honestly, I was terrified of opening my door. For five minutes I stood with my hand resting on the deadbolt, listening for any indication that someone was waiting outside. When I finally made myself leave, I nearly sprinted to the stairwell and took the steps three at a time. Nothing happened. Their door remained shut. Nobody appeared in the hallway. I reached my car without trouble. An old Ford Focus whose driver's door had to be lifted slightly while you closed it. Throughout my shift I kept looking at my phone. Part of me expected a message from the landlord telling me somebody had broken into my apartment or set it on fire. No message came. When I returned at 2.30 in the morning, the building was completely quiet. Light showed beneath the car Michael's door, and a television was playing inside. Otherwise there was nothing. I entered my own apartment, secured the deadbolt, and placed a chair against the door as an extra precaution. I tried to persuade myself that he had only needed to vent his anger. Maybe it was finished. Then someone began pounding on my door. Not knocking. These were blows delivered with what sounded like the side of a clenched fist. Three hard strikes made the chair braced against the door jump. I stood frozen in the living room still dressed for work, barely even breathing. I hoped whoever was outside would assume I wasn't there. Another round of pounding came stronger than the first. I heard a faint crack from the woods surrounding the deadbolt. Then everything went quiet. I approached carefully, trying to avoid making the floorboards creak, and pressed my eye to the people. The corridor appeared deserted, but the bulb that normally lit the space directly outside my apartment had been loosened just enough to go out. My doorway sat in shadow. For what was probably ten minutes I remained at the people, searching for movement or any hint of the person who had been there. That was when I spotted the envelope. It was wide and lay on the floor. Someone had pushed it beneath the door while I was looking out. I didn't want to touch it. Every instinct urged me to leave it alone and act as though I hadn't noticed it. I even considered contacting the police again, but curiosity prevailed, the way it sometimes does when you know perfectly well that you ought to resist it. I bent over and lifted the envelope by one corner, handling it as though it could detonate. Then I carried it to the kitchen where I could see more clearly. My name appeared on the front and capital letters written with a black sharpie. The lettering had that intentionally impersonal quality people use when they don't want their handwriting recognized. Just looking at it made dread tighten inside my chest. The envelope contained a single brass key and a folded sheet of notebook paper. The key resembled an ordinary house key, visibly worn, with scratches along its teeth. The paper had ragged inches as though someone had torn it from a notebook in a hurry. I unfolded it. Eleven words have been written in the same block capitals. We can come in any time. Next time you won't hear us. My legs buckled. I had to lower myself onto the kitchen floor beside the garbage bin which smelled of stale Chinese takeout. The key matched my apartment key exactly. It wasn't merely close, it was identical. The brand was the same, so was the worn patch on the head where years of handling had rubbed away the brass coating. Under the kitchen light I held the two keys beside each other. Every detail matched, including a small nick in the third tooth that I had noticed when I first moved in. Someone had duplicated my key. Only two people should have had access to it. Me and my landlord, Mr. Garrison. He was seventy, lived in Florida, and dealt with tenants exclusively through his property management company. Then I remembered something from approximately two weeks before. I had misplaced my keys at the warehouse. They had apparently fallen from my jacket pocket, and I spent my entire lunch break searching for them. Eventually I found them near the loading dock. At the time I assumed they had slipped down while I was carrying boxes. Now I wondered whether they had ever truly been lost. Had somebody taken them, copied the apartment key, and then placed them somewhere I would eventually find them. The thought nearly made me throw up. The following day I called work and said I was sick, something I had never done before. I spent the morning at Home Depot purchasing replacement locks, a security bar for the door, and one of those door stop alarms that lets out a shriek if somebody tries to force their way inside. An employee helped me choose a debt bolt. He was a young guy with stretched earlobes and a name badge that read Nathan. He said the model would be practically impossible to pick without power tools. I wanted to explain that lock picking was no longer what worried me. They had a key. Instead I nodded and added the lock to my cart, along with a motion activated light for the inside of my apartment. I returned to the building at around one in the afternoon. At the Carmichael's door was standing open. From the hallway I had a direct view into their living room. She sat on a brown sofa with stuffing protruding from its arms, going through what appeared to be a pile of mail. He stood beside the window, smoking a cigarette despite the lease prohibiting it. Our eyes met for maybe two seconds. His and mine, not hers. He gave me a slow nod as though we were silently confirming something only the two of us understood. His lips shifted like he might speak. Instead he drew on the cigarette again and turned back toward the window. I hurried into my apartment. For the next three hours I replaced the locks. The drill made so much noise that I'm certain everyone on our floor could hear what I was doing. I didn't sleep that night. I stayed in the living room with every light switched on. The security bar was jammed beneath the door knob. The doorstop alarm was set and a baseball bat rested across my knees. It was a Louisville slugger I had purchased years earlier for a workplace softball team I never actually joined. At approximately three in the morning, footsteps sounded in the corridor, heavy boots. By then I recognized that particular sound immediately. They stopped outside my apartment. There was no knock, no pounding. Someone simply remained there. Through the space beneath the door I could see the shadow cast by a pair of feet. They didn't move. It probably lasted about five minutes, although sitting there made it feel like hours. Eventually the footsteps receded. The next morning I loaded my car with everything I could squeeze into it. I left the furniture behind. of it was worth more. anyway. Then I drove to my sister's home in Ohio. I didn't even notify the landlord. I walked away from the apartment and decided that forfeiting my security deposit was a price I could live with. Before leaving, I pushed the key from the envelope beneath the car Michael's door. With it, I included a note of my own. It said only on keep it. I never returned. I never learned what became of other of them. And truthfully I have no desire to find out. Even now two years later, I live in a decent apartment with reliable locks and ordinary neighbors. But sometimes I still wake in the darkness, convinced I can hear those boots moving down the hallway. Story 5. There's something different about living on your own for the first time when you're 20, and certain that terrible things only happen to other people. I had recently moved into a tiny studio near campus in early May 2023. It was in an aging brick building from the 1950s, with radiators that rattled and clank throughout the night and windows sealed shut beneath layers of paint, applied by generations of careless landlords. The apartment was hardly impressive, 400 square feet, a kitchenette with barely enough space for a microwave, and a bathroom narrow enough that I could reach both walls simultaneously. Still, it belonged to me. That Saturday afternoon, I sat cross-legged on a second-hand futon with my laptop resting on my knees, working on a Victorian literature paper that needed to be submitted Monday morning. The building was unsettlingly silent, although that wasn't unusual on weekends. Most students either went home or found somewhere else to party. Personally, I liked the quiet. It made concentrating easier, and I had prepared an enormous mug of the vanilla chai my freshman year roommate had introduced me to. The knocking started at around 330. Three firm blows made me jerk and surprise, nearly sending tea across my keyboard. Nobody was supposed to be coming over. My friend Claudia had gone to her parents' home in Pennsylvania for the weekend. Thomas the guy I had been dating was working at the campus bookstore until six. I looked through the people. A stranger stood outside, apparently in his mid-40s, wearing a navy jumpsuit with what seemed to be a name patch attached to the chest. The way he stood immediately bothered me. He was much too close to the door, his shoulder nearly touching it, as though he were straining to hear whether somebody was inside. His hair was an unnatural reddish brown, the sort of color you get when a home die kit goes badly wrong. He had combed it backward with so much gel that it looked damp, even though the weather was sunny. When he knocked a second time, more forcefully, I noticed the dark uneven scabs covering his knuckles. They looked like the result of repeatedly hitting something abrasive. Maintenance, he announced. The door softened his voice, but it still sounded surprisingly high for a man with such a solid build. There's been a report of water leaking from your apartment. I need to inspect the kitchen plumbing immediately, but I had already lived there for three weeks, and I knew the actual maintenance worker. His name was Horokee. He was a kind older man who wore a gray uniform with the building's emblem stitched onto the pocket. During my first week, he had repaired my toilet. He had also made a point of explaining that maintenance staff never arrived without phoning beforehand, or placing a notice beneath the door at least 24 hours ahead of time. Furthermore, Horokee had said he was the only person handling maintenance for our building and the tube aside it. He didn't work weekends unless there was a genuine emergency, such as a burst pipe flooding several apartments. The stranger's jumpsuit had no building logo, only that name patch, whose lettering I couldn't decipher through the distorted people. But the security chain still fastened I spoke through the closed door. I haven't reported a leak, and nobody notified me about maintenance coming today. He shifted and I heard his breathing. It was heavy, nearly a pant, as if climbing the three flights to my floor had left him winded. "Mam, it's leaking into the apartment underneath yours," he insisted. An odd urgency had entered his voice, making the hair of my arm's rise. The resident in 2B reported it an hour ago. "Waters coming through the ceiling tiles. If we don't deal with it now, there could be serious damage." I knew that couldn't be right. Apartment 2B had been vacant for at least a month. I had seen its previous resident, an elderly woman with three cats move out in April. The superintendent had told me they planned to renovate the unit before advertising it again. The man began moving the door knob. He wasn't wrenching it violently, but he kept at it, as though measuring how securely the lock held. Then he did something that sent every warning instinct I had into overdrive. He lowered himself onto his knees. Because the old building had settled unevenly, there was a gap of approximately an inch and a half beneath my door. Through it I saw his face pressed down against the floor as he tried to peer inside. One wide bloodshot I appeared in the opening. It moved rapidly from side to side, as though he were studying the layout of my home. I instinctively stepped away. My bare feet making no noise on the worn wooden floor and took my phone from the futon. "I'm contacting the building manager to confirm this right now," I said loudly. "I hope that would persuade him to leave. Instead, he rose quickly enough that I heard his knees pop. Then he gave a low-throty laugh. It sounded nothing like the high voice he had been using. That isn't necessary, ma'am. I'm only here to help." But he stayed immediately outside. I could hear his breathing wet and uneven, followed by the scrape of metal against metal. My heartbeat so fiercely that I felt it in my throat. I dialed 911 and made myself speak clearly, loudly enough for him to understand every word. "Hello. I need officers at 4-4-2-7 Elmwood Avenue. A man is pretending to be maintenance, and he's trying to get into my apartment." The scraping stopped at once. Through the people I saw him withdraw a step. His face was red and slick with sweat. His scabbed hands had curled into fists. He stared straight at the people as though he knew my eye was on the other side. Then his mouth opened into a horribly broad smile. It exposed what seemed like too many teeth, several brown and decaying near the gum line. The dispatcher was questioning me but I couldn't tear my attention away from his grin. He put a hand into the pocket of his jumpsuit. For one awful moment I expected him to bring out a weapon. Instead, he removed a folded sheet of paper and raised it in front of the people. Shaky black lettering apparently written with a marker spelled out, "I know you're alone." He returned the paper to his pocket, gave me a mocking two-finger salute and headed down the corridor. But he didn't go toward either the stairs or the elevator. I heard him stop near what sounded like three F two doors down. A graduate student named Lily lived there alone. Three familiar knocks carried through the hallway. Then the same falsely high voice. Maintenance. We've had a report of a leak. A cold sensation spread through my entire body when I heard Lily's chain lock move. Her young voice followed. "Oh, okay. Let me put something on first." I shouted through my door. "Lily, don't let him in. He isn't maintenance. I've called the police." For a moment there was no sound. Then her door slammed and I heard the deadbolt engage. The man made an angry growing noise. This time there was no mistaking his real voice. It was low and gravely, entirely different from the act he had been performing. He struck Lily's door three times with what sounded like the edge of his fist. The blows reverberated along the entire corridor. Then his heavy footsteps started back toward me. He stopped outside my apartment again. I heard him mumbling beneath his breath words I couldn't understand. As if he were arguing with himself. The dispatcher told me patrol units were on their way and would probably arrive in five minutes. Five minutes can feel like five hours when a single wooden door separates you from somebody who is clearly unstable. Then another noise made my knees weaken. Keys. Not the jingle of a small set but what sounded like dozens of them. They clattered together while he searched through them. The scraping at my lock resumed. Now I understood what I was hearing. He was testing keys individually, working patiently through what had to be an enormous collection. I went to the kitchen drawer and took out my largest knife. An old butcher knife mom had given me when I moved away from home. Then I stationed myself behind the door. The dispatcher continued telling me to remain calm. The officers were now three minutes away. But I could hear the locks mechanism clicking and shifting whenever he tried a key that fit partway. Through the people I watched him crouch until his face was level with the knob. His tongue protruded between his lips and concentration, like a child absorbed in a challenging puzzle. His other hand rested flat against the door. That was when I noticed his fingernails. They were excessively long, curved and yellow, with dirt, or something darker, packed beneath them. Suddenly Lily called out for Merip. apartment. I have a gun and I know how to use it. The police are coming. She was bluffing completely. Lily was a sociology doctoral student from California. She practiced yoga each morning and wouldn't harm a fly. But he had no way of knowing that. He sprang upright and shoved the keys into his pocket. For a moment he remained there rocking slightly on his feet as though he were intoxicated or lightheaded. Then he did something I will never forget. He brought his face close to my door and spoke in a whisper that was still clear enough for me to hear. I've watched you changing through your window for weeks. Your lamp sits on the left of your bed. You sing in the shower every morning at 715. That mark on your shoulder blade looks like a butterfly. My legs almost collapsed beneath me. Every single detail was accurate. My apartment overlooked the alley behind the building. Being on the third floor I had never imagined someone could look inside. But a taller building stood across from it. Most of its rooms were offices. Which I had assumed were deserted during evenings and weekends. The reference to my birthmark affected me most. Nobody could see it unless I had on a tank top or was wearing even less. He had been observing moments I believed were completely private. The dispatcher was still speaking but I couldn't concentrate on what she said. The rush of blood in my ears overwhelmed nearly everything else. Outside the man continued, his voice sinking lower. Your boyfriend doesn't spend the night during the week. Your curly-haired friend hasn't been here in 9 days. That delivery from yesterday is still unopened beside your door. Amazon isn't it? I recognized the blue tape. Before I could absorb what he was telling me, the stairwell entrance first opened. Police radios crackled. Boots pounded down the hallway. The man didn't immediately flee. For about three seconds he stood without moving. Then he lowered himself to the gap beneath my door again. This time he pushed something through it. A polaroid. Only then did he run toward the far end of the corridor where the second stairwell was located. His footsteps cracked through the hallway like gunfire. I heard officers yelling and chasing him. Their radios filled with frantic updates and locations. I didn't reach for the photograph. I remained where I was, holding the knife until an officer knocked, announced who he was, and displayed his badge through the people. When I finally opened the door, my legs trembled so badly that I needed the wall to support me. The officer was young enough that he could easily have been a student in one of my classes. He asked whether I had been injured. Instead of answering, I pointed to the photograph lying on the floor. We looked at it together. Bile rose into my throat. The picture showed me a sleep in bed. It had been taken inside my apartment. The camera angle was from the foot of the bed, as though somebody had stood there watching while I slept. A time stamp in the lower corner placed it two nights earlier. Thomas had been working his night shift, and I had gone to sleep early because I had a headache. In the photograph, the blanket was lowered to my waist. Someone had decorated the area around my face with small red hearts, using what looked like either lipstick or a marker. The officer immediately requested additional officers to search my apartment. Within minutes, they discovered the root the man had been using to get inside. A maintenance closet off the hallway contained an access panel connected to the ventilation system. One of the ceiling grates in my bedroom had been carefully removed and put back repeatedly, judging by the marks left on its screws. Inside the maintenance closet, investigators found more polaroids, dozens, and they warned all photographs of me. There were pictures of Lily, the young woman in 3C, and even Mrs. Chen who lived on the first floor. They showed us doing ordinary things, preparing food, watching television, studying, sleeping. Every photograph had been taken from somewhere inside our apartments. The closet also contained an improvised bed, discarded food containers, and a notebook recording our routines, habits, and personal information. The handwriting was the same unsteady straw I had seen on the paper he held up to my people. Officers caught him three blocks away while he was attempting to pry open a window at another apartment building. His name was Gordon Briggs. He had previously worked in maintenance, but a building management company had dismissed him 8 months earlier, because of inappropriate conduct toward women who lived in its properties. Over the years, he had retained duplicates of master keys for dozens of buildings where he had worked. He had been staying in maintenance spaces and unoccupied apartments throughout the city, watching women through vents and openings in the buildings that most people never even consider. The police discovered his main collection in an abandoned apartment six blocks from mine. There were hundreds of additional photographs, stolen pieces of mail, and even articles of clothing. I had to identify a sweater I had believed I lost at the laundromat. The detective explained that Gordon's behavior had been escalating. Showing up at doors under the pretence of doing maintenance was something new. It was more aggressive than the stalking he had engaged in before. I left the apartment that same week, until I found somewhere else I stayed with Thomas. My new place had better security, and there were no maintenance closets beside the apartments. Lily moved out as well, so did the woman from 3C. The management company covered our relocation costs and attempted to keep the incident from becoming public. People heard about it anyway. The last information I received was that half the apartments were vacant, and the building had been placed on the market. Whenever I moved somewhere new, I still inspect the ceiling vents. An unexpected knock still makes my chest tighten, and I never, under any circumstances, let maintenance inside before calling the building manager to confirm that they're supposed to be there. Story 6. Things first began feeling strange at my Albany duplex last winter. I was 23, newly out of college, and working overnight shifts at a warehouse simply to cover the rent on a cramped apartment I had found through Craigslist. The building was old, probably dating back to the 1940s. Its walls were so thin that almost nothing stayed private. You could hear footsteps, conversations, even the person next door brushing their teeth. My neighbor Walter was a reserved man in his 50s who held some sort of office job downtown. In an average month, we probably exchanged three words in the basement laundry room. Usually, he would ask whether I was finished with the dryer while pushing his thick-framed glasses into place. The lenses always seemed covered in fingerprints. When I first discovered my door unlocked, I assumed exhaustion was responsible. I must have come back from work and failed to turn the deadbolt all the way. After all, your mind isn't exactly dependable when you're surviving on four hours of sleeping coffee from a gas station. Then, three days later, it happened again. I arrived home at approximately seven in the morning after an especially punishing shift on loading trucks. Before I could put my key into the lock, the door opened beneath my hand. Nothing had disappeared. Nothing appeared out of place. There was only that nauseating certainty that another person had been inside somewhere that belonged to me. I began photographing things before I left. The direction my coffee mug faced on the counter. The arrangement of my shoes beside the entrance, even the exact position of the television remote on the arm of the couch. For roughly two weeks, there were no further incidents. I nearly managed to persuade myself that I was imagining a problem. Perhaps the lock was wearing out. Perhaps the cold had caused the door frame to shift. Then that Thursday night happened. I had called work to say I was sick because I had spent the day vomiting. I suspected the questionable Chinese takeout I had picked up around nine-thirty the previous evening. I was stretched out on the couch watching a reality show that required absolutely no thought when I heard something unmistakable. My refrigerator opening. It wasn't the ordinary sound of the motor running. It was that particular sucking noise the seal makes when the door pulls free. I immediately silenced the television. Another sound followed. Glass bottles clinking together as somebody disturbed the shelf inside the refrigerator door. Walter was standing in my kitchen. From the couch I could see his outline in the refrigerator's light. He had on what appeared to be pajama bottoms and a worn blue t-shirt bearing some company emblem. What unsettled me most was his complete lack of hesitation. He looked perfectly at home, carefully rearranging the contents to reach something farther back. I slowly raised myself into a sitting position. He must have noticed the movement because he turned toward me with my strawberry jam still in his hand. "Oh, hello," he said. His voice was composed and friendly as though we had happened to meet in a supermarket aisle. I didn't expect you to be here tonight. I came across your spare key in the laundry room last week. Since we're neighbors, I figured you wouldn't mind me borrowing a little sugar for my coffee. But there was no spare key. I had never had another one made. I had never hidden one anywhere. The landlord possessed one copy and that was the only other key I knew about. Yet Walter remained in my kitchen with the jam in his hand, waiting for my response. His expression was difficult to read. It wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't blank either, as though his face had become trapped between two different emotions. I told him there was no spare key in that he needed to leave immediately. With exaggerated gentleness, he placed the jar on the counter. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a brass key. This one, he said, raising it beneath the light. It was attached by a magnet underneath the washing machine. Your apartment number is scratched into it. Look, he moved nearer to show me. I could smell coffee on his breath, mixed with something medicinal, almost like cough syrup. I retreated toward the coffee table where my phone was lying and repeated that he needed to get out or I would contact the police. Walter stayed where he was. He stood in the kitchen entrance, slowly tapping the key against his palm. You work overnight at that distribution center on Route 41, don't you? That must wear you out. Here by yourself all day with nobody stopping in to see how you're doing. His tone remained light and conversational. The words themselves made my skin crawl. I've been planning to give this back. Honestly, it just kept slipping my mind. But while I'm here, could I have that sugar? I've already made my coffee next door. It's going cold. He spoke as though borrowing an ingredient were the only thing happening. As though standing uninvited inside my apartment at night was completely ordinary, it felt like trying to reason with somebody whose version of reality followed rules different from everyone else's. I picked up my phone and began entering 911. Walter let out a weary sigh as if I were the one making the situation unnecessarily difficult. That really isn't called for, he said. At last, he started toward the front entrance. I'll borrow the sugar some other time, but you ought to watch where you put your keys. This one was so easy to find. Think what could have happened if somebody dangerous had discovered it. At the door he used the brass key in the outside lock, demonstrating that it genuinely worked, before going he paused and glanced back. You should sleep at ordinary hours once in a while, working all night, keeping such an unpredictable schedule, it isn't good for you. I hear you walking around at strange times, pacing, speaking to yourself. These walls aren't very thick, remember? Then he went out and quietly pulled the door closed. I phoned the landlord straight away, despite the late hour. He sounded irritated, but he confirmed that he had made only one spare, which remained locked in his office safe. When I insisted that somebody had duplicated my key, he told me that couldn't happen. According to him, the locks were a particular brand whose keys could only be copied with authorization from the manufacturer. I replaced the lock myself that very night. I drove to a hardware store that stayed open 24 hours and purchased the most expensive deadbolt available. At two in the morning, I installed it with instructional YouTube videos playing on my phone. Once removed, the previous lock looked perfectly ordinary. There were no scratches or other signs that anyone had interfered with it. I tossed it into the outdoor dumpster anyway. The brass key Walter had left on my kitchen counter when in with it. Three uneventful days followed. By then, I was sleeping with a baseball bat beside the bed and had bought a door stop alarm from Amazon. Then Monday arrived. I returned from work at about 6.40 in the morning, worn out after spending the night loading boxes. The replacement deadbolt was still locked. The door stop alarm hadn't gone off. Everything appeared normal. I prepared some instant oatmeal and fell into bed, too exhausted to bother taking a shower. At around three that afternoon I woke to the noise of water running in my bathroom. Not a dripping tap. The shower was fully on as though someone were using it. I picked up the bat and approached slowly. The bathroom door stood slightly open, allowing steam to drift into the hallway. Through the opening I could make out a person behind the shower curtain. They were standing beneath the water, completely still. I kicked the door open and pulled the curtain aside. Walter was there. He was fully dressed in khakis in a button down shirt, standing under the hot spray with his eyes shut. When he opened them, he showed no surprise at all. "Your water pressure is much better," he said simply. Water pouring down his face. My shower hardly warms up these days. The landlord refuses to repair it. He climbed out, his soaked clothes making wet, squelching noises against the tiled floor. "How did you get inside?" I demanded. "I hadn't loosened my grip on the bat." He put a hand into his drenched pocket and produced another key. This one was silver and appeared newer. "You ought to look at your ceiling panels," he said. The one over this bathroom is loose. The crawl space run straight across to mine. I've been meaning to mention that to the landlord as well. That was when I completely lost my composure. I shouted at him to leave gesturing with the bat. Walter merely passed me leaving water all over the floor and lowered himself onto my couches though nothing unusual had happened. The soaked fabric made an awful squishing noise beneath him. "You need to settle down," he told me. Twisting water from his sleeve onto the carpet. "We live next to each other. Neighbors are supposed to help. I look after your plant while you're working. The spider plant near the window. You don't give it enough water. I keep your mail from building up. I even got rid of those mice in your walls last month. You weren't aware of the mice, were you? He was correct. I hadn't known anything about mice. But other memories began falling into place. All those occasions when I returned to find something subtly altered. The plant appearing healthier. The mail arranged in a different stack. The faint trace of men's cologne I had dismissed as something I imagined. I told him I was calling the police immediately. There would be no additional warnings. For the first time his expression changed. He rose from the waterlogged couch and headed toward the door, marking the floor with wet footprints. Fine, his voice had changed as well. It was flatter now, colder. But when the pipes freeze this winter, or a storm knocks out your electricity, or you need somebody to make sure you're still alive after you haven't come home for days, don't look to me. I know there's no family here for you. I know you don't have friends. All I was doing was trying to take care of you. This time he departed through the front entrance, using still another key I hadn't known existed. I contacted the police and made a report. They told me that without evidence of forced entry or anything having been stolen, they regarded it as a civil dispute. After I threatened to end my lease, the landlord finally consented to replace the locks. By that point, however, Walter had already gone. He vanished overnight. His apartment was left entirely empty. Two weeks later I moved out myself. I stayed with a coworker until I located another place on the other side of town. A third floor studio and a building with cameras along the corridors and a dormant on duty overnight. I never discovered how Walter obtained those keys. I never learned why he had decided to become so fixated on me. The landlord insisted he had never allowed Walter access to anything. The company that manufactured the keys said its records contained no requests for duplicates. Occasionally I wonder whether he's repeating the same behavior with somebody else. Standing beneath their shower, settling onto their couch, creating these separate intrusive moments inside homes that belong to strangers. Every night I checked my locks three times. I have installed cameras inside the apartment, and I no longer speak to my neighbors at all. A few days ago, somebody left a spider plant outside my door. There was no message with it. I put it directly into the trash. Then I spent the following three hours examining every corner of my home, every ceiling panel, and every conceivable place where a key might be concealed. Story 7. I had rented that little house for roughly eight months. It was just me and my six year old boy Caleb. The house stood at the far end of a peaceful cul-de-sac in a suburb where very little ever seemed to happen. That was at least the reassurance I gave myself when I signed the rental agreement. Our days followed a familiar pattern. I went to work, collected Caleb from after school care, made dinner, helped with homework, and had him in bed around eight. That evening seemed especially peaceful. There was no movement in the air, hardly a sound from the street. Through the kitchen window I could make out the muted lights of neighboring homes as everyone settled into their usual evening habits. I had just read Caleb the two bedtime stories he always requested when the backyard motion light clicked on. The fixture made a sharp electrical snapping sound when it activated, unmistakable enough to stop me halfway through a sentence. Initially I dismissed it. A raccoon was probably investigating the garbage bin. I continued arranging his blanket, although the yard had a fence around it and the bin's lid was latched. I didn't want Caleb noticing that I had hesitated. I kissed him good night and slipped quietly into the hallway. From the living room I opened a narrow gap in the blinds and looked toward the backyard. The light spread in a bright cone across the uneven grass and weathered wooden fence. The lawn chairs I had never quite found time to use through hard-edged shadows across the ground. There was no movement. The night air remained completely still. No breeze stirred the branches. Not a single leaf fluttered. I stood watching until the fixture shut itself off. Only then did I realize I had been holding my breath. Probably an insect I reassured myself. The explanation didn't feel entirely convincing, but I returned to the kitchen and started washing up. Before I finished rinsing the dishes, the light snapped on a second time. I went to the window more quickly now, separating the blinds only slightly. Nothing had changed. The same silent yard, the same empty patch of grass. It was unusual enough for a faint feeling of dread to begin crawling along the back of my neck. I decided I would leave it alone unless it happened once more. Less than five minutes passed before I heard the third click. When I looked outside, somebody was there. A motionless figure stood immediately beyond the illuminated area, facing straight toward the house. He had positioned himself just outside the bright boundary as though he understood precisely where the sensor's detection ended. The fence reached his shoulders. Its upper rails stood five and a half feet above the ground, which meant he was taller than I was. Perhaps six feet or something close to it. A hood concealed most of his head. The portion of his face I could see looked like a solid patch of darkness, although the light should have revealed at least some features. He didn't adjust his footing. He didn't fidget. There wasn't even one of those tiny unconscious motions people make while standing still. I switched off the kitchen light to remove the reflection from the window, then rested my forehead against the cold glass. I counted down the seconds, waiting for the outdoor fixture to reach the end of its usual one minute cycle. It blinked out. For two heartbeat, the darkness outside seemed dense enough to swallow everything. On the sharp click sounded again. White light flooded the yard. The chairs, the garden hose reel, the crooked bird feeder Caleb had painted. The illumination was so strong that I could distinguish individual brush marks on the feeder. The hooded figure remained in exactly the same place, without consciously deciding to move I found myself backing against the wall. I edged along the cabinets checking each lock through sheer habit. The back door deadbolt was secured. The stick remained in the sliding door's track. The window catches were lowered. I sent a message to Aaron, the neighbor who lived across the cul-de-sac. Are you still awake? There's someone in my back yard. Three dots appeared on the screen. Then they vanished. No answer followed. From down the hall Caleb called for me. His voice was quiet and heavy with sleep. He wanted a drink of water. Nothing inside me wanted to keep him in his room, but if I didn't respond he would eventually get up and search for me. I took his cup and filled it at the kitchen sink, keeping my attention on the blinds the entire time. Then I met him in the doorway of his bedroom. Buddy I need you to stay in bed. I'm taking care of something for grown-ups. I whispered. I made myself sound calm. While I tucked his blanket back around him, a faint scraping noise reached me from the side yard. That sounded like grit being crushed beneath the shoe on the gravel walkway leading to the gate. The outdoor light shut off. Then it came on again. When I returned to the window the figure had advanced one step toward the house, speaking through the glass felt foolish, remaining silent felt worse. You have to leave, I said, keeping my voice restrained and even. He gave no reply. My car keys were in the little dish near the door. I picked up the fob and pressed it's panic button. The horn blared. The headlights began flashing. Noise bounced through the otherwise quiet street. The figure retreated into the darkness. He didn't rush. Each movement was measured and intentional. Then he disappeared beyond the area the sensor could detect. That was enough for me. I called 911. The dispatcher introduced herself as Kara. I gave her my address, explained the arrangement of the backyard, and described everything I had observed while continuing to tell her what was happening. During our conversation the side gate latch moved once. It made a crisp metallic click, as though somebody were checking how much it would yield. Kara instructed me to remain on the phone, leave the doors locked and get away from the windows. I brought Caleb into my bedroom and locked its door. I pulled him onto the bed beside me, holding the phone firmly against my ear. The faint sound of the connection and Kara's composed voice were the only things preventing my thoughts from spinning out of control. At intervals I heard a soft crunch from outside. It might have been gravel. It might have been grass. Or perhaps it was the wooden deck shifting beneath somebody's weight. Kara assured me that officers were coming. They were possibly five minutes away. Those five minutes felt closer to an hour. My eyes kept returning to the darkness beyond the curtains. Every time I looked, part of me expected the hooded outline to be standing only inches from the window. Then the motion light activated again. That hard mechanical click. My bedroom overlooked the other side of the yard, an area the fixture scarcely illuminated. But the little light that reached it was enough for me to see the pale upright lines of the fence boards. In two of those boards, something dark occupied the narrow opening. A face. Someone had pressed close enough to the gap that I could distinguish the edge of a cheekbone and the outline of a jaw. The face simply stayed there. I whispered what I was seeing to Kara. She told me not to speak to the person or respond in any way. The officers, she said, would arrive within seconds. This came the distant, wavering sound of a siren as it entered the neighborhood. The shape of the fence vanished so abruptly that it looked as though unseen hands had dragged it backward. A few seconds afterward, the backyard light switched off for the final time. The patrol car stopped in front of the house. Its headlights passing across the living room. Two officers searched the yard using flashlights. They discovered that the gate latch was loose, although it hadn't been broken. They also reported finding no fresh footprints. At least none they could identify in the sparse grass and compacted dirt. They recorded my account, provided a case number, and said patrols through the area would be increased for the rest of the week. Once they left, I stayed in Caleb's bedroom until morning. His little breaths remained slow and regular against the pillow while I sat near the window, keeping watch over the backyard. The motion light didn't activate again that night. The following day, I replaced it with a camera equipped with night vision and motion notifications sent directly to my phone. In all the months since then, it hasn't once alerted me to a person. Even so, whenever that electrical click breaks the nighttime quiet, even when it has only been set off by a passing cat, I think of the figure beneath that hood. I remember the exact place he stood, just beyond the border of the light. And I remember how he seemed to understand precisely how far he could venture, without ever allowing himself to be clearly seen.