My neighbor said she heard screaming coming from my house while it was supposed to be empty. So I pretended to leave, locked the door behind me… then slipped back inside and hid under the bed. What I discovered in the dark changed everything I thought I knew.

By 3:00 AM, I was wandering the house with a flashlight, checking the windows. Nothing. No signs of forced entry. No scratches on the locks.

The next morning, the sunlight seemed to mock my fear. The house looked bright, airy, and utterly normal. I made coffee, telling myself I was suffering from sleep deprivation and grief-induced paranoia. Mrs. Collins was lonely; I was lonely. Maybe we were both projecting noise into the void.

But as I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I froze again.

I reached for my bottle of expensive facial cleanser—a specific brand, L’Occitane, that smelled of immortelle flowers. I always left it with the label facing outward, perfectly aligned with the edge of the shelf. It was a neurotic habit, I knew, but one that gave me a semblance of control.

The bottle was turned. The label was facing the mirror.

And the cap was slightly loose.

I unscrewed it and sniffed. The scent was there, but beneath it, the faint, acrid smell of something else. Cigarette smoke? No, not smoke. Stale breath.

I gripped the porcelain sink, looking at my own reflection. My eyes were wide, rimmed with dark circles. “You are losing your mind, Elena,” I whispered. “You are cracking up, just like your mother did.”

But the analyst in me refused to settle for the “insanity” hypothesis without testing the data. I needed proof. I needed to observe the variable in its natural state.

I dressed for work with mechanical precision. I put on my heels, my blazer, my mask of competency. I grabbed my bag and walked out the front door, locking it deliberately. I waved to Mrs. Collins, who was watering her hydrangeas.

“Have a good day, Elena!” she called out, though her eyes scanned my house suspiciously.

“You too, Mrs. Collins,” I replied brightly.

I got into my car and drove away. I drove for exactly twenty minutes, looping through the neighborhood, watching the clock on my dashboard tick away the seconds.

At 8:45 AM, I circled back.

I parked my car two streets over, behind a dense row of hedges that bordered the park. I slipped off my heels, replacing them with a pair of running sneakers I kept in the trunk. I felt ridiculous. I felt terrified. I felt like a criminal in my own life.

I approached my house from the rear, cutting through the wooded easement that separated the properties. I moved like a ghost, avoiding twigs, ducking under branches. When I reached my back door, I didn’t use the key. I knew the kitchen window had a faulty latch—something Mark had promised to fix three years ago.

I shimmied the window open, praying the neighbors weren’t watching. I slid inside, landing softly on the linoleum. I didn’t disarm the alarm; I knew the motion sensors were only in the hallway and living room. If I stayed in the kitchen or the bedroom, I might be safe.

But I needed a vantage point.

I crept toward the bedroom, the heart of the house. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, a roaring ocean of adrenaline. I went straight to the bed—the large, oak-framed bed that dominated the room—and slid underneath it.

It was a tight fit. The space was filled with long, flat storage bins containing Mark’s winter clothes. I wedged myself between a bin and the wall, clutching my phone to my chest.

Dust tickled my nose. The smell of cedar and old wool surrounded me. I checked the time: 9:15 AM.

And then, I waited.

Minutes stretched into hours. My limbs went numb. My bladder ached. I listened to the house breathe—the settling of wood, the gurgling of pipes, the distant hum of traffic. Part of me, the cowardly part, prayed that nothing would happen. That I would lie here for eight hours, cramp up, and crawl out in the evening, ashamed of my own madness.

Then, just after noon, the impossible happened.

I heard the front door open.

There was no sound of a key turning, no beep of the alarm code being punched in. Just the smooth click of the latch and the creak of hinges.

My breath hitched in my throat. I clamped my hand over my mouth, my eyes watering.

Footsteps.

They weren’t the heavy, hurried steps of a burglar. They were leisurely. Confident. The click-clack of hard soles on hardwood. Someone was walking through my house with the casual arrogance of an owner.

---

The footsteps moved to the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open—the suction sound distinctive and sickeningly familiar. The clink of glass. The sound of water being poured.

My water. My glass.

I lay frozen, a statue carved from fear. The intruder was humming. It was a soft, tuneless melody, something vaguely upbeat, which made it all the more terrifying.

The footsteps left the kitchen. They were coming down the hallway. Toward the bedroom.

I pressed myself flatter against the floor, wishing I could dissolve into the carpet. The steps stopped right outside the door. The handle turned. The door swung open.

From my vantage point, all I could see was a slice of the room. The rug. The legs of the dresser.

And then, feet.

Bare feet. The intruder had taken her shoes off at the door, just like I did. I stared at them, hypnotized by the horror. The toenails were painted a pale, familiar pink. Ballet Slipper Pink. The same shade I had in my bathroom cabinet.

The woman walked into the room. She didn’t rifle through drawers. She didn’t look for a jewelry box.

She sat on the bed.

The mattress dipped inches above my face. The springs groaned under her weight. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears leaking out, terrified that she would hear the frantic pounding of my heart.

“Finally,” a voice said. It was a woman’s voice—raspy, tired, but terrifyingly normal.

I slowly pulled my phone out, my hands trembling so violently I almost dropped it. I toggled to the camera, switched to video, and tilted it toward the gap under the bed frame.

On the screen, I saw her legs dangling off the side of the bed. She was wearing jeans—my jeans. The ones I had left in the hamper yesterday.

She stood up and walked to the vanity mirror—the one Mark had bought me for our first anniversary. I shifted the phone, tracking her.

She was about my age, maybe early thirties. Dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t a masked villain. She looked… ordinary. She looked like someone you would stand behind in line at the grocery store.

She picked up my hairbrush and began to brush her hair, staring at herself in my mirror.

“You look tired, Elena,” she said to her reflection.

My blood turned to ice. She wasn’t just using my things. She was talking to me. Or rather, she was pretending to be me.

She picked up a bottle of perfume—Chanel No. 5, a gift I hadn’t worn since the funeral—and spritzed it into the air, walking through the mist with a sigh of contentment.

“Much better,” she whispered. “Mark likes this one.” Continue reading…