“When I got home, my neighbor confronted me: “Your house gets so loud during the day!” “That’s not possible,” I replied. The next morning, I f3ked leaving for work and hid under my bed—hours later, a voice entered my bedroom, and I froze.

“When I got home, my neighbor confronted me: “Your house gets so loud during the day!” “That’s not possible,” I replied. The next morning, I f3ked leaving for work and hid under my bed—hours later, a voice entered my bedroom, and I froze.
As soon as I got home, my neighbor, Mrs. Halvorsen, was standing on her porch with her arms crossed, looking more irritated than usual. “There’s so much noise coming from your house during the day, Marcus,” she complained. “I swear I heard someone shouting inside.”
“That’s impossible,” I replied, juggling my grocery bags. “I live alone, and I’m gone all day.”
She shook her head firmly. “I don’t know what to tell you. I heard yelling again around noon. A man’s voice. I even knocked, but no one answered.”
Her words made my stomach tighten, but I laughed nervously. “Probably just the TV. I sometimes leave it on to scare off burglars.”
Inside, the house felt wrong. I set my groceries down and checked every room. Everything was in place. Windows closed. Floors spotless. Nothing missing. No footprints. I told myself my neighbor must have been mistaken.
That night, sleep was impossible.
The next morning, after pacing in the kitchen for half an hour, I called my manager, claiming I felt sick, and stayed home. At 7:45 a.m., I opened the garage door, drove my car out just enough to be seen, then turned off the engine and quietly pushed it back inside. I slipped in through the side door, moved fast to my bedroom, and slid under the bed, pulling the comforter just enough to hide. My heart pounded violently.
Minutes stretched into hours. Silence weighed heavily. Around 11:20 a.m., just as doubt crept in, I heard the front door open.
Slow. Careful. Familiar.
Footsteps moved through the hall with the confidence of someone who belonged here. Shoes scraped lightly on the floor—a rhythm I knew but couldn’t place. My breath caught.
The footsteps entered my bedroom.
A low, irritated voice muttered, “You always leave such a mess, Marcus…”
My blood ran cold.
He knew my name.
And the voice was hauntingly familiar.
Frozen with fear, I watched his shadow stop beside the bed.

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