It was some years ago now, but even today, the memory comes back to me as though it were yesterday. Id only just returned to my little house in Oxford when Mrs. Bright, my elderly neighbour, confronted me with an unexpected complaint: Theres a man shouting in your home every day, my dear! Hes become quite the neighbourhood nuisance.
I remember blinking at her in bewilderment. How was this even possible? I lived alone.
The afternoon I got back from work, she was waiting for me on the step.
Far too much noise by day in your place, she said. A mans voice, raised and cross.
I tried to muster a reassuring smile.
That cant be right. Im at work all day, and I live here alone.
She shook her head stubbornly.
No, Ive heard it more than once. Near midday. I even knocked, but no answer.
To placate her, I muttered something about leaving the television on, but her words began to nibble at my thoughts.
As I walked through my front room, I sensed a strange unease. The furniture stood in its usual place; doors and windows were secure. Nothing seemed amiss, but I couldnt quite shake the cold little knot growing in my chest.
That night, I barely slept a wink.
Come morning, Id made up my mind. I called my office in London, feigning illness. At quarter to eight, I left the house as I always did, making certain the neighbours saw me go. I started the car, drove around the corner, then doubled back, killed the engine, and slipped in quietly through the garden entrance. Upstairs, I crawled beneath the bed, pulling the duvet down to hide me completely.
The hours ticked by in aching silence. Doubt set inperhaps Id imagined everything. Then, at precisely twenty minutes past eleven, I heard the front door open.
Footsteps travelled up the hallcalm, accustomed, as if the person knew the place intimately. His shoes scraped with a peculiar rhythm that struck an uneasy chord in my memory.
He entered the bedroom.
I heard the low, frustrated baritone clearly:
Once again, youve left everything in a state…
He spoke my name.
That voice was unnervingly familiar, and suddenly, the truth dawned on me. I was seized by terror, barely daring to breathe.
The rest, I pieced together later, when all had come to light.
The owner of the house had a set of keys and let himself in each day after Id gone. He knew my comings and goingsmost of which Id unwittingly mentioned in casual conversation, never suspecting a thing.
He wasnt there to steal or hunt for valuables. Instead, he simply lived as though my home were his own. Hed slip off his shoes in the entryway, lounge on my settee, help himself to my food, even use the bath, and at times would nap upon my bed.
He knew the flat like the back of his hand, having once arranged the furniture himself and chosen the house for letting. It had never stopped being his in his mind.
He would talk aloudgrumble about clutter, my habits, or that dress Id draped on the chair. The neighbours overheard those mutterings and, naturally, assumed a man was living with me. This was why Mrs. Bright had started to complain.
He knew my name and all my routines, convinced that Id not be home before evening. He never imagined Id be the one to catch him out.
When the police finally arrived and took him away, the man was genuinely shocked. He honestly saw nothing amiss. In his eyes, it was his house, his keys, and he was merely making sure things were in order.
Since then, I have never again rented a home in England without changing the locks on the very first day.
