The moment I stepped back into my flat, my neighbour caught me off guard, saying, Theres a man shouting in your place every day were all sick of it! But how could that be, if I live alone?
The following day, I decided to skip work and investigate. I hid under my bed, determined to uncover the truth. At exactly 11:20, I heard the front door open and what happened next left me frozen with fear.
It had all started the previous afternoon. As I returned home, my neighbour Mrs. Parker was waiting by my door.
Its ever so noisy in your flat during the day, she complained. Theres always a man shouting in there.
I stared at her, baffled.
Thats impossible, I replied. Theres never anyone here while Im at work. I live alone.
She shook her head firmly. Ive heard it over and over at midday. A mans voice, without fail. Ive even knocked, but nobody ever answers.
I tried to brush it off with a smile, suggesting it was probably just the telly left on. She eventually walked away, but her words echoed in my mind.
Once inside, unease crept in. I wandered through each room, but everything seemed in place. Doors and windows were shut; nothing was missing or moved. My head insisted there was nothing wrong, yet my heart wouldnt settle.
That night, I barely slept at all.
When morning came, I made a decision. I called work claiming I was unwell, then left my flat around eight oclock, making sure the neighbours saw me driving off. I circled the block, quietly parked round the side, and slipped in through the back entrance. In my bedroom, I crawled beneath the bed and pulled the blanket down to hide myself.
Time dragged by excruciatingly slowly. Just as I began to think I must be imagining things, the front door clicked open at 11:20.
Footsteps padded down the hallway, calm and deliberate, as if the person belonged here. The shoes scuffed across the floor in a strangely familiar way.
They headed into the bedroom.
Thats when I heard him a low, irritated male voice:
Youve left everything out again
He said my name.
The voice was horribly familiar. My blood ran cold as I realised who the mysterious intruder was.
It was only later, after everything had been sorted, that I learned the truth.
The landlord had been entering my flat every time I left for work. He still had a set of keys. He knew my schedule Id mentioned it in passing, not giving it a second thought.
He hadnt come to steal anything or search for valuables. He simply wanted to use the flat as if it were his own.
Hed slip off his shoes in the hallway, settle on my sofa, watch my telly, help himself to food from the fridge, use the bathroom, and even nap in my bed. He knew exactly where things were because hed picked the furniture himself when renting the place out. Perhaps, in his mind, it never stopped being his home.
Hed feel right at home.
Sometimes hed talk to himself, muttering about the mess or my habits, or complain about the clothes I left on the chair. It bothered him that I wasnt managing the flat properly. Neighbours heard his voice and thats why theyd been complaining.
He knew my name. He knew when Id return. He was sure no one would catch him.
He never dreamed Id be the one to hear him first.
When the police finally took him away, he genuinely seemed baffled. He insisted hed done nothing wrong. After all, it was his flat, his keys, and he was only checking that everything was alright.
Since then, I always change the locks the very first day I move in no matter how trustworthy a place might seem.
Some lessons in life arent pleasant, but they stick with you: never assume that security means comfort; sometimes, you have to take that extra step to truly feel at home.
