As soon as I returned home, my neighbor unexpectedly said: “Every day, some man is shouting in your house, he has already annoyed everyone.” But how is that possible if I live alone? 😱😨
The next day I decided not to go to work and hid under the bed. And exactly at 11:20 a stranger opened the door with his own key — and what he did next filled me with horror. 🫣
When I returned home in the afternoon, my neighbor was already waiting for me at the door.
— “Your house is too noisy during the day,” she said. “A man is shouting there.”
I was stunned.
— “That’s impossible,” I replied. “There is no one here during the day. I live alone and I’m always at work.”
She sharply shook her head.
— “I’ve heard it many times. Around noon. A male voice. I even knocked, but no one opened.”
I tried to smile and said I probably left the TV on. She left, but her words stuck in my head.
When I entered the house, I immediately felt uneasy. I walked through the rooms — everything was in its place, doors and windows were closed, nothing was missing, no traces at all. My mind kept telling me everything was fine, but something inside me was tightening.
That night I barely slept.
In the morning I made a decision. I called work and said I was sick. At 7:45 I left the house so the neighbors could see me, started my car, drove a few meters, then came back, turned off the engine, and quietly entered through the side door. In the bedroom I quickly crawled under the bed and pulled the blanket down to hide myself completely.
Time dragged endlessly. I was already starting to doubt my sanity when around 11:20 I heard the front door open.
Footsteps went down the corridor, calm and familiar, as if the person knew the house well. Shoes lightly scratched the floor — the rhythm felt strangely familiar.
The footsteps entered the bedroom.
And then I heard a male voice — low, irritated:
— “You’ve messed everything up again…”
He said my name.
That voice was too familiar. And I was horrified when I realized who the mysterious stranger was. 😨😱
I learned the truth later, after everything was over.
The landlord came into my house every time I left for work. He had his own keys. He knew my schedule: when I left and when I returned. I had told him myself — casually, without thinking.
He didn’t come to steal anything. He didn’t break anything or search for valuables. He simply lived there.
He took off his shoes in the hallway like it was his home. He sat on the sofa, turned on the TV, ate food from my refrigerator, used the bathroom, and sometimes lay down on my bed.
He knew where everything was because he had once arranged the furniture himself and chosen this apartment “for rent.” For him, it had remained his territory.
He felt entitled.
Sometimes he talked out loud. He commented on the mess, my habits, the clothes I left on the chair. He was annoyed that I didn’t “take care of the apartment properly.” The neighbors heard his voice — that’s why they complained.
He knew my name. He knew my habits. He knew I wouldn’t be back before evening.
He did not expect that I would hear him first.
When the police took him away, he was genuinely surprised. He said he saw nothing wrong with it. The apartment was his. The keys were his. And he was just checking “if everything was in order.”
Since then, I never rent a place without changing the locks on the very first day.
