For months, I kept telling myself it was nothing.
The faint noises at night. The creeping sensation of being watched. The way small things seemed… different. A misplaced remote. A window slightly ajar. A chair nudged just an inch off.
I live alone. I work from home. I’m careful.
So I convinced myself I was overthinking. Tired. Stressed. Paranoid.
Until yesterday.
I came home late from dinner with a friend. As soon as I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong. The entire living room had been rearranged — subtly, but undeniably. The couch shifted, throw pillows out of place, a picture frame crooked on the wall.
My blood ran cold.
Terrified, I called the police. They searched the house top to bottom, attic included. Nothing. No signs of forced entry. No evidence of anyone inside.
As they were about to leave, one officer paused.
Ma’am… have you hired any contractors or workers recently? Anyone who had access to your home?”
I froze.
Six months ago, I hired a man named Rainer to install new windows upstairs. Quiet, polite, borderline awkward. I remembered how he asked odd questions about my schedule — how often I left, whether I traveled.
