“My neighbor yelled when I got home, ‘Your house is so noisy during the day!’ ‘No one should be home,’ I said. ‘I heard screaming!’ The next day, I pretended to go to work and hid under the bed. Hours later, when I heard the voice of the person who entered my bedroom, I froze in terror…”

I laughed at first. “That can’t be right. No one’s home. I work from eight to six.”

She crossed her arms. “Then explain the screaming. I heard a woman screaming.”

The smile drained from my face. I lived alone. My husband, Evan, had died two years earlier, and my job as a risk assessment analyst kept me out of the house most of the day. I told myself she must have mixed up the houses—but the certainty in her eyes stayed with me long after I went inside.

That night, I barely slept. Every creak made my heart jump. I checked every lock, every window, even the attic. Nothing was disturbed. No forced entry. No explanation.

The next morning, I made a decision that felt equal parts foolish and terrifying.

I left at my usual time, waved to Mrs. Hartley like nothing was wrong, then circled back an hour later. I parked down the street and slipped inside quietly.

I went straight to the bedroom and slid under the bed, clutching my phone, breathing shallowly. Dust tickled my nose. Minutes stretched into hours. I listened to the refrigerator hum, the pipes knock, distant traffic passing outside. A part of me hoped nothing would happen—that I’d crawl out embarrassed by my own fear.