“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…”

Just after noon, I heard the front door unlock.

Footsteps moved through the house with ease—unhurried, familiar. Someone opened cabinets, poured water into a glass. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it would give me away.

The footsteps stopped outside my bedroom.

The door opened.

Then a woman’s voice said quietly, “I know you’re not supposed to be back yet.”

Under the bed, I froze, staring at the shadow of her feet as she stepped fully into my room.

I covered my mouth to keep from making a sound. She moved around as if the space belonged to her. Through the gap beneath the bed, I saw bare feet, toenails painted a pale pink—exactly like the polish I used.

My stomach twisted.

She was using my things.

I started recording, angling my phone toward the floor. My hands shook so badly the image rattled. She hummed as she sat on my bed. The mattress dipped just inches from my face.

“I hate waiting,” she muttered. “But this is better than before.”

Before what?

She stood and walked to my closet. Clothes rustled. Hangers slid—my hangers. Then she laughed softly.

“You never notice, do you?” she said, almost playfully.