When I returned home that afternoon, my neighbor was already waiting for me at the door.

“It’s too noisy in your house during the day,” she said. “There’s a man yelling.”

I was taken aback.

“That’s impossible,” I replied. “There’s no one here during the day. I live alone and am always at work.”

She shook her head sharply.

“I’ve heard it many times. Around noon. A man’s voice. I even knocked, but no one answered.”

I tried to smile and said I must have 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, the doors and windows were closed, nothing was missing, no trace of anything. My mind kept telling me everything was fine, but something inside me was clenching.

I hardly slept that night.

That 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 the car, drove a few meters, then returned, turned off the engine, and quietly entered through the side door. In the bedroom, I quickly crawled under the bed and pulled the covers up, trying to hide completely.

Time dragged on. I was beginning to doubt my own sanity when, around 11:20, I heard the front door open.

Footsteps passed down the hallway, calm and familiar, as if the person knew this house. Shoes scraped lightly on the floor—the rhythm was strangely familiar.

Footsteps entered the bedroom.

And then I heard a man’s voice—low, irritated:

“You’ve scattered everything again…”

He said my name.

That voice was all too familiar. And I was horrified, realizing who this mysterious stranger was. 😨😱 

I learned the truth later, after it was all over.

My landlord came to my house every time I left for work. He had his own keys. He knew my schedule: what time I left, what time I returned. I told him about it myself—casually, out of habit, without thinking.

He didn’t come to steal anything. He didn’t break anything or look for valuables. He simply lived here.

He took off his shoes in the hallway, as if he were at home. He sat on the couch, 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 this furniture and chosen this apartment “for rent.” For him, it 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 irritated 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 until evening.

He didn’t expect me to hear him first.

When the police took him away, he was genuinely surprised. He said he didn’t see anything wrong with it. After all, it was his apartment. The keys were his. And he was just checking to make sure “everything was okay.”

Since then, I’ve never rented a place without changing the locks on the first day.