My husband could barely catch his breath. He locked the door behind him, his hands trembling as he pulled the curtains shut. I demanded to know what happened, but for a moment, he just stared at our daughter, who was now hiding behind me.
“He’s not who you think,” he finally said, his voice low. “He showed me something.”
My heart pounded. “What do you mean?”
“He had photos… of our house. Of her. But not just recent ones—some were from months ago. And others…” He hesitated. “Others were from inside.”
A chill ran through me.
“He said he’s been trying to figure out how someone else is getting in. He thinks we’re being watched. Not by him—by someone already close to us.”
Before I could respond, there was a soft knock at the door.
We all froze.
Another knock, louder this time.
My husband shook his head, whispering, “I told him to leave.”
Then a familiar voice called from outside.
“Hey, it’s me.”
It was our neighbor.
But when my daughter heard it, she started crying harder, clutching my arm and whispering, “That’s him… that’s the man who follows me.”
And in that moment, everything we thought we understood shifted into something far more terrifying.
