I woke up to a strange man standing over me, watching me sleep. I froze and stayed still until he left. I thought it was sleep paralysis—until I found a box cutter he’d left on my kitchen table. Turns out, he wasn’t part of a dream. He had been real… and he had been inside my home.
My hands trembled as I picked up the box cutter. It wasn’t mine. I kept every drawer organized, every tool accounted for. This didn’t belong. My mind raced as I checked the locks—front door, back door, windows. Everything was still shut.
That’s when I noticed something else. The chair near my bed had been moved. Slightly, but enough. Facing me.
I called the police, my voice barely steady. While waiting, I stayed outside, wrapped in a blanket, staring at my own house like it had betrayed me. When the officers arrived, they searched every corner.
One of them found it. The attic door—slightly open.
Inside, there were footprints in the dust. Old food wrappers. A blanket.
Someone had been living there.
The officer looked at me, serious. “You were lucky,” he said. “He left.”
That night, I didn’t go back inside. Because luck doesn’t feel like safety… and I couldn’t shake the feeling he knew I’d wake up eventually.
