When I got home, my neighbor confronted me: “Your house gets so loud during the day!”

“That’s not possible,” I replied. “Nobody should be inside.”

But she insisted, “I heard a man shouting.”

The following day, I pretended to leave for work and hid under my bed. Hours passed—then a voice stepped into my bedroom, and I froze….When I came home that Wednesday afternoon, my neighbor, Mrs. Halvorsen, stood on her porch with crossed arms and a look that was far more annoyed than usual. “Your house is so loud during the day, Marcus,” she complained. “Someone is shouting in there.”

“That’s impossible,” I said, balancing my grocery bags. “I live alone. And I’m at work all day.”

She shook her head vigorously. “Well, someone’s in there. I heard yelling again around noon. A man’s voice. I knocked, but no one answered.”

Her insistence unsettled me, but I forced a laugh. “Probably the TV. I leave it on sometimes to scare off burglars.”

But as I walked inside, the air felt wrong—like the house was holding its breath. I set my groceries down and walked from room to room. Everything was exactly where I left it. No open windows. No signs of forced entry. No footprints on the hardwood floors. Nothing missing. I convinced myself my neighbor had simply misheard something and pushed the thought out of my mind.

That night, I barely slept.

The next morning, after pacing around my kitchen for half an hour, I made a decision. I called my manager, said I was feeling sick, and stayed home. At 7:45 a.m., I opened the garage door, drove my car out just enough for neighbors to see, then shut off the engine and quietly pushed the car back inside. I returned through the side door, moved quickly to my bedroom, and slid under the bed, pulling the comforter down just enough to hide myself. My heart was pounding so loudly I worried it would give me away.

Minutes crawled into hours. Silence stretched across the house, heavy and suffocating. Around 11:20 a.m., just as I was beginning to doubt my own sanity, I heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening.

Slow. Careful. Familiar.

Footsteps moved through the hallway with the casual confidence of someone who believed they belonged here. Shoes scraping lightly on the floor—a rhythm I recognized but couldn’t immediately place. My breath hitched.

Then the footsteps entered my bedroom.

A man’s voice—low, irritated—muttered, “You always leave such a mess, Marcus…”

My blood ran cold.

He knew my name.

And the voice sounded impossibly familiar.

I froze, every muscle locked in terror, as the shadow of his legs moved around the room—and stopped right next to the bed…

I clamped a hand over my mouth, forcing myself not to breathe too loudly.

The man sighed and set something down on my nightstand. I recognized the sound instantly—the ceramic clink of my coffee mug. The one I always left there.

“You never listen,” he muttered. “I’ve told you—cleanliness matters.”

His footsteps circled the bed.

Slow. Deliberate.

I watched the carpet fibers bend beneath his weight as he stopped inches from where my face was hidden. My pulse roared in my ears. If he bent down even slightly, he would see my eyes staring back at him.

Then he laughed.

Not loud. Not amused.

More like disappointed.

“I know you’re home today,” he said calmly. “You always think you’re clever when you’re scared.”

My stomach dropped.

He knelt.

I shut my eyes—
—and then the bed shifted as he sat down on the mattress above me.

The weight pressed the air out of my lungs.

“You hear things, don’t you?” he continued. “Voices. Shouting. That’s when I come out.”

My mind screamed come out from where?

His hand slid down the side of the bed frame. Fingers dragging slowly. Searching.

“You should really stop telling people about us, Marcus.”

His knuckles brushed my hair.

I gasped.

The bed exploded upward as I kicked free and scrambled out, crashing into the dresser. I spun around—

The room was empty.

No man.
No footsteps.
No open door.

Just my bed, my nightstand… and my coffee mug.

Still warm.

I staggered backward, heart slamming against my ribs.

Then I caught my reflection in the mirror.

And my blood turned to ice.

There were fresh bruises on my knuckles.

Mud on my shoes.

And written across my palm—
in handwriting I didn’t recognize—

“YOU WERE TOO LOUD TODAY.”

That’s when I finally understood why my neighbor kept hearing a man shouting inside my house.

Because sometimes—

I was the one inside
and sometimes… I wasn’t.