When I got home that Wednesday afternoon, my neighbor, Mrs. Halvorsen, was waiting for me.
She stood stiffly on her porch, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Your house gets so loud during the day,” she said sharply. “Someone is always shouting inside.”
I laughed awkwardly, shifting the grocery bags in my arms.
“That’s not possible,” I replied. “I live alone. I’m at work all day. Nobody should be inside.”
Her eyes didn’t soften.
“I heard it again today. Around noon. A man yelling. I even knocked. No one answered.”
Something cold slid down my spine.
“It’s probably the TV,” I said quickly. “I leave it on sometimes. You know… to scare burglars.”
She didn’t look convinced.
Inside my house, everything looked normal.
Too normal.
The couch cushions were untouched.
No doors forced open.
No missing items.
No broken locks.
Yet the air felt… off.
Like the house was holding its breath.
That night, I barely slept.
At 6 a.m., I made a decision.
I called in sick to work.
At 7:45, I pulled my car out of the garage just enough for anyone watching to see me leave—then shut off the engine, pushed it back in silently, and slipped inside through the side door.
I went straight to my bedroom and crawled under the bed.
I waited.
Minutes stretched into hours.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
At 11:20 a.m., I heard it.
The front door opened.
Slow.
Careful.
Footsteps moved through the hallway with the confidence of someone who belonged there.
Not sneaking.
Not rushing.
Casual.
Familiar.
The footsteps entered my bedroom.
Then I heard a voice.
Low. Irritated.
“You always leave such a mess, Marcus…”
My blood turned to ice.
He knew my name.
And worse—
I knew his voice.
It was mine.
The man sighed, muttering about dirty dishes, about unfinished tasks, about how “things used to be better.”
I lay frozen under the bed, staring at his shoes inches from my face.
Suddenly, memories crashed over me.
The lost time.
The headaches.
The unexplained exhaustion.
The therapy sessions I stopped going to after my wife died.
The truth slammed into me with brutal clarity.
This wasn’t a stranger.
This was me.
Or rather… a part of me I had buried when grief broke my mind.
A dissociated self.
Living in my house while I “went to work.”
Shouting at memories.
Arguing with ghosts.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t move.
When he finally left the room, I crawled out from under the bed, shaking, and sat on the floor for a long time.
That afternoon, I checked myself into a hospital.
It took years of therapy to piece myself back together.
But I survived.
And today, when I hear voices—
I don’t hide anymore.
I listen.
Because sometimes, the most terrifying intruder isn’t someone who breaks into your home…
It’s the part of yourself you were never taught how to heal.