As soon as I got home, my neighbor suddenly said, “In your house, some man screams every day, he’s already gotten on everyone’s nerves”; but how is that possible if I live alone? 

The next day I decided not to go to work and hid under the bed. And at exactly 11:20, an unfamiliar man opened the door with his own key — and what he did filled me with horror. 

When I came home in the afternoon, the neighbor was already waiting by my door.

— During the day it’s far too noisy in your apartment, — she said. — A man is screaming in there.

I was stunned.

— That’s impossible, — I replied. — During the day no one is here. I live alone and I’m always at work.

She shook her head sharply.

— I’ve heard it more than once. Around noon. A male voice. I even knocked, but no one opened the door.

I tried to smile and said that I had probably left the TV on. She left, but her words stayed with me.

When I entered the apartment, I immediately felt uneasy. I walked through the rooms — everything was in its place, the doors and windows were closed, nothing was missing, no signs of anything wrong. Reason told me everything was fine, but inside something tightened.

That night, I barely slept.

In the morning, I made a decision. I called work and said I was sick. At 7:45, I left the apartment so the neighbors would see me, started the car, drove a few meters, then returned, turned off the engine, and quietly slipped in through the side door. In the bedroom, I quickly crawled under the bed and pulled the bedspread over me, trying to hide completely.

Time dragged on endlessly. I had already started to doubt my own sanity when, around 11:20, I heard the front door open.

Footsteps moved down the hallway, calm and familiar, as if the person knew the place well. The shoes lightly scraped against the floor — the rhythm was strangely familiar.

The footsteps entered the bedroom.

And then I heard a male voice — low, irritated:

— You’ve left everything scattered again…

He said my name.

That voice was far too familiar. And I was terrified when I realized who that mysterious stranger was.  Continuation in the first comment 

I learned the truth later, when everything was already over.

The owner of the apartment came into my home every time I went to work. He had his own keys. He knew my schedule: when I left and when I returned. I had told him myself — casually, out of habit, without thinking.

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

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, sometimes even lay down on my bed.

He knew where everything was because he had once arranged the furniture himself and chosen this apartment “for rent.” To 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. It irritated him that I “didn’t take care of the apartment the way I should.” The neighbors heard his voice — and that’s why they complained.

He knew my name. He knew my habits. He knew I wouldn’t be back before 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, the apartment was his. The keys were his too. And he was just checking “whether everything was in order.”

Since then, I never rent a place without changing the locks on the very first day.