The Day I Returned Home, My Neighbour Suddenly Said: “There’s a Man Shouting in Your House Every Day…

As soon as I got back home this evening, my neighbour Mrs. Jenkins caught me off guard. Theres a man shouting in your house every day. Its driving everyone up the wall! she grumbled. I was completely bewilderedhow is that even possible when I live alone?

The next afternoon, as I was unlocking my front door, she was already waiting for me with that concerned frown of hers.

Its too noisy in your house during the day, love. Theres a man, yelling his head off.

I just stared at her, utterly confused.

That cant be, I insisted. Theres no one here during the day. I live alone and Im always at work.

She shook her head firmly. Ive heard it more than once. Right around lunchtime. A mans voice. I even knocked, but no one answered.

I tried to laugh it off and said maybe Id left the telly on by mistake. She wandered off, but I couldnt stop thinking about it.

When I went inside, I felt unsettled. I checked every roomeverything was in its place, all doors and windows locked, nothing missing, no signs of a break-in. My brain insisted everything was fine, but I couldnt shake the feeling in my stomach.

I hardly slept that night.

The next morning, I made up my mind. I rang my boss, said I was unwell. At 7:45, I made a show of leavinglet the neighbours see me head out, started my car, drove round the block, and quietly slipped back in through the side door. In my bedroom, I squeezed myself under the bed, tugged the duvet down to cover myself, and waited, trying not to breathe too loudly.

The minutes dragged on and on, until I began questioning my own sanity. But at 11:20 sharp, I heard the front door unlock.

Footsteps padded down the hallwaycalm, confident, as if this person knew the house intimately. The scuffing of shoes on the wood floor was disturbingly familiar.

Then the footsteps entered the bedroom.

Suddenly, I heard a mans voicedeep, impatient:

Youve left this place in a right state again

He said my name.

That voice. It was terrifyingly familiar. I felt ice creep through me as I realised exactly who the mysterious intruder was.

I only discovered the full truth afterwards.

It turned out the landlord had been coming into the house every day after I left for work. He had his own key. He knew my whole routinewhen I left, when Id be backbecause Id told him, offhandedly, not thinking anything of it.

He wasnt there to steal. He never rifled through my things for valuables. He simply lived there.

Hed slip his shoes off in the hallway as if he owned the place. Plop down on my sofa, flick on the TV, nick food from my fridge, use my bathroom, and sometimes even nap on my bed.

He knew where everything was, because hed furnished the flat himself, picked it out for tenants. To him, the flat was still his.

He seemed to think he was entitled.

Now and then hed talk to himself out loudusually grumbling about the mess, my habits, the stack of clothes I always left on the chair. He found it irritating that I didnt look after the place properly. His voice, loud and cross, was what the neighbours had heard through the walls and why theyd started complaining.

He knew my name, my habits, and that Id never be back before evening.

But he hadnt expected me to be the first to hear him.

The police led him away while he protested, completely nonplussed. In his mind, hed done nothing really wrong. It was his flat. His keys. He was just making sure things were alright.

Ever since, I never rent a place without changing the locks on the very first day. And I dont share my routine with strangers anymore.