AT MY BIRTHDAY DINNER, MOM WHISPERED TO DAD: “WHILE EVERYONE’S HERE, TELL YOUR SON TO GO CHANGE THE LOCKS AT HER APARTMENT.” MY BROTHER NODDED AND LEFT. AN HOUR LATER, HE CAME BACK PALER THAN THE TABLECLOTH AND WHISPERED… “MOM… THERE…”
The candles were still burning when he said it.
The chatter stopped. Even the clinking forks froze midair.
Mom’s smile faltered for the first time that night.
“Where?” she asked quietly.
He looked down, hands trembling, eyes hollow.
“There’s someone living there,” he whispered. “And… it’s not her.”
The room went silent.
Dad leaned forward, his voice low, almost a growl. “What do you mean?”
But my brother didn’t answer. He just shook his head, pale, shaking.
And that’s when I knew — this wasn’t just about locks.
For weeks, I had ignored the strange knocks on my door, the scent of cologne that wasn’t mine, the lights flickering at midnight.
I told myself it was just paranoia. That moving out had been the right choice.
But now, as I watched my brother’s face drain of color, I realized — something was happening inside that apartment.
Something I had left behind.
And before the night was over, Mom’s phone buzzed.
She looked down, eyes widening.
One new message. From my number.
It said:
“Why did you send him here?”
Full story in comments 👇