THE BACK DOOR WAS LOCKED BUT THE ALARM CHIRPED WHEN I CHECKED IT
I woke up sweating, convinced I heard a floorboard creak down the hall just outside our bedroom door. My heart hammered against my ribs in the sudden, thick silence. I nudged Mark awake, whispering about the sound that had pulled me from sleep, but he just mumbled something indistinct and rolled over heavily. I knew I had to check; the house suddenly felt too large and empty around us.
I slipped out of bed, bare feet silent on the cool, dark floorboards of the hallway. Downstairs, the shadows pooled in the corners, and the house was unnervingly still. I crept towards the back door, a wave of relief washing over me as I found the deadbolt firmly thrown.
But then, just as I started to breathe easier, the small alarm box mounted by the door gave a soft, electronic chirp — the distinct sound it makes whenever a protected door opens or closes. My blood ran instantly cold in my veins. “Did you turn the alarm on tonight after you came in?” I hissed, spinning and running back up the stairs, adrenaline flooding me.
Mark sat up abruptly this time, blinking sleepily in the dim light spilling from the hall. “No, I didn’t,” he mumbled, running a confused hand through his messy hair, his voice thick with sleep. “I just assumed you did when you locked up.” The air in the room felt suddenly heavy and charged, thick with a new, sharp fear neither of us wanted to name aloud.
Tucked under the faded welcome mat inside the back door was a small note printed with my name.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*I snatched the note, my fingers trembling so badly I almost dropped it. The paper was cheap, the ink a blurry black. Scrawled across it in jagged letters were three words: *“Meet me soon.”*
Mark was now fully awake, his face etched with concern. He took the note, his brow furrowing as he read it. “What… what does this mean?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “But the alarm… the back door was locked, but the alarm chirped. Someone was here. Someone *got* in, or at least tried to.”
We spent the next hour meticulously checking every window and door. Everything was secure, locked from the inside. There were no signs of forced entry, no broken glass, no scratches on the locks. It was as if whoever had been here had a key, or knew how to bypass the system.
The police arrived, taking statements and dusting for fingerprints. They found nothing conclusive. The alarm company confirmed a brief, unexplained activation at 3:17 AM, coinciding with the time I’d heard the creak. They suggested a possible malfunction, but the technician admitted it was unusual.
Days turned into a week, and the unsettling feeling lingered. I jumped at every shadow, every unexpected noise. The note haunted me. Who would want to threaten me, and why? I racked my brain, searching for anyone who might harbor ill will. A disgruntled former colleague? A jealous acquaintance? Nothing felt right.
Mark, bless him, tried to be reassuring, but I could see the worry in his eyes. He installed extra security cameras, upgraded the alarm system, and insisted on walking me to the car every morning. But the fear was a cold knot in my stomach, refusing to unravel.
Then, I remembered old Mrs. Gable, our neighbor who lived across the street. She was a sweet, elderly woman, a bit of a busybody, but harmless. I hadn’t spoken to her in a while, but I recalled her mentioning she’d been having trouble with her eyesight.
On a whim, I went over to her house. She greeted me with a warm smile and invited me in for tea. As we chatted, I casually asked if she’d noticed anything unusual around our house lately.
Her smile faltered. “Oh, dear,” she said, her voice trembling. “I did see a young man lurking near your back door a few nights ago. He was fiddling with something, but my eyes aren’t what they used to be. I thought he might be a delivery driver, but he didn’t have any packages.”
She described him – a young man, average height, wearing a dark hoodie. It wasn’t much, but it was a lead. I showed her the note. Her eyes widened.
“That handwriting… it looks awfully familiar,” she said slowly. “It reminds me of Daniel, the young man who used to help me with my groceries. He stopped coming around a few weeks ago. Said he’d found a new job.”
Daniel. I remembered him. He’d always been overly friendly, a little too eager to help. I’d dismissed it as youthful enthusiasm. Now, it felt sinister.
Mark and I contacted the police again, providing them with Daniel’s name and description. It didn’t take long for them to track him down. He’d been recently fired from his job for petty theft and had a history of stalking a former girlfriend.
He confessed almost immediately. He’d become obsessed with me, watching my house, learning my routines. He’d managed to copy a key when helping Mrs. Gable, intending to “surprise” me. The note was meant to be a prelude to something far more frightening.
The relief that washed over me was immense, almost debilitating. The fear didn’t vanish instantly, but it began to recede, replaced by a profound sense of gratitude.
We moved a few months later, not because we felt unsafe, but because the house held too many shadows. We found a new home, brighter and more open, a place where we could rebuild our sense of peace. And every night, before going to bed, Mark made sure the alarm was set, and I knew, with a quiet certainty, that we were safe.