Posted on by Eric
When I arrived at the entrance that afternoon, my neighbor, Mrs. Collins, was waiting for me by the fence, her arms crossed and her face tense with irritation.
“Your house is so noisy during the day,” she snapped. “It’s extremely annoying.”
I laughed, thinking it was some kind of misunderstanding.
—That’s impossible. There shouldn’t be anyone home. I work from eight to six.
He didn’t give in. He crossed his arms even tighter.
—Then explain the screams to me. I heard screams. A woman’s voice.
My smile vanished.
I lived alone. My husband, Mark, had died two years earlier, and my job as an insurance analyst kept me out of the house most of the day. I kept telling myself that Mrs. Collins must have mistaken my house for someone else’s, but the way she looked at me—so sure, almost frightened—stayed with me even after I walked inside
I hardly slept that night.
Every creak of the floorboards made my heart race. I checked every door, every window, even the attic. Nothing seemed out of place. There were no signs of forced entry. No explanation.
The next morning, I made a decision that seemed ridiculous… and terrifying at the same time.
I left home at my usual time, waved to Mrs. Collins as if nothing had happened, and returned an hour later. I parked a few blocks away and slipped inside.
I went straight to the bedroom and slid under the bed, phone in hand, holding my breath. The dust tickled my nose. Minutes stretched into hours. I heard the refrigerator whirring, the pipes gurgling, the distant traffic outside.
Part of me wished that nothing would happen, that I could leave there ashamed of my own paranoia.
Then, just after noon, I heard the front door open.
Footsteps echoed through the house with a familiar air: slow, deliberate. Someone opened the kitchen cabinets and poured a glass of water. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure it would give me away.
The footsteps drew closer.
They stopped right in front of my bedroom door.
The door creaked open.
And then I heard a woman’s voice saying softly:
—I know you shouldn’t be here yet.
Under the bed, I froze in terror, watching the shadow of his feet as he fully entered my room. Fear paralyzed my body. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move.
She walked to the mirror on the dresser.
“Calm down…” she murmured. “You always get scared easily.”
That’s when I recognized the voice.
It wasn’t a stranger’s.
It was… mine.
The woman sighed, sat up in bed, and began to cry.
“I just wanted more time,” she whispered between sobs. “Just a little more silence.”
The impact was so strong that I lost control of my body. My knee hit the bed frame. The sound echoed.
She remained motionless.
“Who’s there?” he asked, his voice now tense.
I slowly crawled out from under the bed, pointing my phone at her.
We stared at each other.
She was identical to me.
The same hair. The same face. The same tired look
“Who… who are you?” I managed to ask.
She put her hand to her mouth, horrified.
“I am you,” he replied. “Or… the part of you that never left this house after Mark died.”
The silence fell heavily between us.
Through tears, she explained everything: how she had suffered a breakdown months before, how she had created a secret routine within her own house, coming in when I left, living there as if she were someone else. A broken version of herself, trapped in the past, screaming alone, arguing with memories, reliving the pain.
The “screams” that my neighbor had heard… were mine.
Or rather, they were hers.
I asked for help that same day.
I was hospitalized for a few days. I started therapy. I faced truths I had been avoiding for years.
Today, the house is silent.
Really.
And every time I run into Mrs. Collins, I thank her for complaining
Because, if it hadn’t been for that noise, perhaps I would never have discovered that the most terrifying person inside my house… was myself, trying to survive the pain completely alone.
