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Always Lock Your Doors at Night
Most people who live in the suburbs probably have or still take their safety for granted. The mentality of thinking “this will never happen to me” or “this only happens in other places” is extremely prevalent as people live under the guise that their lives and communities will never be affected by the horrific stories you hear on the news about murders, kidnappings, and home invasions.
I’ll forever remember the night where I completely disconnected from this mindset and opened my eyes to how susceptible and unsuspecting we truly are in the comfort of our day-to-day lives. I was living in a quiet suburb about an hour away from New York City, renting a two-story house. Around four in the afternoon on this particular day, I received a knock at the door. It was my neighbor Kimberly (who was referred to as “Kim”) and her seven-year old son Kyle.
“Looks like there was a mix-up in the mail.” Kim said, smiling as she gestured down toward Kyle.
Smiling enthusiastically, Kyle held out a light brown package about half the size of a shoebox.
“Why thank you very much young man.” I replied to the boy as I took the package, whose label had my name and address written.
I couldn’t help but smile at Kyle beaming so emphatically, who was clearly excited to have done such a good deed.
“He insisted on bringing it over here himself when we realized it was yours.” Kim said while scooping up Kyle in her arms.
After graciously thanking them, I watched Kim walk back to her house next door, smiling warmly as Kyle waved at me over his mom’s shoulder. I was particularly excited about this package, which was a sophisticated digital recorder I ordered online that would be extremely useful for my job—a multimedia editor. I took my package to the den, where I spent some time trying to set it up and sync it to my laptop. The process was more exhaustive than I anticipated, but I got the recorder in working order.
Since it was the beginning of summer, it wasn’t uncommon for me to leave my windows and back doors open for fresh air. The house I lived in had two glass sliding doors—one in the kitchen, another in the den—which also happened to be two of the three rooms I spent the most time in when home (the other being my office upstairs). I particularly remember this because after fiddling with the recorder, I laid on the couch and spaced out while listening to the breeze and rustling leaves outside, eventually drifting off to sleep.
It was dark when I finally woke back up and a check of my phone revealed it was a little after 10 o’clock. I scowled sharply, knowing that being passed out for over six hours meant I wouldn’t be able to pass back out at a reasonable time tonight. I spent the next few minutes turning on lights, shutting windows, and closing both sliding doors, noting a slight chill in the nighttime air. I just finished closing and locking the kitchen’s sliding door when I heard a soft thud come from the room directly above the kitchen, which was my office.
Feeling compelled to investigate, I headed upstairs to my little office space, where I quickly spotted a large thick dictionary I frequently still used that had fallen on the floor next to my desk. I didn’t think much of it, and seeing nothing else appeared out of place, I returned downstairs. While heading back to the living room however, I froze upon noticing the lights were now off in the kitchen. While I didn’t specifically recall shutting off the lights before heading upstairs, I rationalized it was possible I could have unconsciously flipped them off without realizing.
I spent the next 15, 20 minutes preparing some food before returning to the den. I had been eating for about 10 minutes when it hit me that my digital recorder was nowhere to be seen. I tried to refrain from panicking while surveying my immediate surroundings, checking if the recorder fell on the floor or around the coffee table. After thoroughly checking the couch cushions, under every piece of furniture in the den, and even in the kitchen, I decided to look in my office yet again, wondering if I somehow could have brought up and left the recorder in that room. Of course, I found nothing.
I was more frustrated about my recorder missing than anything else, convinced it was still buried deep in my couch cushions and I simply didn’t find it my first attempt. I decided to put off my search until I ate and watched the rest of my show. Another half hour passed, during which I finished my food and episode I was watching. I went to bring my dish and glass back into the kitchen and almost dropped them, becoming genuinely unnerved by what I saw.
The lights were off again in the kitchen.
I initially tried telling myself there might be an issue with the actual lighting, but saw the light switch was indeed flipped to its off position. While I distinctly remember leaving the lights on, I tried (but failed) to reassure myself I managed to turn them off when exiting the kitchen with my food. I stood silently for about a minute, listening for any sounds of movement that might indicate I wasn’t alone in the house. Despite the looming feeling of being watched that befell me, I warily switched the lights back on and placed the dirty dishes in the sink before speedily returning to the den—and explicitly noting the kitchen lights were left on before exiting.
Despite feeling so unsettled, I tried forcing myself to relax and watch another episode of my show. Soon as I grabbed the remote however, my stomach sank and heart started pounding frantically when the sounds of slow, deep, scratchy breathing filled the den. I shot up to my feet and anxiously scanned the room trying to find the ominous noise’s source. It took every ounce of willpower for me to not bolt out of the house, despite my state of fear magnifying with each slow raspy inhale and exhale that filled my ears. It initially sounded like the breathing came from all directions, until I caught a slight glimmer in the corner of my eye that drew my gaze toward the den’s sliding door.
My heart almost stopped upon realizing the door had been opened about halfway. The glimmer capturing my attention was the digital recorder, leaning against the screen door, which was emitting those ghastly breaths filling the room. Gasping as I started to tremble, this was more than enough for me to take my leave. I wasted zero time beelining toward my front door, but took no more than a handful of steps in its direction.
That’s when I saw who was inside the house, trying to torment me with these maddening mind games.
I can still clearly visualize the person….or whatever it was, as I type this account. It was noticeably tall, its head merely inches from touching the ceiling as it stood in front of the house’s main entranceway. It was hairless, completely nude, and had tight leathery skin being whitish beige in color with a sickly light grayish tint. The figure’s head was small and round, almost having somewhat of an onion shape with two small beady black eyes. The being’s most disturbing feature was its unnaturally wide smile that spread from ear-to-ear, brandishing its large, jagged, yellowish white teeth, and seemed to cover almost one-third of its face. It contained a sly menacing expression, looking like it lavished over the fear its antics bestowed on me, and clenched what looked like a knife or narrow pointed piece of rusty metal in its hand.
We exchanged glances for about 10 seconds before panic completely overtook my train of thought, prompting me to shriek as I scrambled out of my house through the den’s sliding door. Racing across my backyard, I hopped the fence and desperately pounded on Kim’s backdoor, screaming for help and her to answer. I burst into Kim’s house when she finally opened the door, tripping on her carpet and collapsing in a heap, screaming for her to call the police. While Kim made sure Kyle didn’t see what was happening, it took her husband Barry a few minutes to calm me down and tell him there was an intruder in my house. Although he volunteered to go over to check himself, I repeatedly pleaded him to wait for the police.
To my dismay, the house was empty when the cops arrived. The officers seemed to believe my story, and concluded whoever I saw probably fled after I ran out of the house. I must have had the officers check every inch of my residence four or five times over before I finally felt safe enough to return. The cops figured the intruder simply entered my house through one of the sliding doors that were open while I was asleep, noting how easily I could have been killed.
“That’s why we tell people—always lock your doors at night.” One of the officers said before they departed, saying they’ll file a report on the incident and reach out if there were any new developments or they had follow-up questions.
Although Kim and Barry both said I could spend the night at their house, I politely declined. I did have Barry go through my house room-by-room with me once more before completely convincing myself nobody else was in the house, and agreed to check in with them the next morning. After making sure everything was locked, I tried calming down with a few glasses of wine and soaking in a hot bath. I managed to drift off for a little bit, unsure what time it was when I woke back up, since my phone was charging downstairs. While still unnerved by the night’s previous events, I felt more at ease and comfortable enough to turn in for the night.
After drying myself off, I was about to exit the bathroom, when a thunderous bang rang throughout my confines that caused the door I was less than a second from opening to jolt violently. I yelped and flinched back, pinning myself against the wall opposite of the doorway. A loud, deep, scraping sound filled the bathroom, sounding like someone was dragging something sharp and metallic across the door. My heart sank and stomach churned with a sharp queasiness when the scraping was followed by those same deep scratchy breaths I heard on the digital recorder, my limbs trembling uncontrollably while I curled into the fetal position.
Who or whatever this is….was still in my house. It somehow eluded the police and thorough redundant searches that were conducted over every square inch in my home. It was impossible to fathom that a wooden door was what separated this intruder from getting to me, while I was in such a vulnerable position and state of mind. My heart was beating and limbs were trembling uncontrollably, to the point where I fought to abstain from vomiting, all the while anticipating when the door would get broken down and that thing bursting into the bathroom.
Those slow deep breaths only went on for a few more minutes before abruptly ceasing. Since I didn’t hear the intruder physically walk away, I remained nestled in the space between my toilet and bathtub, keeping my eyes locked on the bathroom door, and too terrified to so much as utter a noise or move a muscle. I stayed this way for several hours, remembering when the sky started to lighten and the sun first shined its rays through the bathroom’s tiny window. I refused to move from my spot until it was light enough where I could see under the crevice that nobody was standing in front of the doorway.
Although this brought me some slight relief, I didn’t venture out until I heard my cellphone start ringing downstairs. I armed myself with a small pair of scissors before slowly opening the door and peering out into the empty hallway. Nothing seemed out of place as I warily crept to my bedroom to get dressed. The alarm clock on my nightstand said it was a little after 11. My phone rang about four times before it finally stopped, which indicated someone had to reach me urgently. As I opened my closet to throw on a shirt, I dropped the hanger on the floor and bent down to pick it up, but wound up screaming and scrambled back from the closet.
Propped up on the floor in a seated position, was a small human-shaped figure, covered in a light blue blanket that was tightly bound in twine and metal wiring. The sheet was covered with thick dark red stains, and a red puddle I ignorantly avoided identifying seeped out from the edges of this lump. The more I stared, the more distinct its human features became apparent through the blanket’s outline. The body had another feature about it that I refused to acknowledge, but would become a grim reality when I heard a slew of pounding knocks at my front door.
Without trying to regain my composure, I gradually headed downstairs to the main entranceway, making no effort to hide my face’s unsettled distracted expression, while opening the door (which I noticed was now unlocked). Kim stood outside, whose tear-stained face contained an identically-distraught expression of fear and panic. What she said next in her shaky broken voice through her sniffles and sobs is something I’ll remember for the rest of my life, and clarified something about the discovery I made in my closet that I knew was inevitable.
“Kyle’s gone missing….we put him to bed last night, and haven’t seen him anywhere all morning!”
Turns out it was Kim who was calling my phone, probably to see if I happened to know anything about their son’s whereabouts. Her shrieks and howls are permanently embedded in my mind when they wheeled out Kyle from my house. I won’t go into the gruesome details of how badly his body was mutilated, but will say they needed dental records to confirm this truly was in fact Kyle. I was expectedly arrested and immediately became a top suspect in Kyle’s murder, but my account of what happened the previous night, along with a subsequent investigation eventually cleared me of any wrongdoing.
I’m pretty sure the intruder (or whatever I saw in my house) either briefly fled after I did, or retreated to some unknown hiding spot I’m not even aware the house contained. At some point, it killed Kyle and brought his body to my house before disappearing into the night. I try not to dwell about the specifics, but become deeply disturbed when thinking about Kyle’s final moments, or how that horrid being also got into Kim and Barry’s house. I don’t know if its initial target was Kyle, or it merely used him as an accessory to exacerbate my affliction. All I know is the events from that night and following day have permanently scarred, and made me extraordinarily paranoid of my surroundings. Although I moved out of that house shortly after and never saw them again, I think about Kim and Barry often, unable to comprehend the pain they as parents must have and currently still endure from losing their child in such a grisly manner.
I never saw or heard from who or whatever was in my house that night until now, which is what motivated me to finally write out my account. I returned home earlier this evening and found the digital recorder I received on that fateful day on my kitchen counter. I never came across the recorder after that night and ultimately forgot about it in my vain attempts to block out my traumatic experience. While inspecting it, I noticed there was a three-second recording that I reluctantly played. Most of it was thick static, along with a deep scratchy voice, sounding like it came from the same thing or person who emitted those deep heavy breaths.
The voice said one word, whose context I haven’t deciphered, but greatly dread what it could actually mean.
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