For months, I felt like someone was watching me.
I also heard faint noises upstairs late at night, even though I live alone.
Yesterday, I came home to find my living room rearranged.
Terrified, I called the police, but after searching, they found nothing.
Just as they were leaving, one officer hesitated and asked, “Ma’am, have you recently let any contractors or workers into your home?”
That question rattled me more than anything else.
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I had.
About six months ago, I hired a guy named Rainer to install new windows upstairs. He was quiet, polite, maybe a little too polite. I didn’t think much of it at the time—I mean, he did the work, got paid, and left. But now, the timing felt off. That was right around when I started feeling… watched.
The officers said they couldn’t do much without evidence, but they suggested I get security cameras, so I did. Front door, back door, hallway, and one discreetly facing the staircase upstairs.
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That night, I barely slept. Every creak, every gust of wind outside made me jump.
Three nights later, I got my answer.
At 3:12 a.m., I got a motion alert from the hallway cam.
I held my breath and opened the video.
There, plain as day, was a figure emerging from the attic hatch. Slowly. Like they’d done it before. A man. Tall. Wearing all black.
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I froze.
He tiptoed into the kitchen, opened the fridge, drank orange juice from the bottle, and walked back upstairs.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw up.
I called the cops again, and this time, they didn’t hesitate. They found the attic hatch slightly ajar. Inside, nestled between the insulation and old boxes, were blankets, protein bars, a flashlight, and a burner phone.
It was him. Rainer.
He had made a small entrance inside the attic through the ventilation during the renovations and had been living there ever since.
Six months.
Six months of me thinking I was losing my mind.
He knew my schedule, my habits, even my fridge contents. He snuck down when I left for work, when I showered, even—God help me—when I slept.
But here’s where it got stranger.
When the police went through the burner phone, they found hundreds of photos of me. Not just inside the house, but outside too. Walking my dog. Grocery shopping. Sitting in my car scrolling through my phone.
Some were months old—taken long before the renovations.
That’s when everything shifted.
This wasn’t just some handyman-turned-creeper. He’d been watching me long before he entered my home.
And it turns out… I wasn’t the first.
Rainer wasn’t even his real name. His actual name was Ellis Druen, and he had a history of theft and stalking. He’d changed identities before, often slipping through cracks by working under fake credentials. Two towns over, a woman filed a similar report a year ago—but it was dismissed due to “lack of evidence.”
He’s behind bars now. Facing charges for breaking and entering, stalking, and unlawful surveillance.
But here’s the thing no one really talks about after something like this: how hard it is to feel safe again. Even with the locks changed, the cameras up, and the alarms set, I couldn’t sleep in my own home for weeks. I stayed with my cousin Siara across town just so I could breathe.
Eventually, though, I did come back.
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I painted the walls. Rearranged the furniture. Adopted a big, barky rescue dog named Mozzie. And I got to know my neighbors—something I’d never really done before. Turns out, Mrs. Fern across the street sees everything and misses nothing. And when she said she’d “keep an eye out,” I believed her.
It’s wild how we take our sense of safety for granted—until it’s gone. I used to think being cautious was being paranoid. Now I know there’s a fine line—and it’s okay to trust your gut even when nothing looks wrong.
So here’s what I learned, and maybe it’ll help someone else:
If you feel something’s off, don’t brush it off. Your instincts exist for a reason. Check your spaces. Ask questions. And don’t be afraid to speak up, even if people think you’re being dramatic.
Because I wasn’t paranoid.
I was right.
And that realization probably saved my life.