At 3AM, I heard someone messing with my window. That quiet, deliberate sound that instantly tells you something isn’t right. My heart started racing as I grabbed my phone and called the police.
The dispatcher answered calmly, but then said something that made my blood run cold: “You already called. A unit’s on the way.”
I told him this was my first time calling. There was a pause—too long to feel normal. Then he said quietly, “That’s strange… this address is already in the system. Almost the same date, but exactly one year ago.”
My stomach dropped. I asked what happened back then. Another pause. Then: “The woman who called… didn’t make it.”
I froze. Every instinct told me not to move, not to make a sound. I pressed myself against the wall, clutching the phone, barely breathing, listening for any movement outside my window.
Those next two minutes felt endless.
Then finally, I heard sirens. The police arrived and searched the area. What they found made everything real—there was a man hiding on my balcony.
He wasn’t passing by.
He was waiting.
