For months, I felt like someone was watching me. Strange noises upstairs, furniture slightly moved—I live alone, yet nothing made sense. Terrified, I called the police, but they found nothing. As they left, one officer asked if I’d let any workers in recently. My stomach dropped. Six months ago, I’d hired a man named Rainer to install windows. Quiet, polite… maybe too polite. That’s when the unease began.
The police suggested security cameras, so I installed them everywhere. Three nights later, an alert went off at 3:12 a.m. My blood ran cold. On the feed, a man emerged from the attic hatch, crept into my kitchen, drank orange juice straight from the bottle, and disappeared upstairs again. It was Rainer. He had been living in my attic for six months—sneaking down when I left, when I showered, even when I slept.
When the cops searched, they found blankets, protein bars, a flashlight, and a burner phone. On it were hundreds of photos of me—walking the dog, grocery shopping, even sitting in my car. Some were taken long before the renovations. Rainer wasn’t even his real name. He was Ellis Druen, a repeat stalker with a history of slipping through cracks.
He’s behind bars now, but fear lingers long after danger is gone. For weeks, I couldn’t sleep in my own home. I stayed with my cousin until I was ready to return. When I did, I repainted, rearranged, got a rescue dog named Mozzie, and connected with my neighbors. For the first time, I realized safety isn’t just locks—it’s community, vigilance, and instincts.
Here’s what I learned: trust your gut. Don’t brush off that uneasy feeling. I wasn’t paranoid. I was right. And listening to my instincts probably saved my life.