1 Hour of Creepy ROOMMATE Horror Stories

Many, many years ago, before kids, rescue animals, a mortgage, and a husband, I was a travel writer in Europe. I did most of my trips alone. This story is about the first time I visited Prague. I'd never been to Prague, and the trip was last minute, so I had little time to prepare. A travel partner had dumped me in another country, and I was determined to make the best out of the trip by visiting a place I'd never been. Upon arrival at the train station, I visited the accommodation office and asked for a hostel

not far from the center. In my early 20s, winging it was part of the fun, but these days, I'm far less adventurous. The hostel they sent me to was a sprawling, crumbling, slate-gray Art Deco building on a nondescript street, about a 10-minute walk to Staré Město. The inside was probably beautiful at one time, but by the time I checked in, it was full of shabby mismatched furniture and cheap stained carpet. Most of the light fixtures were broken, leaving everything but the lobby dark and gloomy. It smelled of standing water and dust. I found my room,

a double for $12 per night, and I made note of the fact that I had a roommate. She wasn't there, but on her side of the room was a suitcase, a dress neatly folded across the back of a plastic chair, a scattering of makeup containers on the beat-up desk, and a stack of German fashion magazines on the bed. As I had no plans or goals on this impromptu trip, I spent the afternoon exploring Old Town Square, the Jewish Quarter, and Wenceslas Square. I purchased some crystal for my mom, and I painted eggs from a street

vendor for myself. I also made reservations for a sunset dinner cruise for one at around 6:00 p.m. I returned to my room to shower, change clothes, and unload my purchases. When I left my room about an hour later, there was no indication that my roommate may have returned at any point during the day. After the cruise, I stopped at a tiny bar on Týnská and had a glass of wine. I had heard horror stories about the dangers of Prague, but I felt no more trepidation than I did in any other large city. Sure, I mean,

the cobblestone streets, fog rolling off of the Vltava, backlit Gothic architecture, and winding alleys made me think of Jack the Ripper and Dracula—but in a good way. It was nearly midnight when I returned to my hostel, so I was surprised to find that my roommate still hadn't returned. That wasn't necessarily uncommon, though; backpackers are a fickle lot. She could have gone on a short overnight trip and just left her stuff behind, maybe hooked up with a guy or girl and was holed up at their place, or hanging out at another hostel. So I was surprised

but not concerned. I took another shower before bed; however, I was surprised to find that things in the room had changed upon my return. Her bed was neatly turned down, the magazines had moved to the nightstand, and the dress was gone. The strangest thing, though, was the addition of a pink silky nightgown spread across the bed and on my bed. Maybe she thought she still had the room to herself. I didn't see how—I mean, my shopping bags, clothes, and toiletries were in plain view. I gently moved the nightgown over to her bed, and then I

settled in for the night. As I wrote in my journal, I assumed she was in the shower somewhere or nearby, so I expected her return shortly. After about an hour, though, her side was still empty. I needed to use the restroom before I went to sleep, so I made one last trip down the hall. The building was unusually quiet; there weren't the regular sounds of chatty backpackers, the clinking of glasses, or music that would normally leak through the walls. There was nothing—it was hushed, like a church after the congregation has left. I found myself practically

tiptoeing back. My room was near the end of the hall, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the corridor was darker than before. The few working lights were blinking as they struggled to stay lit, and it reminded me of a fun house. A tightness began to fill my stomach, and I subconsciously quickened my steps. There wasn't a soul behind me yet, so I kept glancing back over my shoulder, convinced that I'd see someone gaining momentum on me. The only sound was the soft thud of my flip-flops as they struck my soles. I was flooded with

relief as I flung open my door, but it didn't last long. Everything was exactly as it was before, except for the silky nightgown, which was now back on my bed. Sleep came in fits and starts. I left the lamp on for a while, still convinced my roommate would be right back, but the shadows it cast made the room even spookier. It was too dark with the light off. I had finally slipped into a deep sleep when I suddenly heard the door open. A man stood in the darkened doorway, the hall light behind him showing just

enough for me to see his contorted face. “I didn't mean to,” he sobbed. “You have to help me.” Too confused and disoriented to be scared, I sat up and scrubbed at my eyes, and I reached for the lamp switch. But once the room was lit, I saw that the door was closed. There was no man. I quickly bounded off the bed and went for the door; it was locked. Nobody could have entered without a key. In the hallway, it was empty. I passed the rest of the night fully clothed, sitting up in bed and with

the light on. Though I paid for two more nights, at 7:00 a.m. I gathered all of my stuff and went down to the reception desk to check out. "By the way," I said to the 20-something receptionist, "my roommate never returned. I'm a little concerned." She picked up the room key, looked at it hard, and frowned, then glanced at her computer. "What room were you in again?" When I repeated it to her, she looked back at her screen. "Ma'am, that room has been empty for three weeks and it's been clean since then. We only have six

people in the whole building. The hostel has since been renovated and is now a luxury hotel. Never move in with a man or woman you've never personally known. I've got a roommate from hell. This way, I mean this man tortured me psychologically. When I turned down sexual advances, he then stole thousands of dollars from me over time. He even used my Amazon account to open up an account. He got some of my personal info, like Social Security, and a lot of other things. Once I left, after calling the cops to help me leave, he showed

up at the Apple Store I was at just a day after I left, even though I left to go live on the streets. No family or friends, as I was severely abused as a kid. I've been on my own since I was 14, so I'm accustomed to surviving on the streets for periods of time. I was a million times happier that way than I ever was in his nice apartment, surrounded by nice things and in a fancy car. I felt so relieved, even just living in a concrete garage. I was a million times happier sleeping

on concrete with a pillow made of a towel and a tiny little blanket, in the cold and heat, than I ever was living there with him. He spent his time psychologically torturing me, and I don't regret leaving at all. He would bang on the wall across from mine every morning and late at night to startle me awake. He'd throw pebbles or tap on my window in the middle of the night to scare me and keep me on edge. He'd give me weird little candies and teddy bears as if we were dating, even ordered stalkerish love

items from my own Amazon account. Who the hell spends this much time on Christmas ornaments that say, 'I'll always love and follow you'? If I'd go to the restroom, he'd run and kick his foot at the door so loud and suddenly that it sounded like a door being kicked down. Then he would steal my items if I left him alone for even a second, so I'd have no way to go out if I had plans. He would also put them back once I mentioned them or when it was too late for me to leave for

my plans. If I got any mail or a package, he would always interrogate me, 'What did you order? I need to know,' like he owned me or something. Towards the end, I was leaning doors and furniture up against the door because he picked up my bedroom lock while I was gone, and when I woke up, sometimes there was stuff missing or moved in odd ways, so I knew he was creeping around while I was asleep. He was an absolute freak; I wouldn't put anything past him since he showed me how psychotic he was. If I

was rarely happy or in a good mood, he'd start criticizing and nitpicking at my body hair, face, and even behavior, sometimes my voice—just anything he thought I was insecure about. Anytime I left my bedroom, he would rush out of his room to stand right behind or near me, like a weird little dog that follows you around panting. He'd even piss in my hair products, skincare products, and vitamins. He would throw out food that I just bought and steal my cash, and even use my debit cards. He also ordered 30 or 40-plus items off of my

Amazon account without my knowledge or consent. It was the strangest thing; I still have trouble believing this stuff happened, as it was just so crazy to even think that someone is that crazy to do this. About two years ago, I moved into a new apartment. The walls were very thin, and because of the fire safety laws in my city, my bedroom had one window which led into the living room and none with outside access. The window will be important later. It was three bedrooms—one for me, one for the master tenant, and one spare, which at

the time was rented out by a pretty friendly guy. Well, the pretty friendly guy had issues with his work visa and had to move back to Canada last minute, leaving us about two weeks to find another roommate. Her quickest and easiest option was Craigslist. Due to my work schedule, I had no part in the selection process, but I was content when the new roommate moved in. A little later, he seemed a bit off. He was a very tall, large guy, but pretty quiet and not someone I wanted to go out of my way to hang

with, but was okay to be around and be cordial with. About two weeks into his move-in, the master tenant left for Hawaii, leaving him and me alone in the home for the month-long duration of his stay. For the first few days, things were normal. All of a sudden, about four days into the trip, I was woken up at about 8:00 a.m. to a frantic knocking at my door. My roommate—I'll call him Kyle—is standing there when I... Open up, looking frazzled. He looks me dead in the eye and says, "So, do you want to tell me

what went on last night?" To which I was shocked and confused because I had come home from work at about 9:00 p.m. and immediately showered and went to bed. I explained this to him, and he tells me that he heard me screaming and arguing with someone in my room and that he saw me in the side alley out of the window arguing with our landlord, whom I’d never even seen at that point. He heard people coming in and out of our house. I tell him, "No way, none of that ever happened." After staring at me

for a little longer, he leaves and doesn’t bring it up again. The next morning, I wake up to the same thing. This time he says he saw me arguing with my boyfriend, but I was single at the time. He said that he had seen me talking with her other roommate, who was in Hawaii, and asking me for the badge number of the officer I’d spoken to since he had apparently seen me talking to a bunch of police as well. This time I start to get angry and more or less tell him to cut this [__]

out because I'm not doing anything, and I don't know what he’s talking about. He gets a weird look on his face and says, "I think I had a seizure in my sleep. The next time it happens, call an ambulance." Then he leaves for a bit, only to start knocking again about an hour later. When I open up, Kyle repeats the exact same story verbatim. This happens once more before I tell him to leave me the [__] alone and leave for work. I go to work as normal, but I'm reluctant to return that night, but also

too tired to switch to an alternate location. Big mistake, because at about 1:00 a.m., I woke up to slamming doors. Kyle was pacing back and forth between his bedroom, the living room, and out the front door—walking in and out of each room, turning the lights on and off, mumbling angrily and slamming doors. I can see his figure pacing back and forth through the frosted window in my room that leads to the living room. Since my room is dark, he cannot see inside. Suddenly, he screams, "I can't live like this! Why are you doing this to

me?" I think he’s on the phone, and I don’t respond. A few moments later, he screams my name repeatedly, and I realize he’s directing it towards me. I knew I had to get the [__] out of there immediately, so I very quietly creep out of bed and start getting dressed, even packing a bag of clothes for work in the morning. I'm almost done when he screams, "I hear you!" and charges over to my room, slapping the wall next to my door but not touching the door itself. I look towards my window, and I see his

shadow lean all the way forward, pressing his ear against the glass. I was terrified, and I sat completely still, unmoving. He eventually screams my name again and moves away from the window, and I hear him start pacing between rooms again. Now, my shoes are kept on a rack outside my door and not inside my room, so I know that when I leave, I’m going to need a moment to put them on. I decide to wait until his pacing takes him out the front door again, at which time I plan to grab my shoes, put them

on, and run. As I'm formulating this plan, the pacing stops. "Do you want to fight about this? Come out right now and we'll fight, I swear." See, I'm very small—a 5'4" girl—and this guy is easily three times my size, so I am definitely not looking to fight, thanks. After a few minutes, he turns off all the lights, and I hear the door to his room open and close, followed by silence. I wait for a moment to be sure I can’t hear any movement, and then I decide to take my chance. I took a breath and

pulled my door open quickly. I step out and grab my shoes before I look up; a second later, I see him standing shirtless with just a pair of boxers and socks on in the dark of the hallway. His arms hung slightly outward in an awkward position. He says in a low, calm voice, "Ma'am, we need to talk." That was a hard "no" for me, so I grabbed my shoes and ran out the door with them in hand. I ran about a half block barefoot before I stopped to put them on. When I looked back, he

was standing in the porch light of our front door, watching me run but not moving. Luckily, I had a friend who lived about two blocks away and had their spare key, so I let myself in and crashed there for the night. That’s where I stayed for the next week or so while we worked things out with the master tenant, and Kyle agreed to move out within the week. He says he doesn’t remember anything that happened or wasn’t sure if it was real or not, but if I said that’s what went down, then it must be

real. The day Kyle left, he sent me a photo of the house key sitting on the table and said, "I’m out." Nothing else. I took a friend over there with me to scout it and just to ensure that he had actually left. When we got there, we discovered that not only had he left a ton of food and furniture, but he had ripped all of the... Fire alarms out of the ceilings he had unscrewed, and removed the dead bolt to the front door, and left them lined up neatly on the front table. We then realized

that my front door can only lock by using a key from the outside and I had been locked out when we arrived, meaning Kyle still had a key. We called a locksmith immediately. Even after changing the locks, I was still terrified to stay there alone afterwards, and I never went to sleep at night without barricading the doors with chairs and other furniture. To this day, I still have fear for my safety. He was obviously psychologically unstable, but I also wonder what could have happened if I hadn't been as lucky as I was. I'm a 36-year-old

female in Sweden. I have worked in mental health care for the last 18 years, mainly with people with psychotic illnesses like schizophrenia. I was working at a group home for 9 years and was very close with my co-workers there, especially two females. The last few years I worked there, another female started working there; let's just call her M for this story, and the four of us grew very close. She was very timid and shy, but also friendly, and we got along well. She was, however, often on long-term sick leave because of her own mental health

issues, so we didn't meet much at work. But she always showed up at our after-work dinners, so we continued to stay in touch even when she wasn't well enough to work full-time. She told us that she had a history of schizophrenia herself, just like the patients we were treating, but that she was medicated and hadn't had any psychotic episodes for years. Since I have an education in psychiatry and a long experience with schizophrenia, I have no judgment towards people suffering from the illness, and it didn't bother me being friends with someone who had a diagnosis

like that. Even after what I will tell you, I still feel the same way. In the summer of 2023, I had moved on to work at a new place, also within mental health, but this time forensic psychiatry—a halfway house for mentally ill murderers, etc. The four of us had stayed in touch and still met every now and then for dinner parties. M told us that she had been evicted from her apartment because of an incident where she had accidentally entered her neighbor's apartment in the middle of the night. She told us that in the huge

apartment complex, all the doors look exactly the same and that she simply walked in the wrong door by accident, and that the neighbor had created a scene out of pure drama and reported her to the police. I somehow felt that while that sounded out of proportion to evict someone just for that, perhaps the landlord took that kind of action because he judged her based on her medical history, so I felt bad for her. I questioned her if something else happened, and she claimed that it didn't and that this was just a full story. In Sweden,

it can be very difficult to get a contract for an apartment when you've been evicted; you pretty much get blacklisted. So M asked me if she could move in with me since she was literally on the street and literally homeless. I said, "Of course you can." I've always gotten myself into uncomfortable situations by saying yes instead of thinking about myself, and I had no idea how severe this situation would get when I said yes to her. I live in a pretty small apartment; it's one bedroom that pretty much only fits a bed and a desk,

and a living room that fits a couch and a TV—no room for an extra bed—a small kitchen and a small bathroom, and I have two cats. We decided that M was going to live in the living room, and I offered her the option of throwing my couch out so she could have a bed there, but she said that she was fine sleeping on the couch since it's comfortable enough. I insisted on giving her a bed, but she declined. There's a door between the living room and bedroom, but between the living room and hallway, there's just

an open arch, so she wouldn't have total privacy. I hung up a thick velvet curtain covering the arch so it at least gave the sense of a door and more privacy than nothing. There's another door from my bedroom to my kitchen, so I have two doors to my bedroom. I have to keep one of them open at night since my cats like to go in and out, and they also have their litter boxes in the bathroom and food and water in the kitchen. I naturally kept the kitchen door open and not the living room door

since that's where M lived, and we wanted to keep our privacy. She wasn't working at this time because she was on one of her long-term sick leaves while I was working shifts, so sometimes I had to get up at 6:00 a.m., and sometimes I didn't get home till like 11:00 p.m. I have some really severe insomnia, and I need to combine Ambien with heroin, and even with this, I still wake up easily. I told her that I would appreciate it if she could try to stay quiet those nights when I have to get up at

6:00 a.m., but that it's fine if she's loud when I'm off work or when I'm doing evening shifts. She was a heavy smoker and a coffee drinker, so I bought her a coffee machine. I did it to make her enjoy her living situation more. The coffee machine in the sink is placed right outside my bedroom door, and the kitchen is very... Small, so the first night together, I had to get up at 6:00 for my shift, as usual. I had a hard time falling asleep. Em had been up several times at night to go out

to smoke, and I woke up every time at 5:00 a.m. She started making coffee, and since it was literally outside my bedroom door, I got wide awake from the sound of it. I asked her, in the nicest way possible, why she was up this early, asking if she had any plans today. I mean, she's on sick leave; why not sleep at 5:00 a.m. if you can? She just said that she couldn't sleep. I said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I just would appreciate it if you could wait with making the coffee till 6:00 since I really need

this last hour of sleep because of work." Adding to why I need my sleep is that I have epilepsy, which gets really bad when I don't get enough. I usually get a lot of seizures when I don't get at least four hours of sleep. I knew that I would probably get seizures at work now, meaning that this day would be both stressful and potentially dangerous for me, since there's a huge risk that I might fall and hurt myself. It's not a good thing to get cramps and seizures among mentally unstable criminal clients who you're supposed

to care for. I know that it's not an ideal situation to work in that field with my condition, and I can inform you that I did quit after only six months. She said that she really wanted coffee with her cigarettes but that she would try to wait the next time I have to work. I accepted it, and I went on with my day, but things didn't get better. She continued to wake me up early in the morning and through the nights and continued to promise to stop but insisted that she really wanted coffee with her

cigarettes. I suggested making the coffee the night before or drinking iced coffee or Coke instead, but she didn't want that. I may add that she demanded for me to be silent at 10 p.m. because that's when she wanted to sleep, and I respected that. She used to get these moments of binge eating, where she would empty my fridge and pantry of everything I had. I remember this one time when I had bought a big loaf of bread, and she texted me 30 minutes after I left the apartment saying, "Hey, I'm sorry I ate your loaf

of bread. I'll buy another one once I get money." Like, an entire loaf of bread in 30 minutes? I had told her when she moved in to feel at home and that what's mine is yours, so I couldn't really get mad, but it started to annoy me for two reasons: It was getting kind of expensive, since it was such huge amounts, and it was always at inconvenient times of the day, like after an evening shift when the store was closed, and I came home hungry, and she had emptied the kitchen of everything I had bought

that same day. Em had long black hair that was everywhere— all over the sink, the floor, the bathtub. I'm no clean freak, but I think anyone could understand that this isn't the nicest thing to step in or see everywhere in your house. She also left her fingernails and toenails on the bathroom floor, even pee drops on the toilet seat every time she had been to the toilet. I even saw silverfish on my bathroom floor. I had never seen one before that, and I eat hair and skin and nails, so I figured this fellow probably enjoyed

life because of the new dirty condition my bathroom was in. At first, I didn't want to say it straight out because I thought I would hurt her, and I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. So, I just put a broom and a shovel in the bathroom to imply that we needed to sweep the floor more often, but this didn't seem to work. After a while, I told her, in the nicest way possible, with a smile on my face even, "Do you think we could try to clean the floor in the bathroom more often? We tend

to lose some hair when we brush it, and I'm afraid we may get pests. I saw a silverfish the other day and I don't want to get it worse." I even always made sure to say "we" instead of "you" so she wouldn't feel attacked. She promised to think about it, but nothing changed. I then started dating a guy, and I was head over heels for him. He was also in a roommate situation, so we had a tough time getting any alone time together. I asked Em if there was any chance that we could get one

night to ourselves every now and then in the apartment, that she, of course, would get the apartment to herself as well, but she didn't like the idea and claimed that she had nowhere to go—no friends or family. Now, I wasn't asking her to leave for 24 hours, just a few hours so we could get some quality time together. She could just go to the library or take a walk or something. I was at work for 8 to 10 hours, 5 days a week, so she had a lot of time to herself. One of our old

co-workers realized that this was really tearing at my mood—never getting any time for myself—and I started feeling really suffocated. She offered that Em could stay the night at her place. After all, they were friends too. Em said she didn't want to bother her, but we told her that she didn't, and they are friends, so she... was more than welcome, and that I really just wanted one night to myself and my man. I didn't understand why she made such a big deal over leaving me in the apartment for just one night. She eventually accepted and spent

the night there, and I spent the night away the next week so she could get more alone time too. When I came home the next morning from my night away, I saw that my cat's water bowl was completely dried out. There was no spill on the floor; it looked like he had been wiped out with a towel or paper. I had filled it to the brim just the night before, so I asked her how this was possible, and she said that the cats must have tipped it out. But, like I said, there was nothing on

the floor. My cats are overly social and usually cuddle up with strangers even after just a few minutes of knowing them. I noticed that the cats withdrew from her more and more over time, and in the last couple of weeks, they never left my bedroom except for when they ate or used the litter box. It seemed like they were scared of her, which I couldn't figure out since she was so timid. I had this old saucepan from the '60s that meant a lot to me. You probably wonder how a saucepan can mean a lot to

someone, but it was my grandmother's, and it's the only thing I have that belongs to her. My mother used to cook for me with it when I was little, so it has great nostalgic value to me. She burnt it one day and made no attempt to clean it; she just left it on the stove and went out to smoke. I found it ruined, and I cried. She didn't even say sorry. She also broke dishes several times and didn't bother to replace them or apologize. This added to my frustration with her. Naturally, it had probably been

two months now, and she kept waking me up at night, kept binge eating my food, never cleaned, never left the house, scared my cats, and ruined my things. I also realized that she stole my prescription sleeping pills—lots of them. I only get one per night, not more or less, and as you already know, I really need them. I had 20 of them in a nightstand when I left for work. When I came home, they were gone. She denied it, which is pretty hilarious since no one else could have been there. My frustration was getting heavy;

the summer heat was strong, and I felt locked up in my tiny bedroom with my two cats, never getting any time to myself, never any time alone with the guy I was dating except for once every 14th day. My apartment was messy, and she was stealing from me out of nowhere. My old elementary school classmate texted me on Facebook, asking me how I knew M, yet he had seen that I had posted on Facebook that we were roommates now. I told him that we were old co-workers and that she needed a place to stay because

she got evicted. He said, "I know. Do you know why she was evicted?" I said, "Yeah, she accidentally went into her neighbor's apartment." He said, "Yeah, but that's not the full story. She actually broke in and snuck up to their sleeping baby with a knife in her hand, but luckily the father woke up and wrestled her down and managed to save the baby." I felt sick to my stomach. Could this be true? It would certainly explain why she was evicted, but it just sounded so horrible, and she seemed so timid and like a nice girl.

I just had so many questions, but my friend had the full police report. Apparently, the couple that Em had broken into was his ex-girlfriend and her family. It seemed that Em had a psychosis during the break-in, but those parts weren't public. It was, however, clear to me that she had been lying to me about what had happened and about how long she had been mentally stable. I started getting quite paranoid, and I was already frustrated with everything. Really, I just wanted her to move out. We did, however, have a contract that she had 30 days'

notice. I knew that if I asked her in a harsh way, it would mean 30 days of chaos until she moved out, so I wanted to handle this as nicely as I could. I started looking for cheap hostels for her that I could suggest so she wouldn't be on the streets. I sat down with her and told her that I loved living with her and that I felt really horrible for this, but I just missed my alone time and that the apartment is too small for two people. I said it wasn't personal and that I

wouldn't want to live with anyone right now, that I wish it would have worked out, that I'm really sorry, and I hope we will still remain friends. She looked absolutely crushed and said that it wasn't possible. I showed her the hostel I found and said that I understood that it wasn't the ultimate situation, but I really needed her to move out because I felt suffocated, and also, with the summer heat, it was just making it too tough to always have the door to the bedroom closed and that it was too tough for me to not

get my sleep. She finally said okay, and she said she was going to try to move out, but not until 30 days had passed, and I said of course. The first night after our talk, she got up and made her coffee at 2:30 a.m. I nearly had a mental breakdown. I was going to get up. At 6:00, I couldn't go back to sleep. I asked her in the morning, for probably the tenth time, to not make coffee until I got up, but she didn't even answer me; she just sat on the sofa and stared out

the window. I said, "M," and she kept staring. I was freaked out but left for work. She continued being weird, kept making a mess, and kept waking me up. She kept eating my food, and all I could think about was the incidents with her, the baby, and the knife. I eventually got so mad about being woken up by the coffee maker that I unplugged it and stored it in my attic, which she had no access to. It may be childish, but I was getting so tired. By this time, my sleeping pills were stolen, and I

was starting to feel like Edward Norton in the beginning of *Fight Club*. Well, the next night, I woke up at 4:00 a.m. by making coffee in a saucepan—not my grandmother's saucepan; that one was ruined. I tried talking to her again, explaining the situation, but she just stared and didn't reply. Me, being frustrated and on the tipping point, took the saucepan and stored it in the attic as well. I know, I know, but I was going crazy, and I just wanted her to stop with these nightly coffee routines and just get the hint. The third night,

I had the guy I was dating sleeping at our place because I was getting really paranoid over her weird behavior—her not speaking with me and staring into space. I woke up from my very light snooze by him poking me. He whispered, "Look in the doorway." M was just standing silently, staring at us. This was like a scene from a horror movie, with her long black hair over her face. I kid you not, I didn't say anything at first because I wanted to know if she was just standing there for a second, doing something by the

door, but I realized after a while that she was actually just standing there, still staring at us. It reminded me of the ending of *Paranormal Activity* when Katie just stares at Micah in the final scene. So, I sat up and said, "What are you doing?" but before I could finish the sentence, she just slammed the door shut. I heard the sound of something metal falling on the floor and her running into the living room. I yelled out, "You need to leave!" and started crying hysterically because this was turning into a nightmare. Of course, I didn't

go back to sleep, and I was really happy that I had company that night. I just kept asking myself, had she done this before—stared at me in my sleep? The next day, when I got out of bed, I opened the door that she had slammed shut and saw a kitchen knife on the floor. So, that was the metal sound I had heard before she ran off. I took all of my knives and locked them in the attic as well. I then asked a friend of mine to come to my house and be here when I

tell her that she has to move out immediately—that I can't wait 30 days, 27 days now. During the conversation, I really tried to stay calm. I know she has a mental illness; I know she means no harm. Even though I was so frustrated, I couldn't hate her; I was mostly scared and tired. She, however, didn't even answer when I talked to her; she just kept staring out the window. She left the apartment and sent me a text instead, saying that I was disrespectful for bringing a friend over to her place. Nighttime came, and I thought

this would be a quiet night—finally no coffee maker or saucepans. But at 3:00 a.m., I woke up to her burning dry coffee powder in her frying pan. At that moment, I just felt so terrified of her. Her face was dead, and her eyes were black. I suspected that she had gone into a psychosis. I stopped the fire, and she just ran off to the living room in silence. I knew she had an appointment with her psychiatrist the next day, and while she was away, I packed all of her things. I then sent her a text

telling her that she needs to pick them up and give me my keys back—that I will give her money for a hostel for the upcoming 26 days—but she didn't reply. The guy I was seeing came to keep me company in case she would fight about it. She didn't; she left the keys without looking at us. Our co-workers, who were friends with us both, told me that she moved in with the guy she was dating and stayed there for a few weeks until she somehow, amazingly, got an apartment of her own. She started working again, and

I was really happy to hear this. She seemed to be doing well. Then, in January of this year, one of our old co-workers told me that M had called her and said that everything must burn; that she has a baby that she must save, and other delusional stuff. M had then proceeded to burn her entire apartment down because the voices in her head were telling her that she had to burn everything to save her friends and family. Her neighbors had tried to rescue her from the fire, but she had fought them off and ran back,

pouring liquor on the fire to make it burn more. She was arrested and sentenced last week for aggravated arson; she will serve her time in a mental institution or prison for a long time, possibly forever. What's ironic... Is that she will probably be in the facility where I used to work and end up where she used to work herself. My old coworker was a witness at the trial, and apparently, she had stopped taking her medication because she thought that it made her feel numb, and she thought she was stable enough to function without it— but

apparently not. She also had stopped taking her medication the last few weeks when she stayed at my house, so when she stared blankly into space, she was going into psychosis. When she stared at me with a knife in her hand and when she burnt the frying pan that last night, it's disturbing to think about what would have happened to me and my cats if she had stayed or if I had been a heavy sleeper. I also think about what would have happened to that baby that she snuck in before she was evicted, and yeah, I

know it's crazy that I didn't just throw her out by then, but it was complicated. The reason why I haven't been able to talk about it with my friends is because they sympathize with her, and they have minimized my experience, and they think that I made a bigger deal out of it than I believe it has been. I sort of understand it since they have never seen that darkness in their eyes that I saw those last couple of days. About five months ago, a friend of mine got expelled from his program because of bad marks.

He was only halfway through his lease, and he didn't see a point in staying in the city since he was only there for school. He told me that if I wanted to take over his lease as a subletter, he'd only charge me half of the rent, which I thought was a pretty sweet deal. So naturally, although I am from this town, I thought it was time to leave my parents' place. I had already graduated, and although I had been looking for a new job for a while, I still felt like I couldn't miss out on

the opportunity. So I took over his lease, and I moved into his place. The house itself is actually pretty nice; it has three floors, including the basement, and it's located near the university in my town, which is not necessarily a very safe place overall. However, I spent a lot of my university years here, and I never felt truly unsafe. The room in the basement is pretty small but cozy, and the other room down here is occupied by a girl who is currently a student, and she's pretty quiet, actually. All the girls living here are pretty

good roommates. I wasn't thrilled about living with three girls, but now I don't see why I would have thought it was an issue— they were all pretty great and a good time. I'm the only one in the house who is not a student and the only one who is originally from this town. The other roommates are all from cities; they're all about an hour or two away at most, so unless there's something special going on, they all go home on the weekends. My friend who got expelled also only lives two hours away, so he would

always go home for the weekend as well. One thing I forgot to mention, which is pretty crucial to the story, is that the house actually has five rooms, but right when they all moved into the new place together, one of the girls had a seizure on her bed and passed away. This was pretty upsetting for everyone, and the landlord told them not to worry about finding anyone else. The rent never went up or anything, and the room was left vacant. According to the landlord, he just found it insensitive to try to find someone because he

didn't want to turn someone's death into a financial inconvenience for him. So after the girl's death, her parents came and took her belongings out of the room, and it just remained empty since then. I actually never looked in there because it just remained locked, and I don't really have much curiosity to see the room. It's on the second floor, and I never go up there, so I never paid any attention to it. The first weekend I spent there was pretty uneventful. I remember that I spent one night at my boyfriend's place, and then the next

night he slept over after we were out drinking at one of the college bars near the place. We were pretty wasted, so we passed out as soon as we got home. The next weekend I was at home in my new room, and I couldn't sleep, so I decided to read a little bit. I was really enjoying the quietness of this new house since the girls weren't home at all. I come from a Latino family, so this quiet and serene environment was pretty rare. I thought that I heard a few noises upstairs, so I figured that

one of the girls had probably decided to stay the weekend at the house, or she was just getting last minute things ready before heading home. I really didn't think much of it; I wasn't very close with the roommates, and I didn't even bother asking them if any of them had stayed home. I just felt like it was none of my business. The girl in the basement, however, was for sure gone for the weekend because she apparently sleeps with her door locked and keeps it open when she's not home. One weekend that same month, I woke

up to pee, and I could hear a toilet flushing upstairs, which was kind of weird since I knew that none of the girls were supposed to be home. I was going to check it out... My tired state, I was too lazy, and I just didn't care enough. It's funny—horror movies are supposed to make you feel paranoid, but the biggest lesson I got from them was that there's always a rational explanation for things. This would prove to be my biggest mistake because, for a couple of months, I was always brushing things off and ironically creating irrational

explanations to rationalize what I thought were irrational thoughts. For example, I heard creaking coming from the second floor, and I figured one of the girls must have forgotten something and decided to come by to pick it up. The girl must have driven two hours down and two hours back to town in the middle of the night to pick something up. One Saturday, I woke up to get some water, and I noticed that the roommate in the basement was gone. Her door was wide open, and her car was not in the driveway. There weren't any cars

in the driveway, but I should mention that one of the girls doesn't drive. A couple of hours later, I woke up because I heard steps coming down into the basement. At this point, I yelled out the girl's name—who doesn't drive—because she's the only one who could have been in the house. I didn't get a reply, and I just heard the steps going back upstairs. At this point, I started getting uneasy about being home on weekends, so I decided to just spend them at my boyfriend's house. One of the girls made a house Facebook page, which

was supposed to address any issues like washing dishes or leaving messes, but it remained pretty inactive since everyone seemed to get along. I posted on there that some creepy stuff was happening on weekends, and I asked them if they could start just letting me know if they'd been home for the night or not. They seriously thought I was joking around. The replies were not receptive at all and consisted of “laugh my ass off” or “oh my God, you're so funny.” Even my boyfriend agreed that I was being paranoid because he too believed that everything has

a rational and perfect explanation. The thing is, when you say that everything has an explanation, you're only invalidating paranormal explanations or ghostly activity, which is not what I am implying at all. I have never believed in ghosts or spirits or any of that jazz, and I have never claimed to. When I spoke to my roommates or to my boyfriend, they kept on saying that the house was old and made noises, but I know the difference between old house noises and someone walking down the stairs and back up the stairs. Fortunately, my roommates did start posting

things on the Facebook page to let me know that they'd be gone. It was always to the effect of, “Hey, lol! I won't be home this weekend, so don't worry about the ghosts.” One weekend, they all let me know that they would not be home, and my boyfriend was on the midnight shift, so I had to spend the night on my own. My boyfriend called me on his break, and while I was on the phone with him, I heard noises on the main floor. I told him I was going to check it out, and he

told me to go ahead because he still thought I was being paranoid. As I said this, I heard the footsteps going back up to the second floor. Once I got into the main floor, there was nobody in the kitchen, and all the doors in the house were locked. I was extremely paranoid, and I did not feel safe. My boyfriend called me down and convinced me that everything was okay, so I never went to the second floor, and it's probably best that I stayed on the main floor. After that weekend, I told my roommates in all

seriousness that I was convinced that someone had been in our house at some point that night. I told them what I heard, and they still claimed that it was the old house making noises. My boyfriend was almost permanently on midnights by now, so I did what I never wanted to do, and I started spending weekends at my parents' place. The girls still posted on the page whether or not they were leaving the house, and I decided that I should still do the same, so I always started posting when I was and was not sleeping at

the house. One Friday night, the Facebook page looked something like this: Roommate 1: Not sleeping at home. Roommate 2: Not sleeping at home. Roommate 3: Staying at home because of midterm exams. Me: I'm staying at my parents' place. The next morning, I received a frantic text from one of the roommates saying that the roommate with the midterms had been attacked. Apparently, she was in her room studying and heard a noise right outside of her bedroom. When she went out to inspect it, she was greeted by a man walking out of the dead girl's room. I

later found out more details about the whole thing from the roommate who was attacked. The man looked rough, with greasy hair and just a dirty face. When they made eye contact, he held his finger up to his mouth and uttered a "sh" while smiling. The nail on his finger was long, and his beard was apparently really scraggly and uneven, like it only grew on certain parts of his face. She screamed out of instinct, even though she knew there was nobody in the house. He lunged at her as she tried to shut the door, and she

wasn't beaten up too badly; he just growled and told her to shut her mouth and said something like, “I'm not going to molest you, but shut your mouth.” He beat her. But not completely unconscious. Then, when he walked out of her room, he went downstairs and walked out of the front door, so he left the dead girl's room unlocked. My roommate locked herself in her room and called the police, who were there immediately. What's pretty creepy about the whole thing is that when they inspected the dead girl's room, they kept asking for clarification: "So nobody

has lived in this room for how long? Nobody has been renting this room, right? Did the parents take everything after the girl passed away?" The guy had a really sweet setup, actually, and had brought his own small mattress to put over the bed frame. Obviously, the mattress was too small for the bed frame. He left most of his stuff because he probably didn't expect a confrontation that night. I don't think he knew she would be there that night because she never was. It probably sucked for him when I moved in because, before me, the bastard

had the whole house to himself two days a week. The police did ask me quite a lot of questions and were very interested in hearing my statement about hearing footsteps at night. My three roommates and my friend are now convinced that maybe the girl didn't die the way they said she did, and maybe he murdered her. But I think the autopsy would have been able to distinguish a murder from a seizure. In their defense, the whole thing is really creepy. We are not really sure how long the guy has been living here, but it's very

likely that it has been for at least a few months. The theory is that the guy has been climbing in through the window, so it's possible that he was even there at times when all of us were there. The police are really interested in talking to the landlord because they want to know how the man found out about the vacant room. The landlord is a pretty decent guy, so I don't know if there's anything going on there. I don't even feel an "I told you so" attitude from this whole thing. I think that I am

just glad that the girl is okay because she seemed pretty shook up. I just wished that more people were willing to listen to me when I told them that I thought somebody was coming into our home. I even said it might be a squatter, which everyone laughed at. This happened very recently, so it might be a while before an update. As of now, the man has not been found, but the police remain optimistic about finding him. This has been a terrible month for me, and I don't know if I want to be at this house

anymore. I don't have much left on the lease and I recently lost my job, so it might be best for me to leave the place now. I doubt the guy will come back because all of his stuff has been taken out, but I still find it feeling creepy in this house. I definitely don't spend weekends here anymore. I had been having problems with my dorm roommate since the beginning of the semester. She didn't shower or wash her clothes regularly, left dry Top Ramen noodles all over the floor for me to step on, never washed her

hands or flushed the toilet, and made sounds that resembled sex noises constantly. She showered with the door open, got water everywhere, and exhibited so many more things that I hated. Basically, every single pet peeve I had was embodied in this girl. At first, I blamed it on her not understanding American etiquette; she's a foreign exchange student from China. But things started to get creepy when I went home for the weekend a few weeks into the semester. I gave her a heads up that I would be gone. She did that weird "sex eye" again and looked

sad and betrayed at the same time, like I was doing something wrong by leaving her. She said something along the lines of, "Why are you leaving me? I don't like sleeping in the room by myself; I feel more comfortable with you here with me." Mind you, I only met this chick on move-in day and had only said a few words to her. I should have known to keep my guard up after that. Every once in a while, she would stare off into space longingly for half an hour. Sometimes I would catch her watching me study

out of the corner of my eye. After a long day of studying in the library, I went to the patio in our dorm to get some ice from the machine and found her with her head on a table, with her eyes wide open, staring at something in the distance. I think she scared off the guy I liked because he stopped coming around to see me once he found out she was my roommate. After she creeped me out so much, I started staying away from my dorm, only going to sleep and to grab things I needed.

She seemed like a nice person, but I couldn't live with her anymore. Today, I emailed my residential development that I wanted a room change. I told her that I wasn't comfortable living in my dorm anymore with this girl. I was sitting in my room while my roommate was out today when I heard a banging on the door. I was then greeted by two solemn-looking campus police officers and the RD of my building. They calmly asked me where my roommate was, but I had no idea. I told them her usual lurking spots and went back to

what I was doing. I knew something was off. I asked them what was up and they just ignored my question and asked where she might have been. The police officers at my campus are usually really pleasant-looking too, since there isn't much crime on my campus and they don't have much to do. Thirty minutes later, I hear banging on the door again. I'm greeted by my roommate, who has tears streaming down her face. She rushes past me to her bed and plops down. She starts wailing and screaming, and then eventually hyperventilating. I thought maybe someone close

to her died and felt sorry that I had asked for a room change during her time of need. I could only make out a few bits and pieces of what she was saying to the RD: “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! I promise I won't do it again!” Suddenly, she was right behind him, screaming, “Don't you dare go through my things! You think I'm going to harm my roommate? I wouldn't do that! That's just silly!” By then, the RD dragged me out of the room and told me what was going on. She got into a

big fight with her best friend—I didn't think she had any—and started sending her threatening emails. By this time, I was in complete shock. I just saw someone completely lose it right in front of me. She told me that she had received my room change request and was going to meet with me tomorrow. After my roommate calmed down a bit, I went into the room when the two RDs were talking to her to quickly pack a night bag. She apologized for acting so crazy, and I halfheartedly accepted. I grabbed my [___] and got out of there.

I was waiting in my dorm's common area for my friend to get back to her dorm when I realized I forgot a blanket. I went inside, thinking that someone was going to be in the room keeping an eye on her, but she was alone. She glared at me as I walked past her to grab my blanket. There was pure hatred in her eyes. “Where are you going?” I have never heard her use this tone of voice with anyone before; she was livid. “I'm going to stay with my friend for the night.” “Why? Because of me?”

I swear I saw smoke rising from the top of her head, and a vein in her forehead was about to burst. “Sleepover!” I said in the happiest tone I could muster. “You have a midterm on Friday!” “It's not completely untrue. I'm just glad I'm quick on my feet.” I got out of there and nearly ran to my friend's dorm. I talked to the RD once more, and there are no more rooms open in my housing complex. If I want to move to another complex, my parents would have to pay an extra $2,000. They are furious

and want me to move immediately because the police officer was incompetent; he jeopardized my safety by asking me that question in front of her. They don't want to pay for me to change rooms because it was my university's fault for putting me in this awkward situation. I'm just afraid that she is going to take this out on me. I don't think I can return to my dorm; she looked like she was out for blood when I came back. This happened years ago, but it still affects me to this day. I apologize for the length in

advance, but I feel like I have to tell the whole story. Summer after I graduated high school, I was still living at home. I was up late one night, packing for a camping trip with my friends. It was unbelievably hot, and I had the window open. As I sat and folded clothes, it was around 2:00 in the morning, and the next thing I knew, there was a hand coming through the gap in the screen of my window. I screamed, and the hand flew back out. I was stunned, but there was a part of me that

wondered if it was my younger brother pranking me. I got up and looked out the window, and I just saw the figure of a man staring back at me. I ran into my brother's room, and he was playing video games, so we called the police, who came and searched the area. They found nothing and warned me and my parents to lock the windows and doors before leaving. We were all shaken up, and my mom had a feeling that they would come back. It turns out that a mother's intuition is right. She went outside and waited

on our back porch. After about 20 minutes or so, she saw a man dressed in black slink into our backyard along the tree line. There wasn't a fence on that side, unfortunately. He hid behind a tree for a few seconds and then ran to another tree, making his way slowly towards my window. My mother yelled something to him, and he took off running. The police came back out and again found no trace of him. I never opened that window again—not even the curtains. My parents installed some motion-detecting lights, and that seemed to be the end

of that. About six months later, my friend and I got an apartment downtown together. We were really excited, as this was our first place on our own. The apartment wasn't exactly the best quality, but it was so fun to be living in the city. The downside was that it was street parking only. After a few weeks, my car was broken into. Nothing was taken out but a single rose sat on the passenger seat. It was creepy, but I vowed to be vigilant and safe. I always tried to park close to the entrance, near the lights,

but often it was difficult to get those spots, and I would often have to park farther away in darker areas. Streets. Things quickly began escalating. At this point, my car was broken into at least once a week. Most of the time, a flower was left, which I always threw on the ground. But once, a pair of men's underwear was left, and even more creepily, once a bag of Tootsie Rolls, as they were my favorite candy. This made me wonder if the person knew me personally, and I started to become more suspicious of everyone. There was

a laundry room in the basement of the apartment, and one day I went down to get a load that finished drying. As I started to fold, I realized all of my undergarments—bras and panties—were gone. Another week, I had a male friend over from school, and his tires got slashed during the visit. By the time the first letter arrived, I had already started making plans to move elsewhere. The letter described a love for me that had been going on for years. He noted things that proved he had been watching me closely. I was able to arrange

for another friend to take over my lease, and I moved in with another friend on the other side of the city. It was a secured building and had an underground parking garage that was only accessible to tenants. I felt much more secure, and the extra money spent was well worth the peace of mind. Things were quiet for a few months, but then my roommate got a boyfriend. Most of us were wary of Ashley's new boyfriend from the beginning. For one, they met on MySpace after he reached out to her. Another reason was that her new

boyfriend, Matt, was extremely good-looking, and while Ashley was a wonderful person, she just wasn't the type of person you would typically expect someone like him to date. Ashley was thrilled; she had never had a boyfriend and really felt like he was her prince charming. I thought he was weird and creepy from the beginning, though. Matt was on the quiet side and always seemed to be sporting an uncomfortable leering smile. It was difficult to carry on any sort of conversation with him because he would always make it weird with some random facts that were completely unrelated

to what we were talking about. I had deleted MySpace when the initial stalking began, but I created a dummy account to learn more about Matt. It didn't look like he really knew any of his friends in real life; there were only pictures of himself, and the rest of the information was vague. My friends and I gently tried to discourage her from seeing Matt. He technically hadn't done anything wrong, but he was just so strange. She would immediately get defensive and would shut the conversation down. Matt started to spend more time at the apartment, and I

found myself finding any excuse I could to avoid coming home. One day, I came home from work and found Matt on my couch alone, drinking a beer. Ashley had been called into work, and she told him that he could just hang out. I was furious because I didn't want to spend any time with him, so I grabbed a beer and a snack and headed off to my room and shut the door. About 30 minutes or so later, he knocked on my door and suggested that we watch some TV and get to know each other better

because we both loved Ashley. I didn't want to, but I decided that maybe I needed to give it a try. He put on a movie, and I tried to just focus on the movie because I didn't want to talk. At one point, I glanced over at Matt, and he was staring at me with a smile on his face. I snapped, "What?" at him, and he just continued smiling and said, "I just can't believe it." "Believe what?" I asked. He said nothing and went back to watching the movie, still smiling. I had no idea what he

was talking about, but the interaction had every hair standing up on my body. I excused myself and locked the door to my room. Another month or so went on, and I had managed to avoid being home for much beyond sleep and showering. Matt practically lived there and even brought a bunch of his things into Ashley's room. I really didn't want to move again, but I was beginning to look for other options. On their 6-month anniversary, I saw a huge bouquet of flowers on the table and an already open card propped up next to it. I

rolled my eyes, and I was about to leave when I decided to see what the weirdo wrote to her. When I opened the card, my heart started beating through my chest. Without even reading the words he wrote, I was shaking. The handwriting was exactly the same as the one my stalker had sent. I had kept them as evidence and dug them out of my desk for comparison. The handwriting was unique and identical. Matt was my stalker. I called the police first; as they were on the way, I called Ashley and asked her to come over.

She was at work but said she would be there when she could. I was terrified to tell her because I knew she would be shattered. The police took a statement from me and actually went to Ashley's work to get more information from her, and they ended up breaking the news. Apparently, Ashley called Matt and left a furious message, even though the cops told her not to do that or say anything, and he completely disappeared after that. There was no Matt or anyone matching his resemblance at the place he said he worked. Ashley had never been

to his apartment because he said he had been staying with friends while trying... To save money for a trip to Europe, his family lived out of state, and she had never met a friend of his because he said they had a falling out, since he was choosing to spend so much time with Ashley. It was all lies, and in the end, she was dating a stranger. We didn't even know if that was his real name. The cherry on top of this whole thing was when we went through Matt's things; he had left everything when he

disappeared. Ashley and I started to go through everything. There was a duffel bag that was full of gym clothes, but in one of the compartments, there were about ten pictures of me, all taken from far away, with the exception of one of me sleeping. The sheets were current, so I knew I had to have been at the current apartment before I started locking my bedroom door. A few pictures dated back to before the incident at my parents' house, which made us think that was him as well. Two pairs of my missing underwear were there, and

I shuddered to think of what he did with the rest: a Starbucks cup with my red lipstick marks, a necklace I hadn't even noticed missing, and a few other random sick souvenirs. The police never tracked him down. I decided to accept an opportunity overseas that I had been considering, and I got the hell out of there. Unfortunately, Ashley and I quickly drifted apart; she had a really hard time accepting that her first love was a complete psycho. I think I had some underlying anger—maybe misplaced—for believing all of his lies and letting him into our lives.

I don't know what his endgame was: would he have tried to hurt me, or was he simply content with being in my world? I'll never know. Being stalked changes you; even when I lived across the world, I still looked over my shoulder everywhere I went. I still have no social media accounts attached to my real name. I am now married with children, and I know that he moved into an apartment, and I know that he's probably torturing other women now. But every time I visit my hometown, I am tense and keep a low profile. Part

of me will always worry that Matt will resurface again. [Music]