I. THE PIZZA

I was twelve when my parents first trusted me enough to leave me home alone.

We lived in a town that felt protected by its own reputation—wide lawns, quiet streets, neighbors who waved. The kind of place where danger felt theoretical, something that happened elsewhere. My parents left me pizza money, a list of rules, and the promise they’d be back later that night.

To me, it was paradise.

Video games, a whole house to myself, and no bedtime. I ordered from Gianis, the pizzeria three blocks away. When the doorbell rang, I ran downstairs clutching the twenty-dollar bill like a grown-up.

The delivery driver was older than I expected. Scruffy beard. Glasses. Black trucker hat pulled low. As he handed me the box, he leaned slightly and asked, almost casually,
“You alone here?”

Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten. I lied and said my parents were on their way home. He stared past me into the dark house for a moment too long before leaving.

I ate my slices, wrapped the rest, went back upstairs.

Hours later—around eleven—the doorbell rang again.

I called out, “Mom? Dad?”
A man’s voice answered, calm and close.
“I need help. Can I use your phone?”

I didn’t open the door. I didn’t look through the window. I walked upstairs.

Then the banging started.

“Wait. Please. I need help.”

That’s when I knew he could see me. The outline of his head was visible through the glass above the door, perfectly still. Watching.

I ran to my parents’ room and called my mom. The moment I mentioned someone was at the door, her voice changed completely. She told me to lock myself in, stay quiet, and wait for the police.

Then I heard the gate open.

Footsteps inside the house.

Slow. Careful. Exploring.

I hid under the bed while someone walked through my home, tried the bedroom door, knocked softly—without saying a word—and then left.

When the police arrived, the back door was open. The window slid wide.

The only person who knew I was alone was the pizza guy.

We never proved it. No arrest. No evidence. But Gianis lost our business forever, and my parents never left me home alone again.

II. THE WOODS

Years later, my parents retired and built their dream house in North Idaho.

No neighbors. No streetlights. Just forest pressing in on all sides. The house was massive, beautiful, and isolated in a way that felt peaceful—until it didn’t.

One night, while my girlfriend and I watched a movie in the basement, I felt it. That sudden, irrational panic. Like being watched by something that didn’t care if I noticed.

I ignored it.

When I went downstairs to turn off the lights, I saw him.

A man standing outside the window.

Filthy clothes. Wild hair. A grin so wide it looked painful. He tapped a knife gently against the glass.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t threaten. He just watched.

My parents came home minutes later. My dad grabbed his rifle. The police found nothing. No footprints. No evidence.

But the tapping came back.

Night after night.

Metal on glass beneath my bedroom. Footsteps on the roof. My dog—silent by nature—growling at the door like something was truly there.

One winter night, crunching footsteps circled the house. A knock followed. Slow. Hollow.

The next morning, footprints ringed every window.

That night, when I saw him again, knife in hand, smiling up at me from the yard, I raised a shotgun and fired a warning shot. He backed into the trees slowly, never turning around.

I unleashed the dog.

I never saw him again.

But sometimes, when I wake up too suddenly, I swear I still hear tapping.

III. THE CABIN

Spring break, 2022.

Six of us rented a cabin in South Carolina. Cheap. Remote. Forest on all sides. The owner warned us not to wander too deep into the woods.

We laughed.

The first night was fun—music, drinks, fire pit. The woods were silent in a way that felt wrong, like sound had been swallowed whole.

At 4:15 a.m., I woke up to tapping on my window.

A man stood inches away, pale face pressed to the glass. Bare feet in the dirt. Wide eyes. No blinking. He tapped slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring my fear.

When my friend saw him, the man vanished.

Footprints circled the cabin the next morning. Bare. Human. Every window.

We should have left.

We didn’t.

The second night, we found him inside the cabin.

Naked. Scratched raw. Standing in front of the fridge like he didn’t know what it was.

Then he was gone.

The door wasn’t broken. Just open.

We left twenty minutes later.

The sheriff wasn’t surprised. The listing disappeared. The owner vanished.

None of us ever went back.

THE FINAL TWIST

What ties these stories together isn’t violence.

It’s restraint.

Each watcher didn’t rush. Didn’t force. Didn’t attack right away. They waited. Watched. Learned routines. Tested boundaries.

That’s the part that never leaves you.

Not the scream.

The patience.

Because monsters hide in shadows—but people hide in plain sight.

And sometimes, the scariest words you’ll ever think are the simplest ones:

Someone’s outside.