One Sunday, I came home from the farmer’s market and found my neighbor, Dennis, in my kitchen, eating cereal like he lived there.
“Door was unlocked,” he said, smiling, then offered to make my coffee. My coffee. In my house.
I soon noticed something in his pocket: my spare house key. How long had he been inside without me knowing?
Then came the notes: on my trash bin, back gate, and even my bathroom mirror: Looking out. Always.
I installed cameras. A week later, Dennis was caught creeping in at 3:42 a.m., smiling at the camera. Then a note under a garden gnome: You can’t keep me out. Not really. I filed a restraining order.
Three weeks later, a neighbor saw him trying to pry open my window. Police found gloves, duct tape, a flashlight—and a lock of my hair. At his house, they discovered photos of me and a notebook titled “Our Life”, full of imagined conversations, grocery lists, and baby names.
I cried for days. Later, his niece explained he had serious mental health struggles. He wasn’t evil—but he needed help.
I upgraded my cameras, got closer to my neighbors, and kept the creepy notebook—not as a trophy, but as a reminder.
The lesson? Trust your instincts. Protect your space. Speak up. “Helpful” can hide something far darker.
