For months, I had the eerie feeling that someone was watching me.
I also started hearing faint noises upstairs late at night—odd, considering I live alone.
Then, yesterday, I came home and found my living room completely rearranged.
Panic set in, and I called the police. They searched the house top to bottom, but found nothing unusual.
Just as they were about to leave, one officer paused and asked, “Ma’am, have you recently had any contractors or repair workers in your home?”
That question sent a chill down my spine.
I had.
About six months ago, I hired a man named Rainer to install new windows upstairs. He’d been quiet, polite—maybe too polite. I didn’t think much of it at the time. He did the job, got paid, and left. But now, that’s when everything had started to feel… off.
The officers told me there wasn’t much they could do without evidence, but they strongly suggested installing security cameras. So I did—front door, back door, hallway, and one discreetly pointed toward the upstairs staircase.
That night, I barely slept. Every creak in the house made my heart race.
Three nights later, I got my answer.
At 3:12 a.m., I received a motion alert from the hallway camera.
I held my breath and opened the clip.
And there, clear as day, was a man emerging from the attic.
He moved slowly—like this wasn’t the first time. He was tall, dressed in black, and totally at ease.
He tiptoed into the kitchen, opened my fridge, drank orange juice straight from the bottle, and casually went back upstairs.
I was frozen with terror.
I called the police again. This time, they responded immediately. They found the attic hatch slightly open. Inside, nestled between old boxes and insulation, was a makeshift setup: blankets, protein bars, a flashlight… and a burner phone.
It was him. Rainer.
He had secretly carved out an entrance into the attic during the window installation—and had been living there ever since.
Six months.
Six months of me thinking I was imagining things.
He knew my schedule, my habits, even what was in my fridge. He came down while I was gone, while I showered—maybe even while I slept.
But it got worse.
On the burner phone were hundreds of photos of me—some taken inside the house, others outside. Walking my dog. Shopping. Sitting in my car.
Many of them were months old. Taken long before he ever worked on my house.
That’s when it all shifted from creepy to horrifying.
He hadn’t just invaded my home—he’d been watching me for a long time.
And I wasn’t the first.
Turns out, “Rainer” was a fake name. His real name was Ellis Druen, and he had a long history of stalking and theft. He used forged credentials to land handyman jobs, slipping past background checks. In a nearby town, a woman filed a similar report last year—but it was dismissed for lack of evidence.
He’s behind bars now, facing multiple charges—breaking and entering, stalking, illegal surveillance.
But here’s what no one prepares you for: how hard it is to feel safe again.
Even after changing the locks, installing alarms, and upgrading my security, I couldn’t sleep in my own home. I stayed with my cousin Siara for weeks—just to breathe.
Eventually, I came back.
I painted the walls. Rearranged my furniture. I adopted a loud, lovable rescue dog named Mozzie. And I finally got to know my neighbors. Turns out Mrs. Fern across the street sees everything. And when she said, “I’ll keep an eye out,” I believed her.
We take our sense of safety for granted—until it’s ripped away.
I used to think that being overly cautious meant being paranoid.
Now I know there’s a difference. And if your instincts are telling you something’s wrong, listen.
Trust your gut. Double-check your surroundings. Don’t be afraid to ask questions or speak up—no matter how dramatic it might seem.
Because I wasn’t paranoid.
I was right.
And realizing that may have saved my life.
If this story made you pause, feel uneasy, or just think—please share it. It might be the reminder someone else needs, too.