I woke up at 3 a.m., the house buried in that heavy silence you only hear at night. My throat was dry, so I slipped out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Passing my son’s room, I heard his voice—clear, familiar—“Mom, can you turn off the light?” Without thinking, I reached in and flicked the switch. The room fell dark. I didn’t even glance inside.
I was almost asleep again when the thought slammed into me—my son wasn’t home. He’d left for a three-day camping trip. My chest tightened, my heart hammering so loud it drowned out the quiet. I told myself I was tired, maybe dreaming, but my skin was prickling now, every instinct screaming something was wrong.
I forced myself to go back. The door was still half open, the air inside cold and stale. Moonlight stretched across the bed, catching the wrinkles in his sheets. I stepped inside slowly, scanning the room. It smelled faintly of sweat and something sour, like unwashed clothes. My pulse was so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Then I noticed it—the closet door wasn’t closed all the way. My son always shut it completely. I reached for the handle, my hand shaking, and pulled it open. In the shadows, a man crouched low, knees pressed to his chest, staring straight at me. His lips moved just enough to whisper, “Shh.” For a split second, I couldn’t move. Then he lunged past me and tore down the hallway, his footsteps pounding into the dark. I slammed my bedroom door, locked it, and grabbed my phone. My hands shook so badly I could barely dial 911. Within minutes, red and blue lights flashed outside, but the officers never found him. They told me he’d probably been hiding in the house for hours… maybe longer.