The rain had teeth that night. It came down hard and fast, soaking through my coat before I even reached the bus shelter. The streetlights bled into the wet pavement, turning the world into a blurred smear of gold and black. I was exhausted - last one in the office again - and all I wanted was to get home, lock the door, and collapse on the sofa.
He was already there when I arrived.
At first I barely noticed him; just a shape slouched on the far bench of the shelter, his shoulders swallowed by a hood far too big for him. His coat looked like it had been dragged through years of rain and dust, and the way he sat—motionless, head angled down—made me assume he was just another drunk waiting for the last bus.
But the moment I stepped inside, he moved.
Not much. Just a small tilt of the head, enough for me to feel it: his attention shifting fully, entirely, onto me. I kept my eyes fixed on the glass, pretending not to notice.
That was when he spoke.
“You shouldn’t go home tonight.”
The voice was rough, low, like gravel poured across stone. It sliced through the noise of the rain, clean and sharp.
I blinked, turned to him slowly. “Sorry?”
His hood tilted back just enough to show pale skin, a jaw flecked with stubble, lips cracked like old parchment. He didn’t look drunk. He didn’t look mad. Just… steady.
“If you go home,” he said, “you won’t see tomorrow.”
My laugh came out thin, nervous. “Right. Okay. Sure.”
But the unease was already coiling in my chest. I tried to tell myself he was harmless, just another rain-soaked lunatic muttering prophecies to strangers. Yet his words clung to me, heavier than they should have been.
“Look,” I said, trying to sound firm, “whatever game you’re playing, I’m not interested.”
He leaned forward. In the flickering streetlight I saw his eyes—dark, sunken, but alert. Too alert.
“They’re already inside your flat,” he whispered. “Waiting. Don’t go back.”
The world seemed to narrow, my pulse drumming in my ears. “What did you just say?”
Without answering, he reached into his coat. My whole body tensed, ready to bolt, but he pulled out something small, metallic. He held it in his palm, trembling slightly as he offered it to me.
I stared.
My keys.
Not just any keys—my keys. The bent Tesco fob, the blue rubber cover on the front-door key, the little brass one for the letterbox. Every detail was right.
I stumbled back, my hand gripping the shelter’s frame. “How the hell did you—”
“I told you,” he said softly. “They’re already inside.”
The rain hammered louder against the roof, drowning out my thoughts. My mind raced—pickpocket? No, I’d had my bag the whole time. A trick? Impossible. These were mine.
Rage bubbled up to mask the fear. I snatched the keys from his hand. “Who are you? What kind of sick joke is this?”
His gaze never wavered. His voice was calm, too calm. “Someone who’s seen what comes next.”
Before I could demand more, the bus shuddered to a halt in front of us. The doors hissed open, warm light spilling onto the pavement. I spun toward it, then back at the man—
He was gone.
No footsteps, no splash of water retreating into the night. Just… gone.
The driver cleared his throat impatiently. Shaking, I climbed aboard.
The ride home blurred by. Every bump in the road jolted through me, every dark figure on the street seemed to turn its head as we passed. I gripped the keys so tightly the metal cut into my palm.
By the time the bus groaned to my stop, my throat was dry with dread. I told myself not to believe him. Just a lunatic. A coincidence. Nothing more.
But when I reached my building, my breath caught.
The front door was ajar.
Not wide—just enough to show darkness spilling out from the hall inside. Rain pooled on the tiles just beyond the threshold.
I stood there in the wet silence, my keys digging into my fist.
Maybe I’d left it open? Maybe the wind had blown it? Except the heavy door always slammed shut on its own. Always.
And then I saw them.
On the floor, glistening wet as if freshly dropped, lay another set of keys.
My spare set—the one I kept hidden in a little tin in the kitchen drawer.
The rain seemed to fade, the night falling deathly still. I backed away slowly, every instinct screaming not to step inside.
That was when the lights in the hallway flickered on.
Not all at once—just a slow, deliberate glow, one bulb after another, as though someone was walking through, pressing switches along the way.
I turned and ran.
I didn’t stop until I reached the next street, my lungs burning, my clothes plastered to me with rain. I stood there gasping, staring back at the black silhouette of my building, and knew with a cold certainty: someone was in my flat.
Someone who had my spare keys.
Someone the stranger already knew about.
I never went back that night. I didn’t even go back the next day. By the time I finally returned—with two police officers beside me—everything was as it should be. The door locked. The flat untouched. No sign of forced entry, no footprints, no proof. The spare keys were gone.
The officers shrugged, muttered about stress and overwork, and left.
But I know what I saw.
And sometimes, when I walk home late at night, I still feel it—that same certainty.
That they’re waiting.
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