For months, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

It started subtly—small sounds upstairs late at night, even though I live alone. I chalked it up to old pipes, the house settling. Then, yesterday, I came home and found my living room rearranged.

I panicked. Called the police. They searched every corner and found nothing. As they were about to leave, one officer turned and asked, “Ma’am, have you had any contractors in your home recently?”

That question chilled me to the bone.

Six months earlier, I’d hired a man named Rainer to install new windows upstairs. Quiet, courteous—maybe a bit too courteous—but nothing seemed off at the time. He did his job, got paid, and left. Or so I thought.

The police couldn’t act without evidence, but they suggested I install security cameras. I put one at every entrance and a discreet one in the hallway near the attic.

Three nights later, I got a motion alert at 3:12 a.m.

What I saw made my blood run cold.

A man, tall and dressed in black, emerged silently from the attic hatch. He walked to the kitchen, drank orange juice straight from the bottle, then crept back upstairs.

It was him.

Police returned immediately. This time, they found the attic hatch slightly open. Inside: blankets, protein bars, a flashlight, and a burner phone. He’d carved a hidden access point during the renovations and had been living above me for six months—sneaking out when I left, when I slept, even when I showered.

But it didn’t stop there.

The burner phone held hundreds of photos—of me walking my dog, grocery shopping, scrolling in my car. Many were dated before the renovation.

This wasn’t a break-in. It was a long-term stalking operation.

Rainer wasn’t even his real name. He was Ellis Druen—a drifter with a record of stalking and burglary. He’d used fake credentials and moved from town to town, avoiding serious consequences. In a nearby city, another woman had filed a similar complaint a year ago—dismissed for “lack of evidence.”

This time, the evidence was undeniable. He was arrested and charged with unlawful surveillance, stalking, and breaking and entering.

But even after the arrest, the hardest part began: learning how to feel safe again.

I couldn’t sleep at home for weeks. I stayed with my cousin Siara. When I finally came back, I repainted the walls, rearranged furniture, and adopted a big, bark-happy rescue dog named Mozzie. I also got to know my neighbors—especially Mrs. Fern, who never misses a thing and means it when she says she’ll keep an eye out.

The experience taught me that safety is never something to take for granted.

I used to feel silly for being cautious. Now I know—your gut is often your first and best defense.

So if something feels off? Trust yourself. Ask questions. Get the cameras.

Because I wasn’t paranoid.

I was right.

And that realization may have saved my life.