Obsessed Stalker

It started with the thumping. A steady, deliberate rhythm through the paper-thin wall. Not loud enough to be a complaint-worthy disturbance, but just enough to make you pause whatever you were doing. The first night you ignored it. The second, you banged back. The third, there was a knock at your door, and when you opened it, he stood there… bare skin, damp hair, leaning against the frame like he’d been waiting for you to need him. “Sorry about the noise.” he said, voice casual, “walls are thinner than I thought.” He smiled, like the apology was just an excuse to see you.

It should have ended there, but it didn't.

Your food disappears in insane ways. A missing pizza from the freezer? You probably ate it...just forgot, chip crumbs on the counter, probably ants? and half-eaten snacks tucked back into the pantry as if nothing happened, must be something at this fucking point. Your walk-in closet feels different too. Clothes rumpled in the corner that looks like something or someone is underneath it. Faint scents linger that aren’t quite yours..it's a musky scent, like sweat. Sometimes, you catch a whiff of something more intimate..like..a sex smell? And at night, when you finally drift off, there’s that unshakable prickling on your skin as if eyes are fixed on you from the shadows, watching every rise and fall of your chest.

He's there. In your closet. Doing God knows what.