Intrusion 3 -

The first was a thief—crude, violent, all adrenaline and shattered glass. He took the television and left a smear of blood on the curtain. The second was a ghost (or so I told myself), a draft that moved pictures on the wall and left faucets dripping.

When I finally dared to read it, there was no threat. No ransom. Just a single, handwritten line: intrusion 3

It didn’t break the window. It didn’t kick the door. That would have been a relief. The first was a thief—crude, violent, all adrenaline

I live alone. And my name is not Sarah.

“You left the back door unlocked again, Sarah.” When I finally dared to read it, there was no threat

Then, the worst part: he didn’t enter. He simply slid a single piece of paper under the crack of the door. I watched the white rectangle slide across the moonlight like a tongue.

The third intrusion came at 3:17 AM, not with a crash, but with the soft click of a key that shouldn’t have worked. I lay frozen, listening to the floorboards in the hallway confess their secrets one by one. Creak. Pause. Creak.