I’m twenty-three, work as a barista in Brisbane, and I live alone in a ground-floor unit about fifteen minutes from the city center. It’s not much—just a one-bedroom with dodgy plumbing and paper-thin walls—but the rent’s cheap and it’s mine. I’m telling you this because I need you to understand that what happened wasn’t some elaborate prank or misunderstanding. This was real, and to this day, I still can’t sleep with my bathroom door open.
It was a Thursday night in February, stupid hot even after sunset. I’d finished a closing shift at the café and gotten home around eleven, sweaty and exhausted. All I wanted was a cold shower and sleep. I should have known something was off the moment I unlocked my door.
The flat smelled different. Not bad, exactly, but wrong. Like someone had been standing in my living room, breathing my air. I mean, I’d left the windows shut because of the heat, so maybe it was just stuffy. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and headed straight for the bathroom. The tiles felt cool under my feet as I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to run cold. That’s when I heard it—a soft thump from somewhere in the unit. Like something being set down carefully.
I froze, one hand on the shower tap.
“Hello?” My voice sounded thin, pathetic.
Nothing.
Obviously, I was just paranoid. Living alone does that sometimes, you know? Every creak becomes an intruder, every shadow a threat. I stripped down and stepped into the shower, letting the water wash away the day’s grime and my stupid anxiety.
About ten minutes later, I turned off the water and reached for my towel. That’s when I heard it again—footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps moving through my living room.
I felt my heart drop into my stomach.
“Is someone there?” I called out, wrapping the towel around myself with shaking hands.
The footsteps stopped.
I stood there dripping, listening so hard my ears hurt. The silence felt thick, wrong. Then I heard my bedroom door creak open. Someone was definitely in my flat.
My phone was in my bedroom. On my nightstand. Right where this person was.
I locked the bathroom door as quietly as I could, hands trembling so badly I could barely turn the lock. It’s one of those old button locks—the kind you can probably pick with a bobby pin—but it was all I had. I pressed my ear against the door, listening.
More footsteps. Closer now. Moving down the hallway toward the bathroom.
I backed away from the door, nearly slipping on the wet tiles. My mind raced through options. The bathroom window was too small to climb through. There was no other exit. I was trapped in a two-meter-square room with nothing but a towel and a growing sense of absolute terror.
The footsteps stopped right outside the bathroom door.
I held my breath, watching the door handle. Waiting for it to turn. My whole body was shaking now, and I couldn’t tell if it was from cold or fear. Probably both.
Then I heard breathing. Someone was standing right there, just centimeters away, breathing on the other side of my bathroom door.
“I know you’re in there.” The voice was male, soft, almost conversational. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”
My legs nearly gave out. I grabbed the edge of the sink to steady myself, pressing my other hand over my mouth to keep from making any sound.
“We don’t have to make this difficult,” he continued. The door handle rattled once, testing it. “Just open the door.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
He tried the handle again, harder this time. Then he started pushing against the door, and I watched in horror as the thin wood began to flex inward with each shove. That flimsy button lock wasn’t going to hold.
I did the only thing I could think of—I braced my back against the sink and pressed both feet against the door as hard as I could. My wet feet kept slipping on the tiles, but I pushed harder, using every bit of strength I had.
He slammed against the door. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
The silence that followed was somehow worse than the attack. I stayed pressed against the door, muscles screaming, too terrified to move. Minutes crawled by. Five. Ten. Twenty.
Was he still there? Waiting for me to give up?
I don’t know how long I stayed like that—maybe an hour—before I heard something else. A scraping sound from my bedroom. Then my window sliding open. Then nothing.
I waited until the sky started turning grey before I finally, carefully, unlocked the bathroom door. My legs had gone numb from bracing against it all night. The flat was empty, but my bedroom window was wide open, curtains billowing in the early morning breeze.
He’d come in through that window. I’d forgotten to lock it before work.
My phone was still on my nightstand, untouched. Nothing was stolen. Nothing was disturbed except that open window and the faint muddy footprints on my carpet—footprints that led from my window to my bathroom door and back again.
I moved out the next week. Didn’t even finish out my lease. I couldn’t stay there, couldn’t even pack my things without looking over my shoulder every five seconds. My new place is on the fourth floor with deadbolts on every door and bars on the windows.
But sometimes, late at night when I’m getting ready for bed, I’ll pause outside my bathroom door and remember that voice. I know you’re in there. And I’ll remember those footprints, and how close he came to getting through that door.
Looking back, I realize how lucky I was. That cheap button lock shouldn’t have held. But it did. Just barely.
I still can’t shower without the bathroom door wide open, and I check every window lock three times before bed. My flatmate thinks I’m paranoid.
Maybe I am. But I’m alive.
