Horror Stories - 3 Disturbing TRUE Craigslist Horror Stories That Will Shock You

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Starting point is 00:00:56 Please gamble responsibly. Monopoly is a trademark of Hasbro. Hasbro is not a sponsor of this promotion. Hello everyone and welcome back to horror stories. I know many of you use these episodes to fall asleep so before you drift off, I'd love it if you could leave a comment letting me know where you're listening from around the world. Also, don't forget to like and subscribe if you're enjoying the episodes. Story 1. All of this happened about three years ago when I was living in a small apartment complex in Riverside, California.

Starting point is 00:01:37 I was 24 years old at the time, working in a warehouse at a dead-end job. and like most people my age, I was always broke. My apartment was poorly furnished with a mix of inherited stuff and cheap things I had bought myself. The centerpiece of the living room was a truly awful love seat that the previous tenant had left behind. The fabric was stained. One of the springs was broken, and it smelled of stale tobacco. I hated it. For months I dreamed of getting a real couch, something I could stretch out on.

Starting point is 00:02:09 The problem was I couldn't afford one. So I did what any broke person does. I started digging around on Craigslist, specifically in the Free Stuff section. It was mostly a sea of junk, broken appliances, stained mattresses, and firewood. But I checked it religiously every day, hoping for a miracle. And then one Tuesday afternoon I saw it. The listing was simple titled Free Couch Pickup. The photo showed a large dark gray sectional.

Starting point is 00:02:39 It wasn't new, but it looked clean, modern, and a thousand. sometimes better than what I had. The description simply read, In good condition, no pets, non-smokers. Need gone this weekend, located in the Woodrest area. It was a bit far, maybe a 30-minute drive east in a more rural semi-developed part of the county where homes had more land. I didn't care. I replied immediately, saying I had a truck and could come that very night. In reality, I didn't have a truck, but my friend Mark did, and I knew I could borrow his in exchange for a couple pizzas and a six-pack. To my surprise, he responded in less than ten minutes. Tonight is perfect. Address is Eucalyptus Avenue. Text me when you're on your way.

Starting point is 00:03:25 My name's David. I was ecstatic. I called Mark and he agreed to lend me his old Ford Ranger. After work, I swung by his place, grabbed the keys, and headed toward woodrest as the sun was setting, painting the California sky in oranges and purples. The drive started off normal, but the further I got from the city, the more the scenery changed. Neat suburban streets gave way to winding two-lane roads with no streetlights. The houses became more spaced out, separated by dusty lots, horse properties, and orange groves. By the time I turned on to Eucalyptus Avenue, it was nearly dark. It wasn't so much a street as a long, poorly paved road with a few scattered houses hidden.

Starting point is 00:04:08 behind brush and chain link fences. My phone's GPS said I had arrived, but I had to creep along slowly, squinting at the faded numbers on the mailboxes to find the right spot. The address was set back from the road at the end of a long gravel driveway. It was a single-story ranch-style house that had clearly seen better days. The paint was peeling and the front yard was a mess of weeds, old car parts, and discarded furniture. A dim yellow light glowed from a window near the front door, The whole place gave me an odd feeling, but I figured maybe the guy was just messy. I had come this far. I wasn't leaving without the couch.

Starting point is 00:04:47 I parked the truck, headlights cutting through the darkness and illuminating the porch. And there it was, the gray sectional from the photo. It looked exactly the same. I pulled out my phone and texted the number from the email. Hey David, I'm here. I'm in the Ford Ranger. Almost immediately the front door opened with a creek, but it wasn't one man who stepped out. It was two.

Starting point is 00:05:13 Both were big guys, probably in their thirties, heavyset with shaved heads. One wore a dirty white t-shirt and jeans, the other a black hoodie. Neither smiled. You hear for the couch, the one in the t-shirt growled in a rough voice. Yeah, that's me, I said, trying to sound cheerful. Thanks a lot, man, you're saving me. He just nodded. I'm Dave.

Starting point is 00:05:39 This is my brother, Rick, the one in the hoodie, just stared at me silently, hands shoved in his pockets, expression vacant. Something about him felt deeply unsettling. Well, if one of you gives me a hand, maybe we can load it quick, I said, walking toward the porch. We both help, Dave replied. It wasn't an offer. It was a statement. They're heavier than they look. Something about the situation felt off, the way they positioned themselves, flanking the path to the porch, and how Rick never spoke, just watching me intently.

Starting point is 00:06:16 Still, I ignored the feeling. I was focused on the prize. Each of us grabbed a section of the couch. As I lifted my end, I noticed something strange. It was incredibly light, almost hollow. It didn't have the weight a sectional should. We carried it toward the truck, and then Dave spoke. again. Hey look, we put the cushions inside so they wouldn't get dirty. Can you give us a hand bringing them out? I hesitated. Ah, sure. Where are they? I asked. Just inside the door, he said, pointing toward the still open house. Takes two seconds. They set the couch down. With that, they both positioned themselves neatly between me and the truck, subtly blocking the path. My internal alarms went off. Why would they haul the couch out but leave the cushions inside? It didn't make sense.

Starting point is 00:07:11 I tried to laugh it off nervously. No worries, I'll just grab them myself. No problem. Dave's demeanor changed instantly. Whatever thin mask of neighborly friendliness he had was gone. His face hardened. No, he said flatly. We need you to help us. He stepped forward and at the same time Rick moved to my side. Suddenly I was trapped between them. I glanced toward the open door and saw nothing but darkness. A foul stench like rotting meat and chemicals drifted out and hit my stomach. In that moment I realized the couch was bait. The thought slammed into me like a punch. My brain went from awkward situation to life or death in an instant. Before I could react, Dave lunged and clamped down on my right arm with an iron grip. Simultaneously,

Starting point is 00:08:02 RICK shoved me hard from behind, forcing me toward the dark doorway. I stumbled forward, gravel crunching under my feet. They were trying to push me inside. The panic hit me with a surge of adrenaline I didn't know I had. I wasn't a fighter, but primal instinct took over. I twisted my body and drove my left elbow backward with all my strength. I felt it connect with something soft. Rick grunted, and his grip loosened for a fraction of a second. That was all the time I needed. I tore free from Dave's grasp, ducked under his outstretched arm and bolted.

Starting point is 00:08:39 I didn't run for the truck. They were too close. Instead, I sprinted across the dark yard cluttered with junk, tripping over unseen objects. Get him, Dave roared behind me. I didn't look back. I just ran. I could hear them crashing through the darkness after me,

Starting point is 00:08:57 their heavy footsteps pounding the ground. I reached the edge of the property and dove into a tangle of bushes. Thorns ripped at my skin and clothes. I burst out onto the unlit road, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would explode. I ran along the asphalt gasping, praying for a car. Headlights.

Starting point is 00:09:18 In the distance, a pair of lights approached. I flailed my arms like a madman, a figure bursting out of nowhere in the middle of the night. The car, an old sedan, slowed cautiously. I rushed to the driver's window and pounded on it. Please help me. Those guys are trying to kill me, I shouted. My voice cracking with terror.

Starting point is 00:09:40 The driver and older man with a frightened face, thankfully unlocked the doors. I yanked open the back door and threw myself inside, yelling, go, go, go. He hit the gas and the car sped off, leaving the house on Eucalyptus Avenue swallowed by darkness. I asked him to drop me at the first gas station we found, and I called 911 immediately. The police met me there, and I told them everything, trembling non-stop. They took it seriously and sent two patrol cars to the address. I had to go back with them. Returning to that house, even with two police cars, was one of the scariest things I've ever done.

Starting point is 00:10:18 The house was empty. The couch still sat abandoned at the doorway where we'd left it. The front door was shut, the lights off. Dave and Rick were gone. The police found no one inside. The email address and phone number from the ad traced back to burner accounts, completely untraceable. There wasn't much they could do. I had to call Mark to tell him his truck was still parked in the driveway of a house where two men had just tried to abduct me.

Starting point is 00:10:45 He freaked out understandably but went to retrieve it the next day with a police escort. For weeks I lived in a constant state of fear. I slept very little. Every creek in my apartment, every shadow in a dark corner made me jump. The most terrifying part was that they had my information. They knew my name, my email, my phone number. They knew what I looked like. A month after the incident, the real horror began.

Starting point is 00:11:13 I was driving home from work when I noticed a car behind me. A dark green Honda accord, old, just like the one I'd seen parked among the weeds at their house. It followed me for three exits. I tried to convince myself it was a coincidence. There are thousands of cars like that in the house. Southern California. But when I made a random turn into a residential neighborhood, the car turned two. My heart sank. I sped up, making a series of frantic turns until I finally lost it. I reported it to the

Starting point is 00:11:44 police, but without a license plate there was nothing they could do. Could be coincidence, the officer said, which did nothing to ease my mind. A week later, it happened again. This time I was at the grocery store. When I came back to my car, I saw him. Rick, the guy in the hoodie, standing by a dumpster watching me. There was no mistaking him. His stocky build, that dead-eyed stare. It was unmistakable. We locked eyes for a full three seconds before he turned and disappeared behind the building. I lost it. I jumped into my car, locked the doors, and drove straight to the police station, telling them I was being actively stalked. That time they were more or more than. They were more understanding. An officer took my statement and promised to increase patrols around my complex. I became a

Starting point is 00:12:33 prisoner in my own home. I changed the locks and bought a security camera for the front window. Story 2. In 2019, I left San Diego and moved to New York. I was 22 years old with a small suitcase, a cheap laptop, and a pocketful of hope. That week, I had a job interview at a small apartment and Queens that I had found online. The position was with a startup near Atlantic Avenue. I was tired but proud to be starting on my own. I thought I had done everything right. The apartment was on the third floor of an old building.

Starting point is 00:13:14 It had thin walls and a rickety elevator that sometimes got stuck between floors. The landlord was a quiet man who handed me the keys and said the building had been there a long time. The unit itself was small, one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living room that barely fit a sofa. The windows looked out onto a narrow backyard in the roof of a deli. At night, the streetlight casts pale squares on the floor. I liked that the space was mine. Back in San Diego, I used a 32-inch TV.

Starting point is 00:13:45 It worked for late-night shows and small movie nights. Here, the living room felt empty with such a small screen. I wanted a bigger TV. For months, I saved money. I cut back on dinners out. I took extra shifts at the coffee shop near the office. I told myself that a new TV would make the city feel more like home. Craigslist was another world.

Starting point is 00:14:09 I spent weeks browsing the ads. I learned to read people by their messages, who wrote full sentences, who posted one-line descriptions, who uploaded clear photos. One Saturday I found it. Samsung 55 inches, like new, $250 moving sale. The photo showed a big flat screen on a bare stand. It looked almost new without scratches. The exact TV I had been dreaming of. The cellar's name was John.

Starting point is 00:14:40 His profile said he worked in real estate and was moving. He wrote politely and answered my questions quickly. He said I could pick up the TV that afternoon. I borrowed my neighbor's dolly and took the subway across the city. The cellar lived two blocks from a small park. He opened the door himself. He was in his late 30s, wearing a simple shirt and jeans. He smiled and spoke in a calm voice.

Starting point is 00:15:06 The TV was heavier than it looked. He let me test it. The screen lit up with a bright image. It even came with a soundbar and a wall mount. He offered to help me load it into the car. His kindness relaxed me. I left with the TV in a small sense of victory. Setting up the TV was slow work.

Starting point is 00:15:26 The apartment transformed with the big screen. That night I watched a movie and felt warm like I had earned a small reward for all my effort. The sound filled the room. In the first few nights I fell asleep to the glow of late night shows. It was easy to forget that I was alone in a new city. But small things started happening. Noises in the building that I could explain away. One night late, I heard soft knocks at the front door.

Starting point is 00:15:54 I looked through the people. No one was there. Another time, the neighbor across the hall blasted music and then suddenly cut it off. The next morning I found a note under my door that read, Nice TV. No name, no signature. I thought it was a joke. Maybe someone had seen me carry the TV upstairs and left the message.

Starting point is 00:16:15 I told myself not to think too much. Over time, the knocking became more frequent. Sometimes it was in the middle of the night. Three quick taps. silence. Other times a single slow knock that made my heart race. I would sit still, listening. The walls were thin. I could hear a water faucet running somewhere far away. The knocks never came during the day. They always seemed to belong to the night. I began to feel watched. It was a small constant sensation, like the hairs on my arms were always raised. I would turn off the TV and

Starting point is 00:16:51 sit in the dark, waiting for it to pass. It never did. I started making small changes. I moved the sofa to block the view of the door, left my phone on the coffee table, and kept a lamp on. I told myself to be practical. Locked the door, change the locks if needed, check the entryway camera. But the feeling grew like a shadow I couldn't shake.

Starting point is 00:17:15 One night after a long day, I came home and found the living room slightly different. The TV stand had shifted a little to the left. My small stack of magazines had been moved. My first thought was maybe the movers had left it like that, but I lived alone. No one else should have touched anything. I went to the TV. On the back I noticed a seam I hadn't seen before.

Starting point is 00:17:39 A small plastic cover almost hidden in the corner. I had never opened the back panel of an expensive TV. My hands shook a little as I felt the edge. The apartment was silent. The street light cast a soft rectangle. on the carpet. I grabbed a screwdriver, knelt down, and pried the small cover open. Behind it, among cables and the metal frame, I found something that made me swallow hard. A tiny camera lens, the size of a button. It was fixed in place, aimed perfectly at the sofa, the entryway, and the small space where

Starting point is 00:18:13 I sometimes slept. I touched it. It was warm as if it had been used recently. My phone slipped from my hand. I thought of the cellar, his calm voice, his kind offer to help load it into the car. I thought of the note at my door. Nice TV. My hands went cold. I called the police. They arrived quickly. Two officers with professional serious faces. They took photos, wrote notes, and taped off the area around the TV. I told them everything. The Craigslist messages. The note under my door. They asked for the seller's information. I gave them his name and the address he had provided. The officers went to his place the next day. They asked me to come to the station to give a statement. My apartment felt too small after that. I couldn't stop thinking about the camera and what it had seen. I slept poorly.

Starting point is 00:19:10 When I closed my eyes, I imagined someone watching the TV's feed, seeing my small life in that new city. At the station, I sat on a folding chair and told the detective the story of the story of John. He said he would call the cellar in. Later in a small interrogation room the cellar sat across from me. He looked tired and rubbed his hands together. He said he was sorry for what had happened. He told the detective he had bought the TV at a garage sale in Staten Island and didn't know there was a camera. He swore he would never spy on anyone. I watched him. His eyes kept flicking to the camera in the room and avoiding mine. The detective read his statement out loud. There was nothing that proved guilt. He had papers showing the cash transaction and a receipt from an estate sale the

Starting point is 00:19:56 week before. He insisted he knew nothing. The police took the TV as evidence and examined the camera. I braced myself for the worst. Hours of footage of me recorded. Instead, the detective said something that filled the room with a different kind of chill. The camera was live stream only. It transmitted video to a remote site but stored nothing. It could show someone what was happening in real time, but it didn't record. The detective explained that this meant there might be no saved evidence of who had been watching me, which made catching the voyeur harder. They looked into the seller's phone and bank records. They traced the IP address used to set up the stream. It led to a public Wi-Fi access point near the park, a spot used by many people. The trail went

Starting point is 00:20:44 called there. The detective told me they would do what they could, but without recordings it would be difficult. The cellar denied any involvement. The police advised me to change the locks and be careful. After leaving the TV in police custody, I sat on the floor where it had been. The apartment felt exposed. The television had been both a wall and a window. I felt stupid for trusting a stranger and angry at myself for not checking more carefully. I also felt a fear I couldn't quite explain, not just about my privacy, but about the idea that someone had been watching

Starting point is 00:21:20 and might still be watching other people in the city with a live stream that left no trace. Days passed. The knocking stopped for a while. I changed the locks and added a cheap interior chain. I slept with the lamp on and told myself to move forward. I told myself I was safe, but the feeling of being watched clung to me.

Starting point is 00:21:42 Weeks later, a package arrived at my door. It was small, unmarked, and inside was a note. Sorry, wrong TV. I didn't respond. I called the detective who had handled my case. He said he would come by to pick up the package and add it to the file. I kept it sealed. Sometimes when I walked past electronic stores and see televisions in the window,

Starting point is 00:22:05 I'd think about that little lens hidden in the seam. I think about the garage sale the seller mentioned, the public Wi-Fi, and the thin line between a private life and what someone can broadcast with a hidden device. I think about how the city that once seemed bright and promising now has another layer beneath it. Careful shadows where people can watch without leaving a trace. Story 3 A few years ago, I was finishing my second to last year at the University of Washington in Seattle. I had just signed the lease for a tiny one-bedroom apartment off campus. one of those with peeling paint and a refrigerator that buzzed like it was possessed.

Starting point is 00:22:49 Rent was due in a month, and my bank account was drier than the Sahara. My parents lived in a quiet suburb about 20 minutes east in Bellevue, and I had been staying in my old bedroom there while I looked for work. To scrape together some cash, I decided to sell the junk I had accumulated over the years. Mostly battered high school furniture no one would miss. I snapped some blurry phone photos of my wooden dresser. It wasn't much. Tall oak finish chipped in spots with three drawers that stuck if you pulled too hard.

Starting point is 00:23:22 I had bought it second hand at a garage sale when I was 16. Solid dresser, $50. I typed into the Craigslist ad, adding my parents' address since I thought I'd be alone that weekend. My mom and dad were headed to Portland for a family gathering, my grandma's 85th birthday. I posted it and forgot scrolling TikTok. The first reply came that same afternoon. It was from a guy named Mark. Hey, interested in the dresser.

Starting point is 00:23:52 Still available. Can come by tomorrow I wrote back. Yep, all yours for $50. Tomorrow's good, say 2 p.m. He replied quickly. Perfect. Will you be alone when I come by? I stared at the screen for a second.

Starting point is 00:24:08 It felt weird like one of those random dating app questions. Maybe he was just shy about dealing with groups. Yeah, just me, I typed, adding a thumbs-up emoji to lighten the mood. Great. Which bedroom is it in? That's when my stomach nodded. How did he know the house had a street-facing bedroom? Sure, I'd posted the address, but not the layout. I glanced out the window. Our two-story colonial backed onto a patch of woods. But the front bedroom, mine, faced the quiet cul-de-sac. Uh, yeah, that's the one, I replied, telling myself maybe he'd driven by. Craig's List was full of weirdos. Reddard had stories of flaky buyers, not killers. We agreed on cash, no haggling. I didn't dwell on it. The next day I vacuumed the

Starting point is 00:25:00 room, wiped down the dresser, even sprayed some fibrose to cover the faint basement must. Around 1.45, a car pull up, a silver Honda Civic. Nothing suspicious. The man who got out looked like any PTA dad, 40s khakis, a faded Mariners hoodie, short brown hair graying at the temples. He carried a dolly and bungee cords, like someone who'd done this a hundred times. Mark? I asked from the porch forcing a smile. It was drizzling, typical Seattle, so I waved him in quickly. That's me, he said in a warm raspy radio announcer voice. He shook my hand, firm grip, not too long. You must be Alex. Nice house, two stories, huh? Looks solid from the street. Yeah, thanks. I led him through the foyer, past the living room with its worn leather couch and my parents' coffee mug cluttered kitchen

Starting point is 00:25:56 island. Up the stairs, second door on the left. He followed close, not saying much, just glancing around. Here's the dresser, I said pointing. It sat against the wall under the window, curtains half drawn. He nodded running a hand along the surface. Good build, scratched, but that can be fixed. He crouched to check the drawers. They stuck as I remembered, and he chuckled. Needs WD.40.

Starting point is 00:26:24 You lived here long? All my life, I said, leaning on the frame. The small talk felt normal. But I'm moving. Apartment for school. Ah, University of Washington, smart kid. He stood, pulled a worn wallet from his back pocket, and counted out 50 bucks in crisp 20s, fresh from an ATM.

Starting point is 00:26:47 Here you go. But heavier than it looks. Mind giving me a hand of the car? No problem. I took one end, he the other, and we carried it down sideways, bumping the railing once. In the foyer, he paused, eyeing the front door. Yale locks, huh?

Starting point is 00:27:04 Tough dead bolts. What about the back? Same, I said, adjusting my grip, arms burning. Why? Curious. Old houses, you never know about security. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. We hauled the dresser to his trunk. Inside I saw a toolbox and some tarps, the kind you'd see at Home Depot. As we strapped it down, he glanced at the house. Your folks around often? Bedroom like yours. Perfect for kids, but quiet neighborhood. They're out this weekend, I said, wiping sweat from my forehead, usually home evenings, work in the city. Got it. Good luck with the move he got in, waved and drove slowly, like memorizing the street's curve. I stood a moment, rain-soaking my shirt, a tingle at the back of my neck. But hey, cash in hand, I texted my future roommate about splitting

Starting point is 00:28:03 a pizza that night. The weekend passed uneventfully. My parents returned Sunday, thrilled about the cake at the party, and I went to bed early. Monday's classes dragged, intro to psych, then a lab dissecting frog hearts. By Wednesday I was back at their house packing boxes. The unease over Mark's questions had faded to a vague itch, like a half-remembered dream. I even joked with my mom at dinner. A Craigslist guy grilled me like a realtor. She rolled her eyes. People are nosy. Just lock up.

Starting point is 00:28:39 That night, around 1 a.m., a click woke me. Not loud but distinct. Metal on metal, right outside my door. I froze in bed, heart pounding. Old houses had settling noises, creaks, wind-rattling gutters. But this was different. A smooth turn like someone testing the knob. I held my breath, ear-pressed to the wood.

Starting point is 00:29:03 Silence. Down the hall, my parents' door was shut, a strip of light glowing underneath. My dad's CPAP hummed softly. I checked the knob, locked as always. Back in bed, sleep didn't come easy. I scrolled Instagram until my eyes burned, blaming stress. Thursday was routine, rainy ride on the 550 bus, burnt rubber-tasting coffee from a campus cart. That night it happened again.

Starting point is 00:29:30 2.17 a.m. I set my phone when I bolted upright. Not footsteps inside, but heavy, deliberate ones on the porch beneath my window. The side porch wrapped around from the backyard door. I sat up, sheets tangled, and peeked through the blinds. Moonlight filtered through clouds, casting shadows across wet boards. Nobody. Just the neighbor's sprinkler ticking. Porch cat, I muttered falling back. But cats don't sound like boots. I mentioned it to my dad at breakfast. Heard something last night like someone outside. He sipped his black coffee, newspaper folded.

Starting point is 00:30:09 Bears, maybe coming down from the Cascades more often. Bellevue borders green belts, black bears rifled through trash cans sometimes, made sense. I'll check the motion lights. He did. Bulbs fine, sensors clean. No tracks in the mud. I nodded, reassured, headed to cover. class. Still the doubt nod. Those steps had been too steady, too human. Saturday my parents left for

Starting point is 00:30:38 Costco leaving me packing. I blasted a playlist, Billy Eilish, then Nirvana for Seattle mood as I taped boxes. By noon the noises started earlier, not footsteps this time, but scraping, like a key probing the back door lock. I killed the music, pulse racing. Hello? I called voice cracking. Nothing. phone in hand I crept to the top of the stairs. Kitchen door shut, deadbolt gleaming. I twisted it, solid. Wind, I scoffed. Gus could jiggle the frame. But climbing back up, I noticed the stairwell window blinds half open, though I'd left them down. Had I? I slammed them shut, hands trembling. That night it escalated. 11.45 p.m. Doom scrolling read it when my doorknob turned again. slow deliberate twists back and forth.

Starting point is 00:31:34 My mouth went dry. That wasn't house settling. I leapt up, fumbled for the lamp. Light flooded the posters peeling off my walls. The desk cluttered with books. The hall was empty when I cracked the door. Dad, I called. He snored in his room.

Starting point is 00:31:51 I splashed water on my face in the bathroom mirror. Hollow eyes, pale skin stared back. You're losing it, Alex. Final stress Sunday morning over pancakes I spilled everything clicks, steps, scraping Mom's fork froze mid-air

Starting point is 00:32:09 We should have bought that ring We're calling the police Not emergency dad nodded Could be neighborhood kids Pranks the officer who came Was a bored guy named Rodriguez His badge gleamed in the foyer light He walked the perimeter

Starting point is 00:32:25 Flashlight cutting through the bushes No print Lots looked good. Yale's solid choice. Could be animals. Get a trail cam if you're worried we did. Dad mounted a cheap wise cam on the porch post that afternoon. Sinked it to his phone. I felt foolish like I'd overreacted. Monday, classes blurred, Freud lecture droning. Night, quiet, rain drumming the roof. I slept like a rock. But Tuesday, 3 a.m., my phone buzzed. wise alert heart racing i opened grainy black and white footage a tall shadow moved on the side porch not a bear it stood by my window head tilted upward listening then slid toward the garden door faceless just a blur of hoodie and jeans i shook my parents awake someone's outside this time dad dialed nine one one two patrol cars arrived red and blue lights painting the street they searched the year yard, found a bent nail near the gate latch. It had been forced, but not entered. Probably probing

Starting point is 00:33:35 for a break-in, said the younger officer, a woman with a ponytail eyeing me. Sold anything online recently. Furniture? My blood ran cold. Yeah, a dresser. Last week she nodded. Happens more than you'd think. Stockers use ads to scope houses, layout routines. I showed her Mark's messages. She photographed them. We'll trace the number. Change your locks tomorrow. Move out fast. They left, but sleep never returned.

Starting point is 00:34:08 I sat by the window, curtain shut, listening to every creek. Realization hit like ice water. The dresser wasn't the target. Those questions, bedroom locks parents' schedule, were reconnaissance. He paid 50 bucks for a floor plan of our lives. Wednesday, the locksmith came at dawn. new dead bolts shiny and heavy i skipped psych stuffed clothes into garbage bags books into the trunk mom hugged me tight at the door call every night i love you my new apartment smelled of fresh paint and tie takeout downstairs that first night i triple check the chain and jammed a chair under the knob no porch no side yard just a view of the fire escape in alley dumpsters but at two a m i woke sweating A notification? No, just my phone sliding off the pillow. The noises follow me into dreams. Clicks echoing,

Starting point is 00:35:07 footsteps closing in. Weeks blurred. Police traced Mark's number. Burner. Dead end. No license plate matches. I changed my number and deleted Craigslist. My roommate joked, your serial killer fan club. I laughed weekly, but showers grew longer and shadows may be jump. Thank you.

Horror Stories - 3 Disturbing TRUE Craigslist Horror Stories That Will Shock You

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