The first thing Debbie noticed when she came home was the open window.

She never left it open.
She never forgot to lock it.
And yet there it was—wide enough for someone to slip through, curtains breathing in the cold evening air.

She stood in the doorway for a long moment, keys still in her hand, listening.

The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not the normal, lived‑in quiet she knew, but a hollow, waiting quiet—like the house was holding its breath.

She stepped inside.

Nothing looked disturbed. The couch cushions were in place. The mail sat neatly on the table where she’d left it. Her mug from that morning still waited in the sink.

But the window was open.

She crossed the room slowly, checking the floor for footprints, for anything out of place. Nothing. She reached the window and touched the frame.

Cold.

Colder than the air outside.

She shut it quickly and locked it, trying to steady her breathing. Maybe she had forgotten. Maybe she’d been distracted. Maybe—

Her phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

“You shouldn’t have closed that.”

Debbie froze.

Another message appeared immediately.

“I left it open for a reason.”

Her pulse hammered. She backed away from the window, eyes scanning the room again, searching for any sign she wasn’t alone.

A third message.

“Don’t turn around.”

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

The phone buzzed again, and again, and again—messages stacking faster than she could read them.

“Don’t move.”
“Stay still.”
“Almost there.”
“Don’t look.”

Her breath came in shallow bursts. She felt the air shift behind her—just slightly, like someone exhaling.

Then one final message arrived.

“Thank you for letting me in.”

Who do you think it was?