🏠 A Quiet Town With Loud Secrets

I grew up in a quiet town, the kind of place where you could leave your doors unlocked without thinking twice. Friendly neighbors, calm streets, and a community that felt more like family. I was 12 years old the night everything changed. My parents had just started letting me stay home alone, and honestly, I felt pretty grown-up about it.

It was a Saturday. My older sister was at a friend’s house, and my parents had plans for the night. They left me with money for dinner and instructions to lock the doors, not open the windows, and call them if anything happened. Simple enough.

I had it all planned: pizza, video games, and complete freedom. What could go wrong?

🍕 The Pizza Guy

I ordered a regular cheese pizza from our favorite local spot, Tony’s Slice Shack. I’d been there dozens of times with my family. The driver showed up maybe 25 minutes later. I’ll never forget his face—mid-30s, scruffy beard, pale skin, wearing a dirty trucker cap. Something about him felt… off.

When I opened the door, he handed me the pizza but then asked with a crooked smile,
“You home alone, buddy?”

Every instinct in my body told me to lie. I stammered, “Nah, my dad’s just upstairs.” He looked behind me into the house and nodded slowly. It was uncomfortable, but he left without further questions. I locked the door behind him and brushed it off.

I wish I hadn’t.

🎮 Just Another Night — Until…

After devouring three slices and saving the rest in foil (as Mom instructed), I went back to my room and dove into a James Bond game on my console. Time flew. By 11 PM, I was yawning and ready to wrap things up when the doorbell rang.

Assuming it was my parents, I ran to the front door and called out,
“Mom? Dad?”

A voice replied—not theirs.
A strange, low voice said, “Hey… I need help. Can I use your phone?”

Goosebumps. My stomach dropped. I didn’t answer right away. I asked, “Who is this?”
No name, just the same reply. “I just need to use your phone, please.”

Something felt wrong. I didn’t open the door. Instead, I backed away and crept upstairs. As I climbed, I heard him say,
“Wait! I see you! I know you’re there!”
He was watching me through the window.

🚨 The Break-In

I ran into my parents’ bedroom and locked the door. My hands were shaking as I grabbed the landline and called my mom. She answered groggily but sobered up the second I told her someone was at the door.

Her voice turned sharp:
“Did he see you?”
I whispered, “Yes.”
She paused. “Did anyone know you were home alone?”

The pizza guy.

I told her about the driver and what he said. Right then, the doorbell rang again—twice. My mom told me to stay hidden. My dad called the police on his phone while she stayed on the line with me.

Then I heard something that made my heart freeze.

The gate creaked open. He was in the backyard.

🛏 Under the Bed

My mom kept whispering instructions: stay silent, stay low, don’t move. I heard the back door slide open. He was inside the house. I could hear his steps downstairs.

My mom’s voice cracked with panic when I told her.

He walked around slowly, like he was looking for something—or someone. Then, I heard footsteps on the stairs. They grew louder, then stopped. He was searching the bedrooms.

Then… he reached my parents’ door.

He jiggled the handle. Knocked once. Silent.

I was hiding under the bed, holding my breath. My 12-year-old brain tried to stay strong, but I was terrified.

Eventually, he walked away. I heard him go downstairs. My mom whispered:
“The police are almost there. Don’t move.”

🚓 The Aftermath

Suddenly, I heard a man’s voice shout my name:
“Police! You can come out!”

Two officers were at the door. My mom let me unlock it. They checked the house. The back door was open, the screen cut. No forced entry—he just slid in through the unlocked patio.

I told them everything. About the voice. The pizza guy. The strange behavior. They took notes, promised to follow up.

🍽 The Final Slice

The next day, my parents drove me to Tony’s Slice Shack. They asked if the driver from the night before was working. A man behind the counter stiffened when I described him.

“That sounds like Rick,” he muttered. “He’s out on delivery.”

When we returned 45 minutes later, Rick never showed. The manager said he’d been “sent home.” We never saw him again.

My parents spoke to lawyers, but without clear evidence, no case could be made.