My Neighbor Yelled at Me When I Got Home

“Your House Is So Noisy During the Day!”

When I arrived at my front gate that afternoon, my neighbor, Mrs. Collins, was waiting by the fence, her arms crossed and her face tight with irritation.

— Your house is so noisy during the day — she snapped. — It’s extremely annoying.

I laughed, assuming it was some kind of misunderstanding.

— That’s impossible. There shouldn’t be anyone home. I work from eight to six.

She didn’t back down. She crossed her arms even tighter.

— Then explain the screaming. I heard screaming. A woman’s voice.

My smile vanished.

I lived alone. My husband, Mark, had passed away two years earlier, and my job as an insurance analyst kept me out of the house most of the day. I told myself Mrs. Collins must have confused my house with someone else’s—but the way she looked at me, so certain, almost frightened, stayed with me long after I went inside.

That night, I barely slept.

Every creak of the floor made my heart race. I checked every door, every window, even the attic. Nothing was out of place. No signs of forced entry. No explanation.

The next morning, I made a decision that felt ridiculous… and terrifying at the same time.

I left the house at my usual time, waved to Mrs. Collins as if nothing had happened, and returned an hour later. I parked a few streets away and slipped back inside quietly.

I went straight to the bedroom and slid under the bed, phone in hand, holding my breath. Dust tickled my nose. Minutes stretched into hours. I listened to the hum of the refrigerator, the knocking of the pipes, the distant traffic outside.

Part of me hoped nothing would happen—that I could crawl out embarrassed by my own paranoia.

Then, just after noon, I heard the front door open.

Footsteps moved through the house with familiarity—slow, confident. Someone opened the kitchen cabinets and poured a glass of water. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it would give me away.

The footsteps came closer.

They stopped right outside my bedroom door.

The door creaked open.

And then I heard a woman’s voice say softly,

— I know you’re not supposed to be here yet.

Frozen beneath the bed, I watched the shadow of her feet as she stepped fully into my bedroom. Terror locked my body in place. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move.

She walked toward the dresser mirror.

— Calm down… — she murmured. — You always scare so easily.

That’s when I recognized the voice.

It wasn’t a stranger’s.

It was… my own.

The woman sighed, sat on the bed, and began to cry.

— I just wanted more time — she whispered between sobs. — Just a little more silence.

The shock was overwhelming. My knee struck the bed frame. The sound echoed.

She froze.

— Who’s there? — she asked, her voice suddenly tense.

I slowly crawled out from under the bed, my phone pointed straight at her.

We stared at each other.

She was identical to me.

Same hair. Same face. Same exhausted eyes.

— Who… who are you? — I managed to ask.

She covered her mouth in horror.

— I am you — she said. — Or… the part of you that never really left this house after Mark died.

Silence pressed down between us.

Through tears, she explained everything: how she had suffered a breakdown months earlier, how she created a secret routine inside her own home—entering when I left, living there as if she were someone else. A broken version, trapped in the past. Screaming alone. Arguing with memories. Reliving the pain.

The “screaming” my neighbor had heard… was mine.

Or rather, hers.

That same day, I asked for help.

I was hospitalized for a few days. I began therapy. I faced truths I had been avoiding for years.

Today, the house is quiet.

Truly quiet.

And whenever I see Mrs. Collins, I thank her for complaining.

Because if it weren’t for the noise, I might never have realized that the most frightening person inside my house… was me, trying to survive grief all alone.