At First, The Driver And I Made Small Talk, But Then He Asked, “Do You Ever Feel Like Someone’s Watching You?”

I laughed, thinking it was some awkward attempt at conversation. But his eyes in the rearview were steady, almost too steady. “I used to feel that way when I lived on your street,” he said. My smile faded just a little. I mumbled something about late-night nerves, but he didn’t smile back. When we reached my building, he paused before unlocking the doors. “Be careful,” he said softly, almost like he was talking to himself. The words sat heavy in the air.

The next morning, I found out my neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Dalia, had been robbed in the middle of the night. She was fine physically, but shaken. Whoever did it took cash, jewelry, even her late husband’s watch. There was no sign of forced entry. That detail made my stomach twist. Someone had a key, or knew exactly how to get in without making noise.

I kept replaying the driver’s words in my head. How could he know anything? Did he mean to warn me? Or was it some creepy coincidence? I almost convinced myself it was nothing until I saw something odd outside my door that afternoon — a faint muddy footprint. Just one, pointing inwards, as if someone had stepped inside and then… changed their mind.

That night, I barely slept. Every creak in the hallway made me sit up. Around 2 a.m., I heard slow, deliberate steps outside my door. I held my breath, staring at the faint light under the door. The shadow of feet stopped right in front of it. Whoever it was stood there for a full minute, then walked away.

The next day, I went to speak with Mrs. Dalia. She clutched her tea and whispered like the walls could hear her. “It’s not random,” she said. “It’s someone who knows this building. Knows us.” She told me that just before her robbery, she’d seen a man loitering in the stairwell, pretending to be on his phone. She couldn’t see his face well.

Two days later, I saw a man at the corner store — tall, wearing a navy baseball cap low over his face. Something about the way he kept glancing at me, then looking away, felt wrong. My gut told me it was the same man Mrs. Dalia had described. When I paid for my groceries, I realized he hadn’t bought anything. He was just… there.

I told my friend Idris about it. He’s the kind of person who notices things others don’t. He frowned and said, “You think this guy is watching you?” I shrugged, embarrassed, but Idris didn’t laugh. “Next time you see him, text me. I’ll be there.”

That same week, the strange sounds outside my door started again — slow steps, occasional taps on the wall. One night, I heard the faint click of my doorknob being tested. My heart raced so hard I thought I might faint. I grabbed my phone, but the noise stopped.

The building’s security cameras? They didn’t work. The landlord kept saying he’d “get around to it.” I started locking the chain even when I was home.

Then came the twist that made my skin crawl — I got a message on my phone from an unknown number: You leave your curtains open too much. That was it. No name, no emoji, nothing else. I felt sick. My curtains faced the street, but my apartment was on the third floor. Whoever wrote that had either been close enough to watch from outside or… inside.

I decided to take a risk. I left my curtains open that night, just enough to make it look like I wasn’t paying attention. I sat in the dark on my couch, watching the street through a tiny gap in the blinds. At around 11 p.m., I saw movement — someone across the street, standing in the shadows by the tree. They weren’t smoking, talking, or even moving much. Just staring.

I texted Idris. He was there within fifteen minutes, moving quietly up behind the tree. The man noticed too late and bolted down the street. Idris chased him but came back shaking his head. “Fast. Knows the area.”

I finally decided to tell the police. They listened politely but didn’t have much to go on. They suggested I be “more vigilant” and call if I saw him again. That didn’t exactly make me feel safer.

A week later, I spotted him again — this time, inside the building lobby. He pretended to check the mailbox, but he didn’t live here. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked to the elevator. My hands were shaking when I pressed the button. That was when the taxi driver’s face flashed in my memory.

What if he’d seen this man before? What if that’s why he warned me?

The next evening, I went back to the same taxi stand where I’d met the driver. After an hour of waiting, I saw him. He recognized me instantly. “You still living there?” he asked. I told him everything — the steps, the messages, the man in the baseball cap.

His jaw tightened. “I think I know who it is,” he said. He explained that when he’d lived in my building years ago, there was a guy named Sorin who hung around. Claimed to be visiting friends, but no one ever actually invited him. People’s things would go missing. Locks would feel tampered with. Sorin disappeared after the landlord threatened to call the cops, but maybe he was back.

That night, I told Mrs. Dalia about Sorin. Her eyes went wide. “That’s him,” she whispered. “That’s the man I saw.”

Idris and I decided to catch him in the act. We borrowed a small motion-sensor camera from a friend and hid it near my front door, angled at the hallway. I barely slept, waiting for the alert.

It came on the third night — a faint ding from my phone at 3:12 a.m. I opened the camera feed and my blood went cold. Sorin was right there, crouched at my door, trying a set of keys. He looked calm, methodical, like he’d done this before. I texted Idris and the police at the same time.

The minutes dragged like hours. Sorin stood, glanced at the peephole, then reached into his pocket. My heart slammed so hard I thought it might break my ribs. But just as he bent forward, heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs — Idris, followed by two officers. Sorin froze, then bolted down the hall. The officers chased him and this time… they caught him.

Turned out he had a whole ring of stolen keys and a bag with tools, gloves, and small valuables — watches, wallets, even a set of silver spoons that belonged to Mrs. Dalia. He’d been breaking into apartments across the neighborhood for months.

The police later told me Sorin had once been a part-time handyman in the building years ago, which explained his knowledge of the locks. The taxi driver, who had once been his neighbor, had suspected he might return to old hunting grounds. That was why he’d told me to be careful.

Mrs. Dalia cried when she got her husband’s watch back. I cried too, but more from the relief that it was finally over. Idris joked that I owed him a lifetime of free dinners. I told him I’d make him lasagna every week if it meant never seeing Sorin again.

The lesson hit me hard — trust your instincts, even when you feel silly. If something feels off, it probably is. And sometimes, the smallest warnings can save you from something much bigger. I’ll never forget that taxi ride, and I’ll never again dismiss a stranger’s quiet concern.

If you’ve ever had a moment where you felt something wasn’t right, pay attention to it. It might just keep you safe.

If this story made you think, share it with someone who needs the reminder — and don’t forget to like it so others can see it too.