A Stranger Outside My House Started Calling Me (True horror story)

The story you’re about to read is not fiction; it was shared anonymously with us, and we’ve chosen to share this message with everyone.

While the content of the confession may be unsettling to some, it serves as a powerful testament to the experiences faced by individuals who choose to remain anonymous.

We believe in providing a platform for diverse narratives, even those that may evoke strong emotions or discomfort. It is a reminder that everyone’s journey is unique, and sharing these stories fosters understanding and empathy within our community.

It was around 12:30 a.m. when I first noticed the car.

I wasn’t asleep yet, I couldn’t have been more alone that weekend.

My parents were visiting my aunt in Connecticut, and I’d stayed behind to study and enjoy the empty house.

We live in a quiet, tucked-away suburban neighborhood where nothing ever happens.

Identical two-story homes line the street, porch lights glowing soft yellow, trees casting long shadows across manicured lawns.

At that hour the entire block should have been dead silent.

Both sets of neighbors were gone too. The family on the right had left that afternoon for a camping trip in Pennsylvania; the couple on the left were visiting their daughter in Chicago.

I’d noticed their porch lights off earlier, their driveways empty. Not a single other car sat along the curb anywhere on the street.

I’d just finished brushing my teeth and was walking down the dark upstairs hallway when I passed the front bedroom window.

The blinds were closed, but a faint glow leaked through the slats. I stopped. Leaned in. Peeked.

A dark sedan was parked directly in front of our house. Engine off, no exhaust, no movement, just sitting there like it had been for a while.

The only light came from its thin white LED daytime-running strips, the kind that stay faintly illuminated even when the car is shut down.

Tinted windows. Unfamiliar. Parked not in front of a driveway, but dead center along the curb in front of our walk.

Our street doesn’t get random traffic. If you’re here, you’re here for someone.

I stepped back, killed the hallway light so I wouldn’t cast a silhouette, then crept forward again, crouching low. I lifted one blind slat with two fingers.

The driver’s seat sat a man. He wasn’t looking at the house, he was staring straight ahead, motionless.

Short hair, hands resting in his lap, completely still, as if someone had paused him mid-frame.

Something about that frozen stillness felt worse than if he’d been pacing or smoking or doing anything human.

Then his phone screen lit up, bathing the cabin in cold blue for a few seconds. He was awake. He was doing something.

I backed away slowly, staying low, and began my rounds: front door locked, deadbolt thrown; back door locked; garage door down and bolted; every ground-floor window checked, every curtain drawn curtain tugged tight.

Then I stood in the dark kitchen, heart thudding, listening for an engine, footsteps, anything.

Nothing.

At 12:48 my cell buzzed. No Caller ID. I let it ring three times and die. No voicemail.

I crawled back to the front bedroom, flattened myself on the carpet, and peeked again.

The car hadn’t moved, but now he was looking up. Not directly at my window, but toward the second floor in general.

His face caught the faint glow of the phone in his lap: expressionless, eyes wide, searching.

I dropped the blind and lay there, chest pressed to the floor, feeling my pulse in my throat.

A minute later the phone rang again. Same thing, no ID. I didn’t answer.

At 1:04 I gave in and picked up.

Silence at first. Then footsteps. Slow, deliberate steps on gravel or dry leaves. Stop. Start. Stop. One measured pace at a time.

No breathing, no rustle of clothing, just those footsteps walking, pausing, and walking again.

Then a soft electronic click, like a key fob locking or unlocking a car.

The line went dead.

I stayed on the floor longer than I realized, until my lungs burned and I had to exhale.

I crawled to my desk, quietly slid the drawer, and gathered my flashlight, charger, and laptop like supplies for a siege.

I texted my parents, knowing they were asleep, telling them someone was parked outside, that I was okay, doors locked, staying quiet.

Then the landline rang.

We still have one, an old cordless in the kitchen that almost never rings anymore. Its shrill tone cut through the house like a scream.

At the exact same moment my cell lit up again. No Caller ID.

Both phones, ringing together.

I ignored the cell and crept downstairs. The landline kept going, three rings, four. On the fifth I snatched it up.

Same footsteps, slower now, closer, deliberate. Then silence. A long, nasal inhale, as if the caller had leaned into the receiver and was about to speak.

Click. Dead.

I stood frozen in the dark kitchen, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. Finally I edged to the living-room window and parted the curtain a fraction.

The car was still there.

But the man was no longer staring forward. He was tilted sideways in his seat, neck craned, trying to see around the porch columns, trying to find which window had movement, which room I was in.

His phone glowed again.

I backed away, hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped mine, and dialed 911.

My voice cracked as I whispered the address, told the dispatcher a man had been parked out front for over an hour, that he was calling both my phones and the unlisted landline, that I was home alone.

She asked if I could still see him.

I returned to the window and lifted one blind.

The sedan hadn’t moved.

The driver’s door hung wide open.

And the seat was empty.

I dropped the blind, backed into the hallway, and waited in the dark for the police, praying the next sound I heard would be sirens and not footsteps on the porch.