There’s a Man Standing in My Backyard. He Hasn’t Moved in Three Days

It started Sunday morning.

I was drinking coffee in the kitchen, half-awake, looking out over the yard through the glass door when I noticed him—just standing by the treeline. Still. Hands at his sides. Staring.

At first, I thought he was a hunter, maybe a hiker who got turned around. I live on the edge of a national forest, and it’s not unusual for strangers to pass through the woods.

But this one didn’t move. Not a step. Not a twitch. Just… stared.

I watched him for several minutes, waiting for some sign of life—a shift of weight, a raised hand, anything. Nothing. Just dead still.

Eventually, I slid the door open and called out, “Hey! You okay?”

No response.

I tried again. Still nothing.

He just kept staring at the glass like he could see straight through me.

I shut the door and locked it. Told myself he was just confused, probably high or mentally ill. If he didn’t leave in an hour, I’d call someone.


---

An hour passed. Then two.

He didn’t move.

When the sun set, he was still there. Same spot. Same posture. Not even swaying in the wind.

I locked every door and window in the house that night.

Didn’t sleep much.


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Day Two. Monday.

He was still there. Exactly the same. I recorded him on my phone for twenty minutes—nothing changed.

I called the non-emergency line. Explained what was happening. They sent a deputy around noon.

I watched from inside as the deputy walked up to him cautiously, spoke a few words. I couldn’t hear what was said. The deputy circled him, waved a hand in front of his face, then touched his shoulder.

Still nothing.

After about five minutes, the deputy came back to my door.

> “He’s breathing,” he said. “But he’s not responding to anything. Doesn’t even blink.”



> “What do I do?” I asked.



> “Legally? Nothing unless he trespasses. If he crosses the fence line or approaches the house, then call us back.”



> “So I’m just supposed to ignore him?”



The deputy gave me a shrug and a look that said yes.


---

That night was worse.

Every time I passed the kitchen, I felt drawn to the glass door. I couldn’t stop myself from peeking.

And every time, he was still there.

Staring.

I zoomed in on the video I took. His eyes weren’t just locked in my direction—they were focused on me. No matter where I moved in the house, I felt them tracking me.

I set up a camera on the counter to record overnight.


---

Tuesday morning.

I checked the footage.

He never moved.

But at exactly 3:17 a.m., the footage glitched—just for a second. The screen warped, like heatwaves. When the image settled, he looked… different.

His body was the same, but his face—something was wrong. It was blurry, like it didn’t match the rest of the frame. And then, frame by frame, his mouth twisted into a wide, unnatural grin.

Only for a second. Then it was gone.

Back to normal.

I felt sick watching it.


---

That afternoon, my neighbor came by to return a borrowed snow shovel. She’s 87, tough as nails, been here since the 60s. I asked her if she’d seen the man.

She peered through the glass for a long moment and muttered:

> “He’s back.”



My heart stopped.

> “What do you mean back?”



She didn’t take her eyes off him.

> “He came here once before. ’72. Same spot. Didn’t move for days. Then one morning, he was gone.”



> “What is he?”



She didn’t answer right away. Just stared harder.

> “Not human,” she whispered. “They wear us. Like clothes.”



Then she left.

I didn’t sleep at all that night.


---

Day Four. Wednesday.

Something changed.

The back door was unlocked this morning. I know I locked it.

And there were muddy footprints on the wood floor. Leading from the door to the hallway—and stopping. No return prints. Like someone came in, then vanished.

I checked every room. Closet. Attic. Nothing.

The man was still in the yard.

Still standing there.

Still watching.


---

Around 2:30 a.m., I was jolted awake by a loud knock. Three slow pounds on the glass.

I grabbed my phone and crept to the kitchen. The lights were off, but the full moon lit the yard in silver.

He was standing closer.

Right up against the glass.

His face was inches from the door.

He hadn’t moved in days—but now he was right there.

Still not blinking.

Still smiling.

And written in fog on the inside of the door was a message:

> “LET ME IN.”



I ran upstairs, locked myself in the bedroom, and called the police again. This time, the line was filled with static. Then a voice—not the operator’s. Not mine.

A whisper:

> “You already did.”




---

I didn’t open the door for hours.

When I finally checked the kitchen at sunrise… he was gone.

The yard was empty. Grass undisturbed. No footprints. No fog on the glass.

Just silence.

But something’s wrong. The air in the house feels… off. Heavily still. Like the moment before a thunderclap.

I checked the camera footage again.

And I saw it.

At exactly 3:17 a.m.—the same time as before—the camera shows me walking into the kitchen in my sleep.

I open the door.

I let him in.

And then?

Nothing.

Just static.


---

I don’t remember doing that.

But now, I feel it.

There’s something here.

In the walls.

In the mirrors.

Sometimes I see him behind me, just for a second, when I pass a window.

Not outside.

Inside.

Watching.

Waiting.


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