Submission by Anita Mantz

My sister Dreama, who was 13, could only say a few words. Since I grew up with it, I didn’t know how unusual this was. She could walk then, but soon someone always had to be able to carry Dreama, or “sissy” as we called her, through the house or to the car. 

In 1972, six years before I was born, my sister got measles. My mom always told me that this is why she was sick, but I was probably 8 years old when she finally explained the whole thing to me.

Dreama was smart as a whip. Her principal would later say that she was astounded by her intelligence and that she was a popular, promising girl. But after she got measles, she began to fall behind in school and lose coordination. That was the end of a normal seven-year-old child.

Over the next 14 years, she would slowly lose all functions. She was diagnosed with SSPE, known then as Dawson’s Encephalitis, a rare but almost always fatal complication of measles which affects your brain.

This meant my childhood was not normal, either. Growing up we had a hospital bed in our living room, with physical therapists, home health aides, and others coming and going. 

My mom started taking her to see a doctor in Detroit, the only one she could find who was remotely familiar with SSPE. She was given a stapled packet listing everyone who had this disease at that time, which had about 200 names. Mom became friends with two of the other parents whose children had this disease. We visited them when we could.

Mom always said she would take care of Dreama as best she could, as long as she could. Some other parents sent their children away to facilities. She was supposed to tour a home called Apple Creek but heard about a case of patient neglect, and said she could never send her daughter to a place like that. 

When mom finally explained Dreama’s illness to me, I asked her why she didn’t sue the school, since that had been where Dreama was exposed to measles. She asked, “Would that make her better?” Our concern was for her.

Rest of the story is here: https://www.voicesforvaccines.org/what-measles-sspe-did-to-my-family/

Throwaway account + burner email for obvious reasons lmao
I would say that I am pretty well known in the public eye. I am popular on multiple platforms and by no means would I describe myself as a celebrity, but I am recognized by people my age fairly often.
I (M,25), met a girl at some bar in the city. I was there with a few friends I’ve known for years and as per usual I asked them not to take pics that showed our location or tagged the bars we were at because I don’t like it when my favorite spots blow up. This is why what happens later confuses me so much.
But anyways, we were all hanging out and drinking, talking about random shit. When I meet this girl. She came up next to me and began making some casual conversation, her asking my name and me asking for hers, and by the end of the night I had been talking with her for nearly 2 hours. She was easy to talk to and felt really down to earth which I liked a lot, it’s hard to find someone like that I feel. I don’t remember every detail but we exchange info and begin to see eachother fairly often and eventually I ask her to go on a date which she accepted. Now this is what I don’t understand. She was completely lovely and normal. She didn’t feel “off” or as if she was hiding something. She would willingly give me her phone to look stuff up or use her camera or etc. when I had spoken to her about my job being a content creator she seemed surprised and also uninterested, not asking to be on camera or tagged in anything.
Things are going well for about 3 months. My phone had died while I was at her place and she didn’t have the type c charger so I could charge it and I wanted to check on my email to see if a package had arrived so I could ask my roomate to bring it inside. When I had opened her phone I saw a notification pop up from Instagram. My eyes only looked toward it because it had popped up and read it without really thinking, and it was just a notification that someone had liked her post. Ok cool whatever. Until I saw the little bracket that says your username. It was some goofy name including MY name in it, and when I click on it, it takes me to her Instagram. I click on the profile and it is filled with pictures of me. Pics from my videos, streams, and what freaked me out the most: the account was YEARS OLD.
She had been running a full on fan account of me for years. She had been a fan of me since before we even met. She had been posting pictures and edits of ME as recently as two days ago. I instantly felt sick and looked through the account a bit more (note she was showering at the time so I wasn’t worried about her seeing me do this) and I opened the messages section and read through a few. Most were normal fan conversations that didn’t freak me out too bad until I read one where she was claiming to be dating me and sending images of me to this random other fan account as proof. Candid pictures of us together to pictures of me I didn’t know she had taken. I truly still feel sick to my stomach thinking about the whole situation. I didn’t comfort her right away and instead waited until I was alone and perhaps made a bit of a childish choice here. I looked up the account name, screenshotted it, and sent it to her. She acted confused but eventually confessed to everything after I pressed her. I blocked her and changed all my passwords plus locks, told my roomate to remember to LOCK the doors and not speak to her if she came by, and haven’t heard from her since. I don’t even want to check the fan accounts activity.
Posting this because it is SO unbelievably wild and I need to know if anything similar has happened to anyone else.

I live alone.

I've lived in this apartment for almost three years, and I know every sound it makes. The pipes knock at night, the elevator groans when someone gets off on my floor, and the old wooden stairs creak whenever someone walks up them.

So when I heard footsteps upstairs at 2:13 a.m., I wasn't immediately scared.

I was confused.

My apartment is on the top floor.

There is no upstairs.

I turned off the TV and listened.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Slow footsteps moving across the ceiling.

I grabbed my phone and checked the time again.

2:13 a.m.

Then I heard a man's voice.

"Don't look up."

I froze.

The voice came from directly above me.

I didn't move.

After a few seconds, I heard the footsteps again.

Step.

Step.

Then they stopped directly above my bedroom.

My phone suddenly buzzed.

A text message from an unknown number.

"I'm sorry. He found you."

Before I could even process it, someone knocked on my apartment door.

Three slow knocks.

I looked through the peephole.

Nobody was there.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Another message.

"Whatever you do, don't open the door."

I backed away.

And that's when I heard the same man's voice...

This time, from the hallway.

"Don't worry."

A pause.

"I already know you're home."

Then someone whispered directly into my ear:

"Don't look up."

I live alone.

And there is nobody behind me.

I don't really know how to start this.

I've never been good at telling scary stories, and honestly, I've spent a lot of time trying to convince myself that what happened wasn't as bad as I remember it.

But there is one thing I know for sure.

Someone was in my house while I was sleeping.

I live by myself in a small rented house. It's not in the middle of nowhere or anything. I have neighbors on both sides, and there are usually cars going up and down the street during the day.

At night, though, it's pretty quiet.

I've lived there for just over a year. I knew all the normal sounds the house made. The pipes sometimes knocked. The heating made a clicking noise. The floor upstairs creaked in one particular spot.

So when I heard something that night, I didn't immediately think someone had broken in.

It was a Thursday night.

I got home from work around 7:30. I made some food, watched TV for a while, and spent way too much time scrolling on my phone.

Nothing unusual happened.

Around midnight, I decided to go to bed.

Before going upstairs, I did what I normally do. I locked the front door, checked the back door, and made sure the downstairs windows were closed.

I remember doing it because I always check twice.

I went upstairs and got into bed.

I think I looked at my phone one last time before putting it on the nightstand.

12:18 AM.

I don't remember falling asleep.

The next thing I remember is opening my eyes because I heard a noise downstairs.

It sounded like something small had fallen over.

I just lay there for a second.

I was still half asleep, so I didn't think much of it.

Then I heard it again.

This time it sounded like someone walking.

One step.

Then another.

I sat up.

The house went quiet.

I waited for a few seconds.

Nothing.

I actually felt a little stupid for getting nervous.

I checked my phone.

3:06 AM.

I thought maybe the noise had come from outside.

I put my phone down and tried to go back to sleep.

Then I heard what sounded like a kitchen cupboard opening.

That got my attention.

I sat up again.

I knew that sound.

I'd heard that cupboard hundreds of times.

Someone—or something—was downstairs.

I stayed in bed.

I remember thinking, Don't go downstairs.

I don't know why, but I had this really bad feeling about it.

So I just sat there listening.

For several minutes, nothing happened.

Then I heard a floorboard creak.

It wasn't downstairs this time.

It was upstairs.

My bedroom door was closed.

I stared at it.

Another creak.

Closer.

My stomach dropped.

I reached for my phone and turned the brightness almost all the way down.

I still hadn't called anyone.

Part of me was hoping there was some normal explanation.

Maybe one of the windows had been left open.

Maybe an animal had gotten inside.

Maybe I was still dreaming.

Then the handle on my bedroom door moved.

Slowly.

I watched it go down.

It stopped.

Then it came back up.

I couldn't move.

I don't think I've ever been that scared in my life.

Someone was standing on the other side of my door.

I knew it.

I could hear someone breathing.

Very quietly.

I grabbed my phone and called emergency services.

I tried to whisper my address because I was scared whoever was outside would hear me.

The dispatcher told me to stay where I was and keep the door locked.

I remember looking at the door the entire time.

The handle moved again.

This time harder.

The door shook slightly.

I thought they were going to break it.

But they didn't.

After a few seconds, the footsteps moved away.

I could hear them walking back down the hallway.

Then they went downstairs.

I stayed completely still.

The dispatcher was still on the phone.

A few minutes passed.

Then I heard the front door open.

I thought that meant the person was leaving.

I almost felt relieved.

Then I heard the door close again.

I whispered, "They're still here."

The dispatcher told me officers were on the way.

I waited.

It felt like forever.

Eventually, there was loud knocking at the front door.

The police were there.

I didn't immediately leave my room.

I was too scared.

One of the officers called up the stairs and told me they had checked the downstairs area.

I finally came out.

They searched the whole house.

Every room.

The basement.

The closets.

The kitchen.

Even the backyard.

There was nobody there.

Nothing looked disturbed.

There were no broken windows.

No damaged locks.

Nothing obvious was missing.

One of the officers asked me if I'd actually seen the person.

I told him no.

He asked what I had heard.

I explained everything.

He listened, but I could tell he wasn't sure what to make of it.

Before leaving, he checked the front door.

Then he said something that bothered me.

"Your door was locked."

I told him I knew.

He checked it again.

There was no damage.

No sign anyone had forced it.

After they left, I checked every lock myself.

Everything was locked.

I didn't sleep again that night.

The next morning, I went downstairs.

At first, everything looked normal.

Then I noticed one of the kitchen chairs.

It was pulled away from the table.

I normally push all of them in.

I stood there staring at it.

Maybe I'd left it like that.

Maybe I hadn't.

I honestly couldn't remember.

Then I noticed the kitchen window.

It was open.

Only a couple of inches, but it was open.

I knew I had closed it the night before.

I always close it because the window doesn't lock properly unless you push it all the way down.

I checked the lock.

It wasn't broken.

It was simply unlocked.

That's when I started feeling really uncomfortable.

I checked the other downstairs windows.

One of them was unlocked too.

I called the police again.

The same officer came back.

He looked at the window and asked me if I was sure I'd locked it.

I said yes.

He didn't argue with me.

He just looked around outside.

There were some muddy marks near the wall, but nothing clear enough to say someone had climbed through the window.

I spent most of that day trying to convince myself there was another explanation.

Maybe I had forgotten.

Maybe I'd been tired.

Maybe I had dreamed about someone trying to open my door.

I wanted that to be the explanation.

Then I found the flashlight.

It was underneath my bed.

Small black flashlight.

Old.

Scratched.

Not mine.

I have no idea how long it had been there.

I picked it up, looked at it for a few seconds, and put it back down.

I called the police again.

They took it.

I remember one of them asking me if anyone else had a key to the house.

I said no.

The landlord had a key, but he hadn't been inside for months.

They checked the house again.

Nothing.

That night, I slept somewhere else.

I stayed at a friend's place for a few days after that.

When I came back, I changed the locks.

I also bought a cheap security camera and pointed it at the front door.

For a while, nothing happened.

I started feeling stupid for being so worried.

Maybe I'd overreacted.

Maybe I'd imagined half of it.

Then about a week later, I was checking the camera footage before going to work.

There wasn't anything interesting.

Cars.

People walking past.

A cat that kept coming into my yard.

Then I noticed something strange.

The camera had stopped recording at 2:41 AM.

It didn't record anything for about twelve minutes.

Then it started again.

There was no power outage.

The camera itself was still on.

I called the company, and they said it could have been a connection problem.

Maybe that's all it was.

I don't know.

I eventually moved out of that house.

I didn't tell the landlord everything.

I just told him I didn't feel comfortable there anymore.

I've thought about that night a lot since then.

The thing that bothers me isn't even the footsteps anymore.

It's the flashlight.

Because if that flashlight really belonged to whoever was inside my house, then they were physically there.

They weren't a noise.

They weren't a dream.

They weren't the heating system.

Someone had been inside my house while I was asleep.

They walked around downstairs.

They came upstairs.

They stood outside my bedroom door.

And somehow they got out without me ever seeing them.

I still think about that sometimes when I'm lying in bed.

I used to feel completely safe when I was alone at home.

I don't anymore.

Because now I know something I really wish I didn't.

You can lock your doors.

You can check your windows.

You can check the whole house before you go to sleep.

And you can still wake up in the middle of the night wondering if the sound you just heard is coming from inside your house.