I Came Home and My Neighbor Snapped: “Why Is There a Man Yelling Inside Your House?”
I laughed—no one was supposed to be there.
The next morning, I faked going to work and hid under my bed.
Hours later… a man’s voice walked into my bedroom. I stopped breathing.

When I got home that evening, my neighbor stood on her porch with her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thin, judgmental line.

“Your house gets so loud during the day,” she said without greeting.

I blinked, confused. “That’s not possible,” I replied. “Nobody should be inside. I’m at work all day.”

She shook her head firmly. “I heard a man shouting. Not once—several times. Angry. Like he was arguing with someone.”

A chill crawled up my spine.

I lived alone.

“I think you’re mistaken,” I said, forcing a small laugh. “Maybe it was another house.”

But she didn’t laugh back. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.

“I know what I heard,” she said quietly. “And it was coming from your place.”

That night, I barely slept.

Every creak of the house sounded louder than usual. The old oak floorboards groaned under their own weight. The refrigerator hummed like it was whispering secrets. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying her words over and over.

A man shouting.

Inside my house.

The next morning, I checked every room before leaving. Closets. Bathroom. Basement. The attic hatch. Everything was exactly the way I’d left it.

Still, the unease followed me all the way to work.

By lunchtime, I had made a decision.

The following day, I pretended to leave for work.

I locked the door, got into my car, waved at my neighbor as usual—then circled back after the street emptied. I slipped inside quietly and went straight to my bedroom.

My heart pounded as I slid under the bed.

Dust tickled my nose. The space smelled faintly of old wood and lavender detergent. I pulled my phone close, silenced it, and waited.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

My muscles cramped. My thoughts raced. Maybe my neighbor was wrong. Maybe stress had finally gotten to me.

I was just about to crawl out when—

The front door opened.

Very slowly.

I froze.

Footsteps echoed through the living room. Heavy. Confident. Not the sound of someone sneaking.

Whoever it was… knew this house.

A man’s voice drifted through the hallway.

“I know you’re listening,” he said.

My breath caught in my throat.

The footsteps stopped right outside my bedroom.

The door creaked open.

I stared at the dark line beneath the bed as shadows filled the room.

The man sighed.

“You always hide when things get uncomfortable,” he muttered. “Just like before.”

Before?

He walked around my room, touching things. My dresser. My bookshelf. He picked up a framed photo from my nightstand.

“That smile,” he scoffed. “You practiced it. Like you practiced everything.”

My hands trembled so badly I had to press them against the floor to stay silent.

Then he sat on my bed.

The mattress dipped inches from my face.

“You took everything from me,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp. “My name. My life. And you just… moved on.”

My mind screamed.

I didn’t know this man.

Or did I?

He stood up abruptly and paced again.

“They told me to forget,” he continued. “Doctors love that word. ‘Forget.’ Like memories are light switches.”

Doctors?

A memory surfaced—one I had buried deep.

White walls. A hospital room. A clipboard with my name on it.

But something else too.

Another name.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“No,” I whispered silently.

The man laughed softly.

“There it is,” he said. “That sound you make when you’re scared.”

He knelt.

My vision filled with his shoes.

“I used to sleep under this bed,” he said. “Do you remember that?”

My heart nearly stopped.

“You used to cry at night,” he continued. “And I’d talk to you until you fell asleep. Even after the accident.”

The accident.

The sound of metal. Screaming. Sirens.

The man leaned closer.

“You survived,” he whispered. “I didn’t.”

I gasped.

The sound escaped me.

Silence.

Then—slowly—he bent down.

His face appeared inches from mine.

He looked… like me.

Older. Rougher. But unmistakably familiar.

My brother.

“No,” I choked. “You’re dead.”

His eyes darkened.

“They told you that,” he said calmly. “Because it was easier.”

My vision blurred with tears.

“I watched you die,” I whispered. “The fire—”

“I was pulled out,” he snapped. “Burned. Broken. Unrecognizable. While you woke up with a clean face and a clean slate.”

He stood up, running a hand through his hair.

“They gave you my memories,” he said. “Selective amnesia, they called it. You couldn’t live with the guilt. So they let you forget… me.”

My chest felt like it was collapsing.

“Why now?” I sobbed. “Why come back?”

He looked at the mirror on my wall.

“Because I hear myself screaming every day,” he said quietly. “And you’re the only one who pretends not to hear it.”

The house creaked.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he sighed.

“I don’t want your life,” he said. “I just want you to remember that I exist.”

He walked to the door.

Before leaving, he paused.

“Tell the neighbor,” he added, “that the shouting will stop.”

The door closed.

I stayed under the bed for a long time.

When I finally crawled out, the house felt… emptier.

That evening, I went next door.

My neighbor opened the door cautiously.

“You were right,” I said softly. “There was someone.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure it was true.

“I think… he just needed to be heard.”

That night, I slept without fear.

And for the first time in years, I dreamed of my brother—not screaming, not angry—

But smiling.