"LOCKED DOORS":
I had just woken up late that morning, feeling tired from staying up to watch the ball drop on TV the night before. It was New Year's Day 2026, and I was in my small house in North Omaha, Nebraska, all by myself. My friends had gone home after midnight, and I decided to spend the day relaxing, maybe ordering some food later. The place was quiet, and I liked it that way. I made coffee and sat on the couch, scrolling through my phone when I heard a strange noise from the back of the house, like something scraping against the door.
At first, I thought it might be a neighbor's dog or the wind knocking something over. But then the sound got louder, a loud bang like wood splitting. I stood up slowly, my body tensing. "Who's there?" I called out, my voice louder than I meant. No answer. I walked toward the kitchen, peering around the corner. The back door was pushed open, splinters on the floor. Two guys rushed in, one tall with a hoodie pulled low, the other shorter, wearing a dark jacket. They saw me and froze for a second, then the tall one pointed a knife at me. "Don't move, man," he said, his voice rough. "We want your stuff. Wallet, phone, anything valuable."
I backed up, hands up. "Okay, okay, take it. Just don't hurt me." My mind was racing— the phone was in the living room, too far. The short one started opening drawers, tossing things out, silverware clattering everywhere. The tall one came closer, knife glinting under the kitchen light. "Where's the cash?" he demanded. "I know you got some." I shook my head. "I don't keep cash here. Please, just take what you see and go." He laughed, a mean sound. "You think we're playing? Give it up or we'll make you."
He lunged at me, and I dodged, grabbing a chair to push between us. The short one turned and joined in, grabbing my arm. I twisted free and swung my fist, hitting the tall one in the shoulder. "Get off him!" the short one yelled. We struggled, falling against the table. The knife slashed across my side, sharp pain burning. I felt warm blood soaking my shirt. "Stop fighting!" the tall one shouted, swinging again. I grabbed his wrist, we wrestled, and I kneed him hard. He dropped the knife, but the short one picked it up and came at me. "You're done," he said.
I ran for the front door, but they tackled me. Punches landed on my back, the knife cutting my arm. Pain exploded, but I kicked and elbowed, managing to get outside. "Help!" I yelled into the dark street. Neighbors' lights flicked on. The guys saw that and ran off the other way. I collapsed on the porch, pressing my hand to the cuts, blood everywhere. Sirens came quick— someone must have called. Paramedics rushed me to the hospital, stitches all over, in critical shape but alive.
Police caught one of them later, a 20-year-old guy, charged with home invasion. The other got away, but they were looking. I spent days recovering, scars reminding me every time I moved. If you're alone, listen to those noises. They might not be nothing.
"AFTER MIDNIGHT":
I came back from visiting my family for Christmas a few days ago. Everyone else had work or school, so I ended up staying by myself in the house. It was quiet, and I liked having the place to myself at first. I spent the day unpacking and watching TV. That night, I went to bed early because I felt tired from the travel.
As I lay there in the dark, I heard a noise downstairs. It sounded like someone knocking on the front door. I sat up and listened. The knocking got louder, like banging. My house is on a quiet street, and it was late, past midnight. No one should be coming over. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and tiptoed to the window to peek out. I couldn't see anyone from up there.
The banging stopped for a moment, then I heard a crash. It was the sound of wood splitting. Someone was breaking the door. My hands shook as I dialed 911. The operator answered quickly.
"911, what's your emergency?" the woman said.
"Someone is breaking into my house," I whispered. "Please send help. I'm alone."
"Stay on the line," she said. "What's your address?"
I gave it to her, trying to keep my voice low. Downstairs, I heard footsteps. The person was inside now. I looked around my bedroom. The door was closed, but it didn't have a lock. I needed to hide or get out.
I opened the window as quietly as I could. My house has a flat part of the roof right outside the bedroom. I climbed out, still in my nightshirt, and pulled the window almost shut behind me. The air was cool on my skin, but I didn't care. I crouched down behind the low edge of the roof, hiding from view. My phone was pressed to my ear.
"Are you safe?" the operator asked.
"I'm on the roof," I said softly. "I climbed out the window. The intruder is inside."
"Okay, stay hidden. Police are on the way. Can you see anything?"
"No, it's dark. But I hear movement inside."
I stayed low, my body pressed against the rough shingles. Minutes felt like hours. Then, I heard the window open. My bedroom window. The intruder was coming out too. I peeked over the edge and saw a man climbing onto the roof. He was tall, with messy hair, and he looked right at me. His eyes were wild.
I scooted back, trying not to make noise. He started walking toward me.
"Miss, are you still there?" the operator said.
"He's on the roof now," I whispered, my voice shaking. "He's coming after me."
"Stay calm. Officers are close. Describe him."
"He's a man, about thirty, wearing dark clothes. Please hurry."
The man got closer. He said nothing at first, just stared. Then he spoke.
"Come back inside," he said in a low voice. "I won't hurt you."
I didn't believe him. I moved farther along the roof, but there was nowhere to go. The drop to the ground was too high. He kept coming.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, trying to stall.
He didn't answer. He reached out, like he wanted to grab me. I backed up more, almost to the edge.
The operator said, "Police are arriving. They see the house."
I heard sirens in the distance, getting louder. The man stopped and looked around. Lights flashed below as cars pulled up.
"Police! Come down!" someone shouted from the ground.
The man turned and tried to go back to the window, but officers were already shouting orders. One climbed up a ladder to the roof. The man froze, then put his hands up.
An officer helped me down the ladder. My legs were weak, and I was cold, but I was safe. They arrested the man. Later, I learned he had a history of breaking into homes. He had been watching my house for days.
I installed better locks and cameras. But I still check the doors twice.
"UNDER MY BED":
The holidays had just finished, and my family went out to run some errands that morning. The house felt empty without all the laughter and extra people around. I decided to relax in my room with a book and some leftover snacks from the celebrations. It was nice at first, having the place to myself.
Around noon, a loud banging started on the back door. Boom, boom, boom. It was so hard that the whole frame shook. I put down my book and listened. We don't get many visitors, and if it was family, they would have called or used their key. I crept out of my room quietly, staying low so no one could see me through the windows. The back door was right there in the kitchen, and I peeked around the corner.
No one said anything. Just silence after the knocks. I thought maybe it was a delivery person or a friend playing a joke. But something felt wrong. My hands got sweaty, and I backed up slowly toward my room again. As soon as I closed my door softly, crash! Glass broke somewhere in the kitchen. Shards tinkled on the floor. Someone was inside now.
I didn't wait. I dove under my bed, pulling the blanket down a little to hide better. My phone was in my pocket, thank goodness. I pulled it out with shaking fingers and dialed the emergency number. It rang once, twice.
A woman's voice answered. "Emergency services, what's your emergency?"
I whispered as quiet as I could. "Someone just broke into my house. Through the back door. I'm hiding under my bed."
"Are you alone?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, my voice barely coming out. "My family is out. Please send help fast."
"Okay, stay calm. What's your address?"
I told her quickly, keeping my eyes on the bottom of my door. I could hear footsteps now, heavy ones, crunching over the broken glass. The person was moving around the kitchen, opening drawers, slamming them shut. What were they looking for?
The operator said, "Police are on their way. Can you describe the intruder?"
"I didn't see him," I whispered. "But it's a man, I think. The knocks were strong."
Him. I assumed it was a man from the sound of the steps. They were too big for a kid or someone small.
"Stay on the line with me," she said. "Don't make noise."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see. The footsteps came closer. Now he was in the living room. I heard furniture moving, like he was pushing the couch aside. Papers rustled. A lamp fell over with a thud. My room was down the hall, but what if he came this way?
Minutes dragged on. It felt like forever. I pressed my face into the carpet to muffle my breathing. The dust made me want to sneeze, but I held it in. Then, voices? No, just him muttering to himself. "Where is it? Has to be here somewhere." His voice was rough, low. Like he was angry.
He went into my parents' room next. That was across the hall. Drawers yanked open, clothes thrown around. I heard zippers and boxes opening. He was searching for something specific. Money? Valuables? We didn't have much, but after the holidays, there were a few gifts still out.
The operator whispered in my ear, "They're five minutes away. Hang in there."
Five minutes? It had already been so long. What if he found me first? My bed was low, but if he looked under... I squeezed my eyes shut, imagining his face peering down.
The searching stopped for a second. Footsteps paused. Had he heard me? My phone was on low volume, but maybe the operator's voice carried. I held my breath. Then, more noise. He was back in the kitchen. Something metal clinked, like coins. Oh no, my lunch money. I'd left a few dollars on the counter for tomorrow. He must have grabbed it.
Finally, the back door creaked open again. Footsteps faded outside. Was he gone? I didn't move. What if it was a trick?
The operator said, "Police are arriving now. Stay hidden until they call out."
I heard sirens in the distance, getting louder. Car doors slammed outside. Voices shouted, "Police! Anyone here?"
I crawled out slowly, my legs wobbly. "In here!" I called, opening my door.
Two officers came in, guns drawn but pointed down. They checked the house room by room. "Clear," one said. The kitchen window by the door was smashed. Glass everywhere. Living room a mess, cushions tossed. Parents' room wrecked, but nothing big missing.
One officer, a tall man with a kind face, knelt down to my level. "You okay, kid? That was brave, staying hidden."
I nodded, but tears came anyway. "Who was it?"
They dusted for prints and talked to neighbors. Turns out, it was the man next door. He'd been watching our house, thinking the old owners still lived here. Those people used to sell stuff on the side, bad stuff like drugs. He needed money quick and broke in looking for cash or anything to sell.
The officer explained later, when my family got home. "We arrested him. His prints matched. Family's moving out soon."
My parents hugged me tight. "You did everything right," my mom said.
I never feel totally safe alone anymore. The quiet after the holidays isn't peaceful now. It's just waiting for the next bang on the door.
"THE CHAIN":
It had been a quiet start to the new year after all the family gatherings wrapped up. I was in my small apartment, trying to get back into the swing of things. My boyfriend and I had split up not long ago, and the place felt empty without him. To help with the rent, I asked a girl from work, Lisa, to move in as my roommate. She was nice enough, but she worked odd hours, so a lot of nights I was alone.
One evening, around midnight, I was watching TV in the living room, wrapped in a blanket. The holidays were over, and I felt that drag of getting back to normal life. Lisa had gone out with friends, so it was just me. Then came a knock at the door. It startled me because it was late. I got up and looked through the peephole. A young guy stood there, maybe in his twenties, looking worried. He had dark hair and a jacket that seemed too thin for the cold outside.
I cracked the door open, keeping the chain on. "Can I help you?" I asked.
His voice was shaky. "Hi, sorry to bother you so late. My car hit something down the street, and my little girl is hurt in the back seat. I need to call an ambulance. Can I use your phone? Mine's dead."
My mind raced. He looked upset, and mentioning a hurt child made me pause. But something felt off. Why knock here? There were other apartments. Still, I didn't want to be heartless. "Okay, hold on," I said. "I'll call 911 for you. What's the address where the car is?"
He nodded quickly. "Yeah, thanks. It's just around the corner on Elm Street. Tell them to hurry."
I closed the door, locked it, and grabbed my phone from the kitchen. My hands trembled a bit as I dialed. The operator picked up, and I explained what the guy said. They asked for details, and I gave what I could. While I was on the line, there was another knock, louder this time.
I went back to the door, phone still to my ear. "The ambulance is on the way," I told him through the crack.
He shifted his feet. "Thanks. Um, can I make one more call? To her mom? She needs to know."
I hesitated. The operator was still talking, saying help was coming. "Fine," I said. "Give me the number, and I'll dial it."
He rattled off a number, and I put it in. When it started ringing, I handed the phone through the small opening, careful not to unlatch the chain. He took it and started talking. "Hey, it's me. Yeah, the kid's hurt bad. Car accident. Get here quick."
As he spoke, I stepped back into the kitchen for a second to grab a knife from the drawer. Just in case. I hid it behind my back. Something about his story bugged me—the way he said "the kid" instead of "my daughter." It didn't sound right.
He handed the phone back. "Thanks again. Her mom's coming."
I nodded and started to close the door. But then he knocked a third time, even harder. "Wait," he said. "Can I come in? It's freezing out here, and I need to wait for the ambulance."
My pulse quickened. "No, sorry. You can wait downstairs in the lobby. It's warmer there."
"Please," he begged. "Just for a minute. My girl's out there alone."
He pushed against the door, testing the chain. I pushed back, but suddenly, two other guys appeared from the shadows in the hallway. They wore ski masks, black ones that covered everything but their eyes. One had a gun, shiny and real-looking. They rammed the door hard, snapping the chain like it was nothing. I stumbled back as they burst in.
"Give us the money!" the first guy yelled, his worried act gone. Now his voice was rough and demanding. The one with the gun pointed it right at my face. "Where's the cash? Jewelry? Now!"
I froze for a split second, my mind blank. The knife was still in my hand behind me. "I don't have much," I stammered. "Please, just take what you want and go."
The third guy started rummaging through drawers in the living room, tossing stuff everywhere. Papers, remotes, my holiday cards from last month scattered on the floor. The gunman stepped closer. "Don't lie. Everyone's got something."
I backed up toward the kitchen. "Okay, okay. My purse is on the table. Take it."
The first guy grabbed it and dumped it out—wallet, keys, lip balm. He pocketed the cash, about forty bucks. But the gunman wasn't satisfied. He grabbed my arm hard. "That's all? Give us more!"
That's when panic hit. I swung the knife without thinking, slashing at his hand. He yelped and let go, the gun clattering to the floor. I screamed as loud as I could. "Help! Michael! Help me!"
Michael was my neighbor across the hall, a big guy who used to be in the army. He had told me once he kept guns for protection. The intruders looked at each other, eyes wide under the masks. "Who's Michael?" one hissed.
I screamed again. "Michael! They're in here! Help!"
The gunman picked up his weapon, but they were spooked. "Let's go," the first guy said. "This ain't worth it."
They grabbed my phone from the table and bolted out the door, slamming it behind them. I ran over and locked it, then slid down to the floor, shaking. My arm hurt where he grabbed me, and I could feel bruises forming.
A minute later, there was pounding on the door. "It's Michael! You okay?"
I peeked through the peephole. It was him, looking concerned, holding a baseball bat. I opened up. "They broke in," I gasped. "Three guys. They had a gun."
He came in, checked the rooms to make sure they were gone. "I heard you scream. Called the cops already."
The police arrived soon after, lights flashing outside. I told them everything—the fake story about the hurt girl, the masks, the gun. They took notes, dusted for prints. "You did good fighting back," one officer said. "But next time, don't open the door at all."
Lisa came home later that night, shocked when I told her. "Oh no," she said. "We need better locks. Or maybe move."
We did move, a few weeks later, to a safer building with a doorman. How a simple act of kindness almost cost me everything. I keep the chain on always, and I listen extra careful to voices at the door. The new year was supposed to be a fresh start.
The cops never caught them, as far as I know. But I saw a news clip a month later about similar break-ins in the area—guys using sob stories to get in. What if I hadn't screamed? What if Michael wasn't home? I try not to dwell on it.
"THE CALL":
That New Year's Eve started like any other night when my parents headed out. They told me to watch my little brother and sister, lock the doors, and not open them for anyone. Our house sat at the end of a quiet road, far from the neighbors, with trees all around that made it feel cut off from everything. I nodded, even though I felt uneasy about being left like that. My dad gave me a quick pat on the shoulder and said, "We'll be back before midnight. Keep the kids calm." Mom kissed my forehead and added, "If the phone rings, don't pick it up unless it's us." Then they drove off in our old station wagon, the headlights fading into the dark.
My little brother, Ben, was only five, and my sister Katie was three. They didn't understand why we couldn't go to a party or see fireworks like other families. I tried to make it fun. We sat in the living room with some snacks —crackers and cheese from the fridge— and watched the old TV. The screen showed people in big cities counting down, laughing and hugging. Ben kept asking, "When will Mom and Dad come home?" I said, "Soon, buddy. Let's play a game to pass the time." Katie just clutched her doll and sucked her thumb, her big eyes looking around the room.
As the hours ticked by, the house got quieter. The only sounds were the TV and the clock on the wall. I turned off most lights to save electricity, like Dad always said. The living room lamp cast a soft glow, but the hallway and kitchen stayed dim. Around nine o'clock, the phone rang. It was loud and sharp, making me jump. Ben looked at me with wide eyes. "Is that Mom?" he whispered. I shook my head. "Remember what she said. Only if it's them." But it kept ringing, over and over, maybe ten times before it stopped. Katie started to whimper. "It's okay," I told her, pulling her close. "Probably just a wrong number."
We went back to the TV, but now I couldn't focus. What if something was wrong? My parents had been acting strange all week—whispering in the kitchen, hiding things in drawers. Dad had even bought new gloves at the gas station earlier that day. I wondered if their "business" had to do with the friends they hung out with, the ones who came over late at night and talked in low voices. One of them, a guy named Joe, always smiled too much, but his eyes looked cold. Last time he visited, he argued with Dad about money.
A bit later, around ten, I heard a car engine far off. Ben perked up. "Is that them?" We listened as it got closer, the tires crunching on gravel. But it didn't sound like our wagon—it was deeper, like a truck. The engine stopped outside, and then nothing. No doors opening, no footsteps. I crept to the window, peeking through the curtain without moving it much. In the driveway, I saw a dark shape, maybe a pickup, with its lights off. Someone sat inside, just a shadow. My breathing got fast. "Stay here," I whispered to the kids. "Don't make noise."
Katie started to cry softly. "Shh, sweetie," I said, hugging her. Ben grabbed my arm. "Who's out there?" he asked, his voice shaky. "I don't know," I replied. "But we have to be quiet." We waited for a while and then the engine started again. The truck backed up slowly and drove away. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "See? Gone now," I told them, trying to sound brave. But inside, I wondered why someone would just sit there, watching our house.
We tried to distract ourselves. I found some crayons and paper, and we drew pictures of fireworks. Ben drew a big red one and said, "This is for them when they come back." Katie scribbled lines and giggled a little. But then, around eleven, the phone rang again. This time, I couldn't ignore it. What if it was my parents needing help? I picked up carefully. "Hello?" There was breathing on the other end, heavy and slow. No words, just that sound. "Mom? Dad?" I asked. Still nothing. Then a man's voice, deep and unfamiliar, said, "Where are they?" My hand tightened on the receiver. "Who is this?" I demanded, but my voice came out small. He laughed. "Tell them we're waiting. The job's done." Then the line went dead.
Ben stared at me. "Who was it?" he asked. Katie hugged her doll tighter. "Nobody important," I lied. "Wrong number again." But now fear gripped me hard. What job? Why waiting? I checked all the doors—front, back, even the basement one. Locked tight. I turned the TV louder to drown out my thoughts. The countdown was getting closer, people on screen cheering. But in our house, it felt wrong, like the happiness was far away.
Just after eleven-thirty, I heard scratching at the back door. Not knocking, but like nails on wood. Ben froze in the middle of drawing. "What's that?" he whispered. Katie buried her face in my lap. "Stay put," I said, grabbing a flashlight from the drawer. I tiptoed to the kitchen, shining the beam through the window. Nothing there. But the scratching came again, louder. Then a voice outside, muffled: "Open up, kid. We know you're in there." It was a different man, rougher than the one on the phone. My whole body went cold. "Go away!" I yelled back, but it sounded weak. Laughter from outside, then another voice: "Your folks left something for us. Hand it over, and we'll leave."
Ben and Katie came into the kitchen, even though I told them not to. "Who's at the door?" Ben asked, tears in his eyes. "Bad men," I said honestly. "We have to hide." I grabbed their hands and pulled them to the hallway closet, the one with coats and boxes. We squeezed in, shutting the door quietly. Katie sobbed, and I covered her mouth gently. "Quiet, please," I begged. Outside, the scratching turned to banging. "Come on, we don't want to break in," one man shouted. Then whispering between them—I couldn't make out the words.
The banging stopped, and I heard footsteps circling the house. A window rattled, like they were trying to pry it open. My mind raced. What did my parents leave? I remembered Dad hiding a box in the attic last week, full of shiny things like rings and cash. Was that it? The footsteps came back to the back door. A loud crack—wood splintering. They were breaking in. Ben whimpered, "I want Mom." "Me too," I whispered, holding them close.
Inside the closet, we waited. The door burst open—I heard it slam against the wall. Footsteps inside now, heavy boots on the kitchen floor. "Search everywhere," one said. "The stuff's here somewhere." Drawers opened, things crashed to the floor. They moved to the living room, flipping cushions, knocking over the lamp. The light went out, leaving only the TV glow flickering under the closet door. Katie trembled in my arms. Ben squeezed my hand so tight it hurt.
The footsteps got closer to the hallway. "Check the closets," the rough voice said. I held my breath as the knob turned on our door. It creaked open slowly. A beam of light from their flashlight swept in. I pushed the kids behind the coats, praying. The man paused, then reached in, shoving things aside. His hand brushed my arm. "Got something," he muttered. Just then, sirens wailed in the distance. The man cursed under his breath—not a bad word, but angry. "Cops," the other yelled from the kitchen. "Let's go!" Footsteps retreated, fast. The back door slammed. A car engine roared to life outside, tires screeching away.
We stayed hidden until the sirens got loud, right outside. Blue and red lights flashed through the windows. I peeked out, saw police cars. "It's safe now," I told the kids. We stumbled out, and I opened the front door. Officers rushed in, asking if we were okay. One wrapped us in blankets. "Your parents..." he started, then stopped, his face sad.
Later, at the station, they told me what happened. My parents and uncle had been tricked into going to a lonely spot on the highway, thinking it was for a big score. But it was a trap. Friends they trusted turned on them, shot them right there in the car. The killers came to our house after, looking for the stolen goods. If the neighbors hadn't heard the noise and called the police, who knows what would have happened to us.
We got sent to live with relatives far away, new names, new life. But I still think about it, how close those men got, their voices in our home. New Year's Eve isn't about celebrations for me anymore.