I CAME HOME TWO MONTHS EARLY AND MY NEIGHBOR ASKED ME TO TELL “THE MAN LIVING IN MY APARTMENT” TO STOP SCREAMING AT NIGHT. I LAUGHED AND SAID, “THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE.
I CAME HOME TWO MONTHS EARLY AND MY NEIGHBOR ASKED ME TO TELL “THE MAN LIVING IN MY APARTMENT” TO STOP SCREAMING AT NIGHT. I LAUGHED AND SAID, “THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE. I LIVE ALONE.” THEN I UNLOCKED MY DOOR—AND FOUND A STRANGER WEARING MY ROBE WHO LOOKED AT ME AND ASKED, “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”
The moment the elevator doors opened, Walter Hayes stepped directly in front of me.
“Robert?”
He looked as though he had seen a ghost.
I smiled and pulled my suitcase onto the tenth floor.
“Good to see you too, Walter.”
But he didn’t smile.
Walter was seventy-four, a retired mail carrier, and my neighbor across the hall for nearly twelve years. In all that time, I had rarely seen him upset about anything more serious than the Milwaukee Brewers losing a close game.
That afternoon, his hands were trembling.
He glanced toward my apartment.
10B.
Then back at me.
“Robert, could you please ask the person staying in your place to keep the noise down?”
I stopped.
“What person?”
Walter lowered his voice.
“The man staying in your apartment.”
I laughed automatically.
“There’s nobody staying there.”
Walter stared at me.
“I mean apartment 10B.”
“I know.”
His expression changed.
I continued.
“I’ve been overseas for two months. The apartment has been empty.”
The color drained from his face.
“But…”
He looked toward my door.
“Someone has been living there.”
A cold sensation moved through my stomach.
“What are you talking about?”
Before Walter could answer, another door opened.
Mrs. Ramirez stepped into the hallway carrying a small trash bag.
She saw me.
The bag slipped from her hand.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re back.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes moved between Walter and me.
Then toward 10B.
“When did you get home?”
“About thirty seconds ago.”
She covered her mouth.
I was beginning to feel genuinely uneasy.
“Would somebody please tell me what’s happening?”
Walter spoke first.
“We thought you rented the apartment.”
“To whom?”
“The man.”
“What man?”
Mrs. Ramirez stepped closer.
“He’s been there almost the entire time you’ve been gone.”
My fingers tightened around the suitcase handle.
“That’s impossible.”
“No,” she said quietly. “It isn’t.”
I stared at her.
She explained everything.
For nearly two months, a man had been following the same routine.
Every morning, he left my apartment around eight.
Sometimes wearing a suit.
Sometimes business casual.
He rode the elevator downstairs, nodded politely at the doorman, and disappeared.
Around six, he returned.
He carried groceries upstairs.
Ordered takeout.
Accepted packages.
Once, he helped Mrs. Ramirez carry a heavy box from the elevator.
“He seemed perfectly normal,” she said.
Walter shook his head.
“During the day.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
He hesitated.
“At night, something changes.”
My stomach tightened.
“What changes?”
“The screaming.”
I stared at him.
“What screaming?”
Walter glanced at Mrs. Ramirez.
She answered.
“It usually starts around midnight.”
“What does he scream?”
“We can’t understand most of it.”
Walter swallowed.
“Sometimes it sounds like he’s arguing with someone.”
“Someone else is inside?”
“We don’t know.”
Mrs. Ramirez shook her head.
“I’ve never seen another person enter.”
Walter continued.
“Other times he sounds terrified.”
“How often?”
“Four or five nights a week.”
My mouth went dry.
I looked at my front door.
10B.
My home.
The place where I had lived for sixteen years.
“No one has a key.”
Walter didn’t respond.
“My daughter Claire had one, but she returned it when she moved to Madison. My ex-wife gave hers back years ago.”
“What about management?” Mrs. Ramirez asked.
“The building has a master key.”
Walter frowned.
“Then maybe—”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“The master key stays secured downstairs. It’s logged whenever someone uses it.”
At least that was what building management had always told us.
I walked toward the door.
Walter grabbed my arm.
“Robert.”
I turned.
“Call the police.”
I almost did.
But something stopped me.
Maybe pride.
Maybe disbelief.
Maybe I still thought there was some absurd explanation waiting behind that door.
A plumbing contractor.
A misunderstanding with management.
Some paperwork error.
Anything except what my neighbors were telling me.
I examined the lock.
No scratches.
No damage.
The frame was perfect.
Whoever had entered had not forced their way inside.
They had used a key.
I took mine out.
My hand was shaking now.
The key slid into the lock.
Turned.
Click.
The same sound I had heard thousands of times.
I pushed the door open.
And immediately knew someone had been living there.
Not because the apartment looked different.
Because it looked almost exactly the same.
After sixty-two days, a closed apartment should smell stale.
Dusty.
Unused.
Mine smelled like coffee.
Bacon.
Laundry detergent.
Home.
Except it wasn’t the smell of me coming home.
It was the smell of someone else already being home.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I stepped inside.
Walter remained in the hallway.
“Robert, this is a bad idea.”
He was probably right.
I ignored him.
My leather chair was still beside the window.
Books remained arranged along the shelves.
Television.
Dining table.
Lamps.
Everything was where I had left it.
Then I started noticing details.
My blanket.
I always tossed it over the back of the couch.
Now it was folded into a perfect square.
A pair of reading glasses rested on the coffee table.
Not mine.
Beside them was my favorite mug.
The blue ceramic one Claire gave me for Father’s Day.
I touched it.
Warm.
Someone had been drinking from it minutes earlier.
I walked toward the kitchen.
The refrigerator contained groceries.
Milk.
Eggs.
Vegetables.
Steak.
Beer.
A container of leftover pasta.
None of it belonged to me.
I touched the dishwasher.
Warm.
My pulse quickened.
Someone had run it recently.
“Hello?”
Still nothing.
Then I noticed something that frightened me more than the food.
My mail was arranged neatly on the kitchen counter.
Opened.
Bank statements.
Insurance documents.
A letter from my accountant.
All opened.
I picked up one envelope.
My name was printed clearly across the front.
ROBERT BENNETT.
The seal had been cut.
“What the hell?”
I hurried toward the bedroom hallway.
Then stopped.
Every photograph was gone.
Not knocked down.
Not broken.
Removed.
Claire’s college graduation picture.
Gone.
My father standing beside Lake Michigan.
Gone.
The family photograph from Grand Teton.
Gone.
Even the small picture of Claire at age six, sitting on my shoulders at the Wisconsin State Fair.
Gone.
Pale rectangles remained on the walls.
Whoever was living in my apartment had not simply moved in.
He had removed me.
My family.
My memories.
My identity.
I heard something behind me.
A hinge creaked.
The guest-bedroom door slowly opened.
A man stepped into the hallway.
Early forties.
Tall.
Gray beginning to show at his temples.
Barefoot.
He was wearing my brown bathrobe.
My robe.
And holding another one of my coffee mugs.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
His surprise lasted maybe half a second.
Then his face hardened.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
I stared at him.
He stepped closer.
“I asked you a question.”
“Who are you?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Who am I?”
“Yes.”
He laughed once.
Then pointed toward the front door.
“Get out.”
My brain struggled to process what was happening.
“This is my apartment.”
His expression changed from irritation to disbelief.
“No, it isn’t.”
I actually looked around.
It sounds ridiculous now.
But he said it with such certainty that for one disorienting second, I felt like the intruder.
Then I saw the robe.
“My name is Robert Bennett.”
The stranger went completely still.
Something flickered across his face.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“You’re Robert?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then whispered,
“You weren’t supposed to come back yet.”
My blood turned cold.
“What did you say?”
His eyes immediately shifted toward the front door.
I stepped backward.
“How do you know when I was supposed to come back?”
He said nothing.
“How do you know my name?”
Still nothing.
Then I noticed something.
A framed photograph was sitting on a small table inside the guest bedroom.
One of the photographs missing from my hallway.
My Grand Teton picture.
Except something was wrong with it.
I moved closer.
The stranger blocked me.
“Don’t.”
That one word told me I needed to see it.
I pushed past him.
“Hey!”
I grabbed the frame.
My hands began shaking.
Someone had altered the photograph.
My daughter Claire was still standing beside the lake.
The mountains were still behind her.
But I was gone.
My face had been replaced.
With his.
I stared at it.
“What is this?”
He said nothing.
I grabbed another photograph.
Claire’s graduation.
Again, she was standing beside him.
Not me.
Another.
Her childhood birthday.
His face.
My clothes.
My family.
My life.
“What the hell did you do?”
He backed away.
“You don’t understand.”
“You replaced me in my own family photographs!”
“Robert—”
“HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?”
Walter appeared at the doorway.
“Police are coming.”
The stranger’s face changed instantly.
For the first time, he looked frightened.
“No.”
He rushed toward the bedroom.
I followed.
He grabbed a duffel bag from beneath the bed.
It was already packed.
He had been prepared to leave.
I caught the strap.
He spun around.
“Let go.”
“Not until you tell me who you are.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me.
Then something about his expression changed.
Almost pity.
“You should call Claire.”
My heart jumped.
“What does my daughter have to do with this?”
“Call her.”
I pulled out my phone.
Claire answered on the third ring.
“Dad?”
Her voice immediately calmed me.
“Claire, I need you to listen carefully.”
“What happened?”
“I’m home.”
Silence.
“What?”
“I came back early.”
Another pause.
Then her voice changed.
“You’re… home?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the stranger.
He was watching me carefully.
“There’s a man in my apartment.”
Claire stopped breathing.
I heard it.
“Claire?”
Nothing.
“Do you know anything about this?”
“Dad…”
“Who is he?”
Her voice started trembling.
“You need to leave.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Leave the apartment.”
“Claire, who is this man?”
“Please.”
The stranger closed his eyes.
That frightened me more than anything else.
“Claire.”
My voice hardened.
“Tell me the truth.”
She started crying.
“Dad, I wanted to tell you.”
My knees nearly buckled.
“Tell me what?”
Before she could answer, the stranger stepped toward me.
“Give me the phone.”
I pulled away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Robert, she doesn’t need to be involved.”
I stared at him.
“She already is.”
Police sirens became audible outside.
The stranger looked toward the window.
Then back at me.
His calmness was disappearing.
I noticed his duffel bag was partially open.
Inside were documents.
Dozens of them.
I grabbed the bag.
“Stop!”
He lunged.
The bag fell.
Papers scattered across the bedroom floor.
Driver’s license applications.
Bank statements.
Property records.
Copies of my passport.
My Social Security card.
My signature.
My employment information.
Everything someone would need to become me.
Then one document caught my attention.
A lease.
For apartment 10B.
My apartment.
The tenant name read:
ROBERT BENNETT.
But the photograph attached to the identification wasn’t mine.
It was his.
I felt sick.
“This isn’t squatting.”
He said nothing.
“You’ve been stealing my identity.”
Still nothing.
Then I saw another document.
A notarized authorization form.
It supposedly gave this man permission to manage my property during my overseas assignment.
My signature was forged at the bottom.
But beneath it was another signature.
A witness.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My chest tightened.
“No.”
The stranger looked away.
I picked up the paper.
CLAIRE BENNETT.
My daughter.
“Claire?”
She was still on the phone.
Crying now.
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
The room seemed to move beneath me.
“You signed this?”
“I can explain.”
“You helped this man get into my apartment?”
“No! It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what to think!”
“I thought he was supposed to help.”
“Help with what?”
Silence.
The stranger sat slowly on the edge of the bed.
Walter stood behind me, stunned.
Then Claire whispered,
“Dad… ask him his real name.”
I looked at the man.
“You heard her.”
He didn’t answer.
“What’s your name?”
He stared at the floor.
“Tell me.”
Finally, he looked up.
“Michael.”
“Michael what?”
His jaw tightened.
“Bennett.”
My stomach dropped.
Bennett.
“My last name?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
His voice became quiet.
“My last name.”
I stared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
Michael looked at the altered family photographs.
Then at me.
“You really don’t recognize me?”
“No.”
A bitter smile crossed his face.
“Of course you don’t.”
Police were pounding on the front door now.
“Milwaukee Police!”
Walter called back,
“Back here!”
Michael stood.
Then reached into his duffel bag.
I stepped away.
He didn’t pull out a weapon.
He pulled out an old photograph.
He handed it to me.
The picture was faded.
Two boys stood beside a lake.
One appeared to be about nine.
The other maybe four.
I stared at the older boy.
Then my breath stopped.
It was me.
I remembered the photograph.
I remembered the summer.
I remembered the lake.
But I had never seen this version.
Because in the photograph my parents kept…
I had been standing alone.
I looked at the younger boy.
Then at Michael.
Same eyes.
Same jaw.
Same small scar above his eyebrow.
“What is this?”
Michael’s eyes filled with tears.
“Ask your father.”
“My father died eight years ago.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I went to his funeral.”
My blood ran cold.
“I didn’t see you.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
Police officers entered the bedroom.
Michael slowly raised his hands.
But he kept looking at me.
I held the photograph so tightly my fingers hurt.
“Who are you?”
He swallowed.
Then said the words that made everything else—the apartment, the forged documents, even Claire’s involvement—suddenly seem like only the beginning.
“My name is Michael Bennett.”
He paused.
“And according to the birth certificate your father spent forty years hiding…”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“I’m your younger brother.”
I couldn’t breathe.
I looked down at the childhood photograph.
Two boys.
Two brothers.
One memory I had somehow lost.
But then another thought hit me.
The screaming.
Walter had said Michael screamed almost every night.
If Michael had simply come here because of some buried family secret…
who had he been screaming at?
I looked toward the guest bedroom.
There were two coffee mugs on the nightstand.
Two pillows had been used.
And beneath the bed…
I could see a second pair of shoes.
Someone else had been living in my apartment.
Someone who had managed to disappear before I came through the door.
Michael saw where I was looking.
His face went white.
“Robert.”
I slowly turned toward him.
“Who else was here?”
He didn’t answer.
“Michael.”
His eyes moved toward the locked door at the end of the hallway.
A door leading to the small storage room I hadn’t opened in years.
Then he whispered,
“That’s the part Claire was trying to protect you from.”
