When I moved in with my boyfriend, Jake, I noticed something odd about his apartment. There was a locked room at the end of the hallway. When I asked him about it, he shrugged and said, “Oh, that’s just for storage. Nothing interesting in there.”
At first, I didn’t think much of it. We were still adjusting to living together, and I wanted to respect his space. But something about the way he avoided the topic made me uneasy.
Then, there was his dog, Max—a friendly golden retriever who followed me everywhere. One evening, while Jake was out running errands, I was folding laundry when Max suddenly started barking at the locked door. His tail wagged excitedly as he scratched at the wood, whining.
“What is it, boy?” I asked, walking over. Max pawed at the door again, then looked at me expectantly, as if urging me to do something.
A strange feeling crept over me. I glanced around. Jake wouldn’t be home for another hour. My heart pounded as I reached for the doorknob and turned it, knowing it would be locked. But to my surprise, it wasn’t.
The door creaked open, and my breath caught in my throat.
Inside, the room was nothing like I expected. There were no boxes, no forgotten junk—just a single desk, a computer, and walls covered with photographs. My stomach dropped as I stepped inside. The pictures weren’t just random—they were of me.
Hundreds of them.
Some were from my social media, but others… others were taken without my knowledge. Photos of me walking to work, sitting at a coffee shop, shopping with friends. My hands trembled as I flipped through a notebook on the desk. Inside, I found pages of handwritten notes—about my habits, my favorite foods, the places I visited regularly.
It was obsessive.
It was terrifying.
Then I saw something that made my blood run cold. A recent photo—taken just days ago—of me sleeping in our apartment.
My breath hitched. This wasn’t just an innocent collection. This was something far darker.
Max barked again, and I realized I had to get out of there. I grabbed my phone and bolted from the room, locking it behind me. My fingers shook as I called my best friend.
“Come get me,” I whispered.
Minutes later, I grabbed my things and ran out the door with Max, not even waiting for Jake to come home.
I never went back.
Later, I found out Jake had a history of obsession—he had done this before with another woman, who had taken out a restraining order against him. I was lucky. Max had led me to the truth before it was too late.
Now, every time I look at Max, I remind myself—I may have rescued him from a shelter, but that night, he rescued me.
