Rick wouldn’t stop staring at the ceiling.
At first, I thought it was nothing—just another strange dog quirk. But his late-night barking at the kitchen cupboards turned from odd to terrifying. The night I finally grabbed a flashlight and climbed toward the duct, I thought I was being paranoid. Then I saw movement. A filthy hand. A face. A man. My breath shat… Continues…
I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. The man’s eyes were wide, more animal than human, his body twisted to fit the narrow duct. Dirt streaked his cheeks, and his clothes clung to him with sweat and dust. In his shaking hands: a phone, a wallet, keys—none of them ours. The metallic echo of Rick’s barking filled the kitchen as I backed away and dialed the police with numb fingers.
They arrived fast, voices firm but cautious as they coaxed him out. He collapsed onto our floor, weak, blinking against the light, mumbling half-coherent apologies. Later, the officers explained he’d been moving through the building’s ventilation for weeks, slipping into apartments, taking small things no one would miss right away. A quiet, invisible theft—until one dog refused to ignore the ceiling. Rick lay at my feet, finally calm, as the truth left with the flashing lights.
