A couple of weeks ago, I went to a local thrift store to look for cheap electronics. I mess around with old phones as a hobby—taking them apart, salvaging parts, that sort of thing. It’s a small-town store, the kind where everything is dusty, and half the inventory is donated junk that probably should’ve been thrown out.
Among the usual piles of broken flip phones and ancient chargers, I found a smartphone. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was intact and priced at only $10. The back was scratched up, and there was sticker residue on it, but it looked like it might work. I didn’t even test it; I just grabbed it and paid.
When I got home, I powered it up out of curiosity. To my surprise, it turned on without needing a charge. It was slow and glitchy, but functional. I thought maybe I’d gotten lucky and could salvage more than just parts.
Here’s where things get… weird.
The phone wasn’t wiped. That’s not super uncommon with thrifted electronics, but it’s always a little odd to see someone’s life still stored on a device they got rid of. There weren’t many apps installed, and most of the phone seemed pretty empty, but there were photos. A lot of them.
The first few were normal: blurry shots of a dog, random images of the inside of a car. The timestamps were inconsistent, suggesting the photos were taken over a span of years.
Then I noticed one of the photos looked familiar.
It was a picture of a white house. The angle was odd, like it was taken from the street or a distance. But it wasn’t just any house… it was my house.
At first, I thought it was a coincidence. My house is an older model, one of those cookie-cutter types you see all over small towns. But as I kept scrolling, there were more photos. Close-ups of my front door, my mailbox, my car in the driveway.
The timestamps on these photos were recent.
My stomach dropped. I couldn’t understand why someone would have pictures of my house, let alone why they were on a phone I’d just randomly picked up. I kept scrolling, my hands getting clammy. The photos became more invasive.
One was taken through my living room window.
I don’t have curtains in that room—just blinds I usually keep halfway open. In the photo, the angle was low, like it was taken from someone crouching outside. You could see part of my couch and the corner of the coffee table.
Then came a photo of my bedroom window. This one was at night. The flash reflected in the glass, and through it, you could see my bed and part of the nightstand.
I don’t know how many photos there were in total. I stopped counting after a while. Some were old, judging by the foliage or the state of my yard. Others looked like they were taken within the last few weeks.
I live alone, and my house is on the edge of town, bordered by woods. I don’t have neighbors close enough to see into my windows, and I don’t remember anyone ever lurking around.
The last photo I looked at before I shut the phone off was of my backyard. It was taken from the tree line, facing the house. You could see the back porch light on and the sliding glass door. I swear I could make out my shadow through the curtains.
I shoved the phone in a drawer in my garage and tried to forget about it. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the house made my heart race. I kept thinking about those photos, about someone out there watching me.
The next day, I decided to investigate further. I put on gloves and took the phone apart, looking for any clues about the previous owner. The SIM card was missing, but the memory card was still inside. I popped it into my computer to see if there was anything else stored on it.
There were more photos. Hundreds of them.
Most were similar to what I’d already seen: random objects, blurry landscapes, and an unsettling number of shots of my house. But then I found a folder labeled “Logs.” Inside were text files with timestamps and GPS coordinates. It looked like someone had been keeping meticulous records of where they’d been and when. My house’s address showed up dozens of times.
I started piecing things together. Whoever owned this phone had been stalking me. But why? And for how long? I’d lived in my house for five years. Had they been watching me that entire time?
As I scrolled through the files, one entry caught my eye. It was dated just two days before I bought the phone. The note read: *”Phase complete. Transfer to new device.”
A cold chill ran down my spine. Did this mean they’d intentionally left the phone behind? Was it a trap, or had they already moved on to a new device?
I decided to contact the police. I handed over the phone, the memory card, and all the files I’d found. They took my concerns seriously, especially after seeing the photos. An officer came to my house to check for signs of a break-in or surveillance equipment, but they didn’t find anything.
For a while, things were quiet. I installed security cameras around my property, changed my locks, and made sure to keep all my windows covered. I started to feel a little safer, like maybe whoever it was had moved on.
Then, a week later, I got an envelope in the mail. There was no return address. Inside was a single printed photo. It was a picture of me, sitting at my computer, looking at the files from the memory card.
The police are investigating, but they still don’t know who’s behind this. As for me, I’ve started looking for a new place to live. Somewhere far away, where I can start over. But even then, I’m not sure I’ll ever feel truly safe again.
If this story gave you chills, share it with your friends and family to remind them to stay vigilant. And if you’ve ever had a similar experience, I’d love to hear about it in the comments below. Let’s help each other stay safe and aware.