I stared at the screen, barely able to breathe. There was no one in the house. No one except me.

I remembered none of it. Not the steps, not the movements, not the mess. All those nights, all that fear, all those sounds — it was me. My sleepwalking. My nighttime self, which I had never known existed.

And the scariest part wasn’t that someone had been walking through my house. The scariest part was that this “someone” had been me all along — and that now I face a long journey of treatment.