"Digging at Night":
I’d just moved into my new house, a small two-bedroom place in a quiet suburban neighborhood. The street was peaceful, with neat lawns and kids’ bikes scattered around. My next-door neighbor, John, lived in a similar house with his wife, Emily, and their six-year-old daughter, Lily. The first day I moved in, they came over with a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Emily was warm, her smile bright as she handed me the plate. “Thought you might like these to settle in,” she said, brushing a strand of brown hair from her face. Lily clung to her leg, clutching a pink stuffed bunny, her big eyes curious but shy. John stood behind them, tall and muscular, maybe late thirties, with a short beard. “Nice to have you here,” he said, his voice flat, his eyes lingering on me a little too long. I smiled back, but his stare made my skin prickle. I told myself it was just new-neighbor nerves.
The first few weeks were uneventful. I’d see Emily in her garden, kneeling in the dirt, planting flowers, or Lily riding her tricycle in their driveway, the bunny strapped to the handlebars. John was around less, but when I saw him, he’d wave, though his face stayed serious, almost guarded. One afternoon, I bumped into him at the mailbox. “Settling in okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning me slowly. “Yeah, it’s great,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “Quiet street.” He nodded, then said, “Keep it that way.” His tone was odd, like a warning, but he walked away before I could respond. I stood there, clutching my mail, feeling uneasy.
A month in, I noticed I hadn’t seen Emily or Lily for days. Their yard was empty, no tricycle, no gardening tools. I figured they were busy, maybe on a trip. But one evening, I saw John dragging a heavy black trash bag to the curb. It looked lumpy, awkward to carry. I waved from my porch, trying to be neighborly. “Hey, haven’t seen Emily or Lily lately. Everything okay?” I asked. He froze for a second, then turned, his eyes narrow. “They’re visiting family,” he said, his voice too smooth, like he’d practiced it. “They’ll be back soon.” I nodded, but something felt off. Their Jeep was still in the garage, its tires covered in dust. And I could’ve sworn I’d heard shouting from their house the night before—Emily’s voice, sharp and panicked, then silence.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Around 2 a.m., I heard noises from John’s backyard—soft, rhythmic thuds, like a shovel hitting dirt. I crept to my bedroom window, heart pounding, and peeked through the blinds. In the faint moonlight, I saw John, hunched over, digging near his shed. The pile of dirt beside him grew larger with each scoop. My stomach churned. Why was he digging in the middle of the night? I tried to rationalize it—maybe he was planting something, fixing a pipe—but the image stuck with me, chilling me to the bone.
The next morning, I saw him at the curb again, hauling another trash bag. This one had something poking out—a flash of pink fabric. My breath caught. It was Lily’s stuffed bunny, the one she never let go of. My hands shook as I grabbed my phone and called my friend, Jen. “I’m freaking out,” I said, pacing my kitchen. “My neighbor’s acting so weird. Emily and Lily are gone, and I saw him digging last night. And now Lily’s toy is in his trash.” Jen’s voice was calm but serious. “That sounds bad. Maybe he’s just cleaning out stuff, but… keep an eye on him. And be careful.” She suggested I write down what I saw, just in case. “If it gets worse, call the police,” she added. I wasn’t ready for that, but I started keeping a notebook—dates, times, everything strange.
A week later, a foul smell started coming from John’s house. It wasn’t just garbage—it was thick, rancid, like rotting meat. It hit me every time I stepped outside, making my eyes water. I’d hold my breath when I passed his driveway. One day, I couldn’t take it anymore and knocked on his door. He answered, wearing a stained t-shirt, his face blank. “Hey, everything okay? There’s a weird smell coming from your place,” I said, trying to sound casual. He stared at me, his jaw tight. “Just some old trash,” he said. “I’ll handle it.” But his eyes were cold, almost daring me to push further. I mumbled an okay and left, my heart racing. The smell didn’t go away—it got worse.
Then the police showed up. I was washing dishes when I saw two officers knock on John’s door. He stepped outside, arms crossed, looking tense. I cracked my window to listen. “We’re investigating the disappearance of Emily and Lily Smith,” one officer said, holding a notepad. “When did you last see them?” John’s voice was low, but I caught, “They’re with family. Out of town.” The officers pressed him, asking for details, but he kept his answers short. They left after a few minutes, but I saw them glance at the backyard, then at each other. My stomach twisted. Disappearance? I thought of the digging, the bunny, the smell.
That night, the thudding started again. I grabbed my phone and added it to my notes: “2:17 a.m., digging sounds from John’s backyard.” I couldn’t stand it anymore. I needed answers. The next evening, I waited until it was dark and crept to the edge of my yard, hiding behind my fence. My heart pounded so loud I thought he’d hear it. Through the slats, I saw fresh dirt piled near his shed, a tarp half-covering it. A shovel leaned against the wall. My mind raced. Was that a grave? Before I could move, footsteps crunched behind me. “Hey,” John’s voice hissed. I spun around, my breath catching. He was at the fence, his face shadowed but his eyes glinting. “I saw you in my backyard earlier. Snooping.” His voice was low, threatening. “You never know what you might find, poking around like that.” I stammered, “I—I wasn’t, I just heard something.” He stepped closer, the fence between us. “Stay out of my business,” he said, then turned and walked back to his house. I ran inside, locking every door, my hands trembling.
I called Jen again, my voice shaking. “He caught me watching him,” I said. “He knows I’m suspicious. I’m scared, Jen.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “You need to call the police. This isn’t just weird anymore—it’s dangerous.” I didn’t sleep that night, jumping at every sound. I kept my phone close, ready to dial 911. Over the next few days, I stayed inside, avoiding John. But I couldn’t stop watching his house. The smell was unbearable now, and I saw more trash bags piling up by his curb.
Then, one morning, the street filled with police cars. Sirens wailed as officers swarmed John’s house. I watched from my porch, my heart in my throat, as they led him out in handcuffs. His face was blank, but his eyes locked on mine for a split second, sending a chill down my spine. A neighbor across the street, an older woman named Mrs. Carter, came over later, her voice trembling. “They found them,” she whispered. “Emily and Lily. Buried in his backyard.” I felt the world tilt. “What?” I managed to say. She nodded, tears in her eyes. “They’d been there for weeks. He… he killed them.”
The police confirmed it later. John had murdered his wife and daughter, hiding their bodies in the yard he’d been digging up at night. The smell, the bunny, the arguments—it all clicked into place, a horrifying puzzle. I couldn’t stay in that house after that. Every time I looked out my window, I saw that pile of dirt, imagined Lily’s bunny in the trash, heard Emily’s voice from that night. I packed up and moved a month later, renting an apartment across town. But the fear stuck with me. I check my locks three times every night, wake up to every creak, and sometimes, in the dark, I still see John’s eyes, watching me, warning me to stay out of his business.
"The Copycat":
I never imagined that moving to a quiet street in Willow Creek, Ohio, would pull me into a nightmare. My husband, David, our five-year-old son, Alex, and I were overjoyed about our new home. It was a two-story house with a wide front porch and a big backyard where Alex could run around with his soccer ball. The neighborhood felt safe, with neatly trimmed lawns and kids riding bikes. We thought it was the perfect place to start fresh after years in a cramped city apartment. But then we met our neighbor, Janet, and everything I thought I knew about safety unraveled.
It started on moving day. We were hauling boxes from the truck, sweat on our brows, when a woman crossed the lawn with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. She was in her late forties, with short brown hair and a smile that seemed too eager. “Welcome to the neighborhood!” she said, handing me the plate. “I’m Janet, from next door. My daughter’s off at college, so it’s just me now.” Her voice was warm, but her eyes lingered on me, scanning my face like she was memorizing it. I thanked her, introduced David and Alex, and promised to have her over for coffee once we settled in. She seemed nice, just lonely, I thought.
Over the next few weeks, Janet became a constant presence. She’d knock on our door at odd times—early morning, late evening—asking to borrow a cup of flour or offering tips on pruning roses. I’d find her standing on our porch, peering through the window if I didn’t answer right away. One afternoon, while I was hanging Alex’s tiny shirts on the backyard clothesline, I felt eyes on me. I looked up and saw Janet at her kitchen window, staring. Not casually glancing—staring, her hands still in the sink, unmoving. When she saw me notice, she didn’t flinch. She just waved, her smile stretching wide. My stomach twisted, but I waved back, forcing a smile. Maybe she was just curious, I told myself.
Things got stranger. I bought a blue sundress for a friend’s barbecue, feeling good in it for the first time in a while. A week later, Janet showed up at our door wearing the exact same dress. “Oh, what a funny coincidence!” she said when I pointed it out, laughing too loudly. But her eyes didn’t laugh—they watched me, sharp and unblinking. Then I noticed she’d started styling her hair like mine, pulling it into a loose bun I often wore. She even picked up my phrases, like when she said, “Bless his little heart,” about Alex after he showed her his toy truck. It was my phrase, one I’d used a dozen times. It felt like she was trying to slip into my skin.
One night, as I chopped carrots for dinner, David came home looking uneasy. “Some neighbors stopped me today,” he said, loosening his tie. “They asked if everything’s okay with Alex. Said they heard you’ve been leaving him alone for hours while you’re out.”
I dropped the knife, my heart racing. “What? I’m always home with him, or he’s with a sitter. Who said that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “They heard it from someone. It’s just talk.”
But it wasn’t just talk. A few days later, I opened the door to a woman in a gray blazer, holding a clipboard. “I’m from child services,” she said. “We received a report about possible neglect of your son.” My knees went weak. I invited her in, my hands shaking as I showed her Alex’s room, his toys, his schedule. I explained that I never left him alone. She was kind but thorough, checking our fridge, asking Alex gentle questions. After an hour, she said there was no evidence of neglect and left. But the visit left me rattled, humiliated. Neighbors’ eyes followed me when I walked Alex to the park, their whispers like needles. I knew it was Janet. Who else could it be?
I couldn’t let it go. The next day, I marched to her house, my pulse pounding in my ears. When she opened the door, her face lit up. “Oh, hi! Want some tea?” she chirped, like nothing was wrong.
“Janet, did you call child services on me?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
Her smile vanished. Her eyes widened, then filled with tears. “How could you think that?” she gasped, clutching her chest. “I thought we were friends! I’d never hurt you like that!” Her voice rose, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. A neighbor across the street glanced over, pausing her gardening. I mumbled an apology and left, but as I walked away, I felt her staring, her tears gone too quickly.
That night, I sat David down at the kitchen table. “She’s watching me,” I said, my voice trembling. “She’s copying me, spreading lies. I think she’s the one who called child services.”
He rubbed his temples. “She’s probably just lonely. Maybe a bit odd, but dangerous? I don’t know. Let’s just keep our distance.”
“I’m trying,” I said, “but she won’t stop.”
Keeping our distance didn’t work. Janet’s visits grew more insistent. She’d bring cookies or little toys for Alex—a plastic dinosaur, a shiny robot—even after I asked her to stop. One day, I came home from the grocery store and found Alex in the living room, playing with a new remote-control car. “Where’d you get that?” I asked, my voice sharp.
“Aunt Janet gave it to me,” he said, beaming as he steered the car across the rug.
I froze. Aunt Janet? I’d never called her that. My hands shook as I took the toy away, telling Alex we’d talk later. I marched to Janet’s house, the car in my hand. “I told you not to give him gifts,” I said when she answered the door.
Her face softened, but her eyes were cold. “I’m just trying to be nice,” she said. “He’s such a sweet boy. Don’t you want him to be happy?”
“This stops now,” I said, turning away before she could reply. But her gaze burned into my back.
The fear grew heavier. One night, as I tucked Alex into bed, I heard a soft rustling outside, like footsteps on gravel. I crept to the window, my heart in my throat, and peeked through the curtains. A shadow stood in our backyard, near the swing set, staring up at my bedroom window. I couldn’t see a face, but the shape was unmistakable—Janet’s short, stocky frame. My breath caught, and I yanked the curtains shut. When I looked again, the figure was gone. I told David, my voice shaking. “There was someone out there, watching us.”
He frowned, checking the window himself. “It’s dark. Maybe it was a neighbor’s dog or something. You’re stressed, hon.”
“It wasn’t a dog,” I snapped. “It was her.”
The next week, I came home to find our house… wrong. The kitchen chairs were pushed against the wall, not where I’d left them. A picture frame on the living room mantle—a photo of Alex’s first birthday—was tilted just slightly. A drawer in my bedroom was open an inch, my scarves rearranged. Nothing was stolen, but someone had been inside. I called David at work, my voice barely steady. “Someone’s been in our house.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Maybe Alex was playing around.”
“He’s five, David. He doesn’t rearrange furniture or touch my scarves.”
I bought new locks for the doors and started checking every window before bed. I stopped letting Alex play outside alone, even in our fenced backyard. The feeling of being watched never left. I’d catch glimpses of Janet’s silhouette in her window, her head tilted toward our house. At night, I’d lie awake, listening for footsteps, my heart racing at every creak.
Then came the worst. One morning, two police officers knocked on our door. “We have a report that you attempted to run over your neighbor, Janet, with your car,” one said, his face stern.
I stared, my mouth dry. “That’s insane. I didn’t do that. I wasn’t even on her street yesterday.”
Janet claimed I’d swerved at her while she was walking, nearly hitting her. The police didn’t arrest me, but they charged me with attempted assault. The next few months were a blur of panic and paperwork. We hired a lawyer, draining our savings with every bill. Neighbors stopped talking to us, their eyes cold when I passed. I felt like I was drowning. At night, I’d dream of Janet’s face, her smile twisting into something cruel.
In court, things finally turned. A woman from Janet’s old neighborhood testified, her voice steady. “She did this to me too,” she said. “Accused me of stealing, called the police, spread lies until we moved.” Then, a miracle: security footage from a house down the street showed Janet walking alone, no car in sight, at the time she claimed I’d tried to hit her. My lawyer presented the evidence, and the judge dropped the charges. I nearly collapsed with relief, but the fear lingered.
We moved three months later, to a small town hours away. Packing our life into boxes felt like escaping a cage. Our new house is quiet, the neighbors distant but kind. But even now, I can’t shake Janet’s shadow. I check the locks three times before bed. I wake up at night, heart pounding, certain I hear footsteps outside. Sometimes, I think I see her face in a crowd—at the grocery store, in a passing car—and my breath stops. I don’t know if she’ll ever find us, but I’ll never forget how she watched me, how she tried to unravel my life, piece by piece, until I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.
"Behind the Fence":
I lived in a quiet neighborhood in Fayetteville, North Carolina, in a small brick house with a neatly trimmed lawn and a creaky front porch. Next door were John and Tanisha, a couple who seemed to have it all together when I first moved in. They had two kids, a boy about eight and a girl around five, who’d chase each other in their backyard, laughing and kicking a soccer ball. John was the outgoing type, always waving from his driveway, cracking jokes about the local football team. Tanisha was softer, with a warm smile that made you feel like you’d known her forever. We’d chat over the low wooden fence sometimes, about the kids’ school events or where to get the best pizza in town. They invited me over for a barbecue once, and we sat in their backyard, eating burgers and watching the kids play tag. Everything seemed perfect. But over time, little things started to feel wrong, like a knot tightening in my stomach.
It began with small moments. Tanisha started looking tired, her eyes red and puffy like she hadn’t slept in days. One afternoon, I saw her in their driveway, unloading groceries from their blue minivan. A bag slipped from her hands, and apples rolled across the pavement. I jogged over to help, picking up a few before they rolled into the street.
“You okay?” I asked, handing her an apple.
She forced a smile, but it was thin, like it took effort. “Yeah, just clumsy. Thanks for helping.”
I noticed a bandage on her hand, a fresh cut peeking out from the edge, red and raw. “What happened there?”
“Oh, just cut myself chopping vegetables,” she said, tugging her sleeve down. “No big deal.”
She grabbed the last bag and hurried inside, her steps quick, like she didn’t want to talk anymore. I stood there, holding an apple, feeling uneasy but not sure why. Couples have rough patches, I told myself. None of my business.
But then I started hearing things at night. Muffled voices came through the thin walls between our houses, sharp and angry. I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make out words but only catching the tone—John’s voice loud, Tanisha’s quieter, sometimes pleading. One night, I heard a crash, like something heavy hit the floor. My heart jumped, and I sat up, listening. Silence followed, heavy and thick. I thought about knocking on their door, but what would I say? The next morning, I saw Tanisha in her backyard, hanging laundry on a clothesline. She moved slowly, like every step hurt, her face pale and her eyes fixed on the ground.
“Hey, everything alright?” I called over the fence, trying to sound casual.
She flinched, then looked up, forcing that same thin smile. “Yeah, we’re fine. Just a long night. Kids kept us up.”
Her voice was flat, and she didn’t meet my eyes for long. I noticed a bruise on her arm, half-hidden by her sleeve, purple and splotchy. “You sure? You seem a little off.”
“I’m fine,” she said, sharper this time. “Just busy. Thanks for checking.”
She turned back to the clothesline, pinning up a small shirt with shaking hands. I wanted to say more, but John stepped out onto their back porch, a coffee mug in his hand. He waved, all smiles, like nothing was wrong.
“Hey, neighbor!” he called. “You coming to the block party next week?”
“Uh, maybe,” I said, caught off guard. “Still figuring out my plans.”
“Gotta get you out there,” he said, grinning. But his eyes were hard, watching me too closely. I nodded and went back inside, feeling his gaze on my back.
The nights got worse. The arguments grew louder, more frequent. One evening, I was in my kitchen, washing dishes, when I heard Tanisha’s voice, high and panicked. “Please, John, just stop!” she said, clear as day through the open window. Then a thud, like something—or someone—hit a wall. I froze, soap dripping from my hands. My phone was on the counter, and I thought about calling someone, but who? What if I was overreacting? I dried my hands and stood by the window, listening, but it was quiet again. Too quiet.
The next day, I saw John in his garage, sharpening a kitchen knife on a whetstone. The sound—scrape, scrape, scrape—made my skin crawl. He looked up and saw me watching from my driveway.
“Just getting this ready for dinner,” he said, holding up the knife, the blade catching the light. “Gotta make sure it’s sharp.”
“Yeah, looks sharp enough,” I said, forcing a laugh. My stomach twisted as I walked away, picturing that knife in his hand.
I started noticing other things. Tanisha stopped coming outside as much. The kids, who used to be so loud and playful, stayed in their rooms more, their laughter gone. Once, I saw the little girl sitting on their front steps, hugging her knees, looking lost. I waved, but she just stared, then ran inside. I told myself I was imagining things, that every family has problems. But the knot in my stomach wouldn’t go away.
One night, it all fell apart. I was watching TV, the volume low, when a scream cut through the air. It was Tanisha, her voice raw and terrified. “No, John, please!” Another scream, then a horrible, wet thud. I jumped up, my heart pounding so hard I could barely think. I grabbed my phone and ran to my front door, stepping onto the porch. Their house was dark except for a faint light in the living room. I heard another cry, weaker this time, and then nothing.
I dialed 911, my hands shaking. “Something’s wrong at my neighbor’s house,” I said, my voice barely steady. “I heard screams. Please hurry.”
“Stay where you are,” the operator said. “Officers are on the way.”
I couldn’t just stand there. I ran across the lawn to their front door and knocked, hard. “Tanisha? John? You okay?” No answer. I tried the handle, but it was locked. I pounded again, my knuckles stinging. “Tanisha, open the door!”
Through the small window beside the door, I saw movement—a shadow stumbling, then falling. My breath caught. I ran around to the back, thinking I could get in through the patio. The glass door was cracked open, and I pushed it wide, stepping into their kitchen. The smell hit me first—something metallic and sharp. Then I saw her.
Tanisha was on the floor, blood pooling under her, soaking into the rug. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. A knife lay beside her, the same one John had been sharpening. I dropped to my knees, my hands hovering over her, not knowing what to do. “Tanisha,” I whispered, my voice breaking. She didn’t move.
I heard sirens in the distance, getting closer. I stumbled back outside, my legs weak, and saw John’s truck peel out of the driveway, tires screeching. The police arrived minutes later, their lights flashing red and blue across the street. I told them what I’d seen, my words tripping over each other. They went inside, and one officer came out, his face grim.
“She’s gone,” he said. “We’ll find him.”
They didn’t have to look far. Later that night, I learned John had driven his truck into an oncoming semi on the highway outside town. He didn’t survive. The kids were with their grandparents, safe but orphaned. The police said it was domestic violence, that John had been hurting Tanisha for years, and no one knew how bad it was until it was too late.
I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Tanisha’s face, her empty stare. I kept thinking about the signs—the bruises, the arguments, the way she’d pull away when I asked if she was okay. How could I not see what was happening right next door? I thought they were just a normal couple, maybe going through a rough patch. But it was so much worse.
The house next door is empty now. The kids’ toys are gone, the yard overgrown. Sometimes, I sit on my porch and stare at their front door, wondering what I could’ve done differently. I should’ve asked more questions, pushed harder when Tanisha brushed me off. Maybe if I had, she’d still be here. The neighborhood is still quiet, but it’s not peaceful anymore. It’s the kind of quiet that hides things, the kind that makes you wonder what’s happening behind other closed doors.
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