"The Man at the Fence":
I was 10 years old when the strange things started at our house. It was an old, creaky place, with warped wooden floors that groaned under every step and windows that rattled in their frames. The backyard was huge, a wide stretch of patchy grass bordered by a tall wooden fence, weathered and splintered from years of neglect. Beyond the fence, dense woods loomed, their branches tangled like they were hiding something. I used to love that yard, spending hours kicking a soccer ball against the fence or climbing the gnarled apple tree in the corner. But that all changed one quiet afternoon.
It began with knocks on the front door. Three sharp raps, so loud they cut through the cartoon I was watching on the living room couch. My heart skipped, and I slid off the couch, my socks slipping on the slick floor as I ran to the door. I pressed my face to the narrow window beside it, expecting to see a delivery guy or maybe a kid from school pulling a prank. But the porch was empty, just the worn welcome mat and a few scattered leaves. I stood there, my breath fogging the glass, waiting for someone to pop out and laugh. Nobody did.
The knocks came again the next day, same time, same rhythm. I checked again, my hands sweaty on the doorknob, but the porch was still empty. By the third day, I was scared to even go near the door. My stomach twisted every time I heard those raps, like someone was playing a game I didn’t understand. That night, I told Mom while she was chopping carrots for dinner, the knife thumping against the cutting board.
“Mom, someone keeps knocking on the door, but when I look, there’s no one there,” I said, my voice small.
She paused, wiping her hands on her apron. “Are you sure, honey? Maybe it’s just the house settling.”
“It’s not the house. It’s loud, like someone’s banging on purpose.”
She frowned, her eyes searching my face. “Okay, I’ll check the locks before bed. But don’t open the door if you don’t see anyone, alright?”
I nodded, but her words didn’t help. That night, I lay in bed, my blanket pulled up to my chin, listening for those knocks. Every creak of the house made me flinch, and I kept my eyes on the dark outline of my bedroom door, half-expecting it to swing open.
A week later, I was in the backyard, bouncing my soccer ball off the fence. The yard felt different now, like the air was heavier. I kept glancing at the woods, their shadows stretching long across the grass. Then I saw him. A man, tall and thin, standing just beyond the fence, half-hidden by the trees. He wore a black hoodie, the hood pulled low so I couldn’t see his face. He didn’t move, just stood there, his head tilted toward our house, like he was studying it. My ball slipped from my hands, rolling into the weeds, but I couldn’t look away from him. My chest tightened, and my legs felt like they were glued to the ground.
He didn’t wave or step closer, but his stillness was worse. It was like he wanted me to see him, wanted me to know he was there. I backed up, my sneakers catching on a root, and then I turned and bolted for the house. I slammed the back door so hard the glass pane shook, and I fumbled with the lock, my fingers clumsy.
“Mom!” I shouted, my voice cracking. She was in the living room, folding a pile of towels, the TV humming in the background.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, standing up fast.
“There’s a man in the backyard! He’s just standing there, watching the house!” I was shaking now, my words tumbling out.
She hurried to the back door, pulling the faded curtain aside. I clung to her arm, peeking over her shoulder. The yard was empty, just the fence and the dark woods beyond. The apple tree’s branches swayed slightly, but there was no sign of the man.
“I don’t see anyone,” she said, her voice soft but uneasy. She locked the door and turned to me. “Are you sure you saw someone?”
“He was there, Mom! He was tall, all in black, with a hood. He was right by the fence.”
She knelt down, her hands on my shoulders. “Maybe it was a neighbor checking something out, or someone lost in the woods. But you stay inside for the rest of the day, okay?”
I nodded, but I knew it wasn’t a neighbor. Neighbors don’t hide in the trees and stare like that. I didn’t go back outside for days, and when I looked out my bedroom window, I kept the curtain cracked just enough to watch the yard.
The man came back. Not every day, but often enough that I stopped feeling safe. I’d see him from my room, always at dusk when the light was fading, his black hoodie blending into the shadows. Sometimes he’d be by the fence, other times closer, standing near the apple tree, his hands in his pockets. Once, I saw him press his hand against the fence, like he was testing it. I’d duck behind the curtain, my heart pounding so loud I thought he’d hear it. I stopped telling Mom every time, because she’d just say I was imagining things, but I knew I wasn’t.
One night, when I was 11, the phone rang during dinner. Mom answered, her fork still in her hand. “Hello?” she said, then paused. Her face went pale, and she gripped the phone tighter. “Who is this?” There was no answer, just a low, heavy breathing. She slammed the phone down, her hands trembling.
“Who was that?” I asked, my spaghetti suddenly cold in my mouth.
“Probably a prank call,” she said, but her voice was tight. She forced a smile. “Eat your dinner, honey.”
The calls kept coming, sometimes in the middle of the night. I’d hear the phone’s shrill ring echo through the house, and Mom would unplug it after the first one. The breathing was always the same, slow and deliberate, like whoever it was wanted us to know they were there. I started sleeping with my door open, just so I could hear Mom moving around if something happened.
By the time I was 12, things got worse. I was home alone after school one day, sprawled on the kitchen table with my math homework. The house was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge. Then the back door rattled, a sharp jolt that made my pencil skid across the page. I froze, staring at the door. It rattled again, harder, and I heard the wood groan, like someone was pushing against it. My mouth went dry, and I slid off the chair, my knees wobbling.
I crept to the living room, grabbing the cordless phone from the coffee table. The rattling turned into a thud, and I heard a scraping sound, like metal on wood. I dialed Mom’s work number, my fingers shaking so bad I messed it up twice.
“Mom, he’s here again! He’s trying to get in!” I whispered when she answered, my voice barely holding together.
“Stay calm, honey. Lock yourself in the bathroom and call 911. I’m leaving work now,” she said, her words sharp with fear.
I ran upstairs, my socks slipping on the steps, and locked myself in the bathroom. The tiles were cold under my feet as I sat against the tub, clutching the phone. I dialed 911, my voice shaking as I told the operator, “Someone’s trying to break into my house. I’m alone, and he’s at the back door.”
“Stay where you are, sweetheart. Officers are on their way,” the woman said, her voice calm but urgent.
I hugged my knees, listening for any sound. The house was silent now, but that made it worse, like he was waiting. I kept picturing him slipping inside, his hooded figure moving through the kitchen. When the police arrived, I heard their radios crackling downstairs. Mom got home right after, her face pale as she pulled me into a hug.
The officers found scratches on the back door, deep gouges in the wood, like someone had tried to pry it open with a tool. They searched the yard and the woods, but the man was gone. “Could’ve been a burglar,” one cop said, but he didn’t sound convinced. They told Mom to get a better lock and left.
The next morning, our neighbor, Mr. Johnson, came over. He was old, with a gravelly voice and a limp from an old injury. He sat at our kitchen table, his coffee mug steaming. “Heard about the scare,” he said, looking at Mom. “I’ve seen him a few times, always in black, hood up. He’s quick, slips into the woods before I can get a good look.”
Mom’s hands tightened around her mug. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t want to worry you without something solid,” he said. “But I’ll watch closer now. Got my rifle ready if he tries anything.”
Knowing Mr. Johnson saw him too made it real, but it didn’t make me feel safer. I started checking every window before bed, tugging the curtains tight. I hated being home alone, even for an hour. At school, I’d zone out, thinking about the man, wondering if he’d be there when I got home.
When I was 13, it all came to a head. I was in my room one evening, reading a comic book under my desk lamp. A shout from outside made me jump, and I ran to the window. Our other neighbor, Matt, was in his backyard, his shotgun raised. The man in black was sprinting across our yard, his hoodie flapping as he stumbled over a fallen branch. Matt yelled, “Get out of here!” and fired a shot into the air. The sound was deafening, like a thunderclap, and I pressed my hands to my ears.
The man scrambled up, limping slightly, and vanished into the woods. Matt stood there, his chest heaving, the gun still in his hands. Later, he came over, his face flushed with anger. “I saw him by your fence, messing with it,” he told Mom in our living room. “I shouted, and he took off. Fired a warning shot to make sure he got the message.”
Mom thanked him, her voice shaky. “Do you think he’ll come back?”
“Not if he’s smart,” Matt said, but his eyes were hard.
The man never came back. The knocks stopped, and the phone stayed quiet. The police never found him, and we never learned who he was or why he kept coming to our house. Maybe he was a drifter, maybe something worse. All I know is he left a mark on me. Even now, years later, I can’t sit in the backyard without feeling like eyes are on me. I check the locks every night, sometimes three times, running my fingers over the bolts to be sure. I don’t sleep with my door open anymore, but I still listen for sounds in the dark, waiting for a knock or a rattle that might bring it all back. That man, whoever he was, took something from me—a piece of safety I’ll never get back.
"The Garden She Never Got to Plant":
I trudged up the porch steps after my night shift at the factory, my boots heavy, my body aching from hours on my feet. The house was silent, no clatter of dishes or hum of Lisa’s morning routine. Usually, she’d be in the kitchen, pouring coffee, or the boys, Jacob and Shane, would be bickering over who got the last of the cereal. But today, nothing. Just an eerie quiet that made my skin prickle.
“Lisa?” I called, pushing the front door open. My voice bounced off the walls, unanswered. The kitchen was empty, no coffee brewing, no dishes in the sink. I checked the living room, the couch untouched, no sign of her morning crossword. My heart started to thud. I climbed the stairs, two at a time, to our bedroom. The bed was made, sheets tucked tight, like no one had slept there. “Jacob? Shane?” I shouted, but the house swallowed my words.
A gnawing fear settled in my gut. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. I remembered Lisa’s mom, Martha, lived next door, just across the narrow strip of grass separating our yards. Maybe they were there. I jogged over, my work boots crunching on the gravel path, and pounded on her door. Martha opened it, her face pale, eyes rimmed red like she’d been crying. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” she said, her voice trembling as she pulled me inside. “The boys are safe, but Lisa… she’s gone.”
“Gone?” I gripped the doorframe, my knees weak. “What happened?”
Martha’s hands shook as she gestured to the couch where Jacob and Shane sat, huddled together. “Last night, around three in the morning, Jacob woke up to screams. He looked in Lisa’s room and saw a man in a black helmet—like for snowmobiling—fighting with her. He grabbed Shane and ran here. I called the police right away, but they’ve been searching and… nothing.”
My chest tightened, like someone was squeezing my lungs. “What did the police say?”
“They took statements, searched the house, the yard, even the woods out back. But no sign of her.” Martha’s voice cracked. “Jacob’s blaming himself. He keeps saying he should’ve done more.”
I crossed the room to the boys. Jacob, twelve, stared at the floor, his hands clenched into fists. Shane, only six, clung to his brother, his face streaked with tears. I knelt down, my voice soft. “Jacob, tell me what you saw.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to mine, then away. “I heard Mom screaming. It woke me up. I ran to her room, and there was this guy… he had a black helmet on, all shiny, like for snowmobiling. He was holding her down on the bed. She was kicking, trying to get free. I wanted to help, but he was big, and I… I got scared. I grabbed Shane, and we ran out the back door to Grandma’s.”
My throat burned. I pulled them both into a hug, their small bodies trembling against me. “You did the right thing, Jacob. You kept Shane safe. We’ll find her, I promise.” But even as I said it, fear coiled tighter inside me. Lisa was strong, a fighter, but against a man like that? I pushed the thought away.
The police came back that morning, their radios crackling as they set up a command post in our driveway. Neighbors and friends showed up, faces grim, offering to help search. We spread out, combing the woods behind the house, the fields stretching toward the highway, the ditches along the road. Every hour that passed without a sign of Lisa felt like a weight pressing down on me. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, my mind replaying Jacob’s words, picturing Lisa struggling, her screams echoing in the dark.
By the second day, my hope was fraying. I walked the same paths over and over, calling her name until my voice grew hoarse. Volunteers moved slower now, their eyes heavy with pity. I ended up in our backyard again, near the fence line where the grass gave way to the open field. It was a spot Lisa loved, where she’d planned to plant a garden, maybe some roses. I stopped, my eyes catching on a patch of ground. The grass was flattened, the dirt loose, like someone had raked it over. I’d noticed it yesterday but thought it was Lisa’s doing, maybe prepping the soil. Now, it looked wrong—too smooth, too deliberate.
I crouched, running my hand over the dirt. It felt soft, freshly turned. My pulse quickened. I waved over an officer, a young guy named Tom who’d been kind to the boys. “Hey, Tom, come look at this,” I said, my voice tight. “This ground… it doesn’t look right.”
He knelt beside me, squinting at the patch. “You’re right. It’s disturbed. Could be nothing, but…” He grabbed a shovel from his patrol car. “Let’s dig a little, see what’s here.”
We started slow, careful, each scoop of dirt making my stomach churn. The shovel scraped against something hard, not a rock, something softer. Tom stopped, his eyes meeting mine. “Keep going,” I whispered, my voice barely there. He dug again, and then I saw it—a pale hand, fingers curled, sticking out of the earth like a claw reaching for air.
I screamed, stumbling back, my heart slamming against my ribs. “No, no, no…” I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Tom shouted into his radio, “We’ve got something! Backyard, now!” More officers ran over, their boots pounding the grass. They took over, digging faster, uncovering plastic sheeting, then a shape wrapped tight. Duct tape bound her wrists, her ankles. A pillowcase covered her head, taped shut over her mouth.
One of the officers, a woman with steady hands, knelt and carefully cut the tape, peeling back the pillowcase. Lisa’s face appeared, pale, her eyes closed, her lips still. I fell to my knees, a sob ripping through me. She looked peaceful, but I knew the terror she’d felt, the fight she’d put up. My wife, buried in our own backyard, where we’d watched the boys chase fireflies, where we’d laughed under the stars.
The next hours were a haze. Police taped off the yard, yellow lines crisscrossing the grass. Forensic teams arrived, snapping photos, collecting dirt samples, bagging the plastic and tape. I sat on Martha’s porch, staring at our house, now a crime scene. I had to tell the boys, but how? Jacob was old enough to understand, but Shane… I couldn’t break his world like that.
I went inside, my legs heavy. Jacob looked up, his eyes searching mine. “Did you find her?” he asked, his voice small.
I sat between them, pulling them close. “Boys, I… Mom’s not coming back.” My voice broke. “They found her… in the yard. She’s gone.”
Jacob’s face crumpled, tears spilling. “It’s my fault. I should’ve stopped him.”
“No,” I said, gripping his shoulders. “You did everything you could. This isn’t on you.”
Shane just stared, his small hands clutching my shirt. “Where’s Mommy now?”
I swallowed hard, tears burning my eyes. “She’s in a better place, buddy. She’s watching over you.” The words felt like a lie, but I didn’t know what else to say.
Later, the lead detective pulled me aside. “We’ve got a suspect,” he said. “Frank Spagnola, Lisa’s ex. Jacob’s dad. We found his DNA under her fingernails. She fought hard. We’re bringing him in now.”
I nodded, numb. Frank. I’d always known he was trouble, his temper flaring during their custody fights over Jacob. Lisa had been scared of him, said he’d threatened her before, but I never thought… not this. They told me he’d worn that snowmobile helmet to hide his face, planned it all, thinking he could bury her and walk away. The police found tools in his truck, dirt matching our backyard, and fibers from the plastic wrap.
Frank was convicted, sentenced to life without parole. But no court could undo what he’d done. Our home, our sanctuary, was ruined. The backyard, where we’d built a swing set, where Lisa had dreamed of her garden, was a grave now. We moved a month later, to a small apartment far from that place. The boys cried every night, and I couldn’t sleep, haunted by that pale hand in the dirt, by Lisa’s face under that pillowcase.
Even now, years later, I check the ground wherever I walk, afraid of what’s beneath. The fear never leaves, not really. It’s in every shadow, every quiet moment, a reminder of the horror we found in our own backyard.
"The Man Behind the Shed":
I’ve always cherished my backyard, a modest rectangle of grass and garden beds tucked behind our house in Riverside, California. It was my sanctuary, where I’d spend hours tending to my vegetable patch, pruning roses, or just sitting on the old wooden bench with a coffee, listening to the world slow down. But a few years ago, something happened there that turned my haven into a place of dread. This isn’t some spooky tale with ghosts—it’s real, raw, and it still haunts me every time I step outside.
My wife, Lisa, never liked me lingering out there after dark. She’d stand at the back door, arms crossed, her voice tight with worry. “You’re out there too long,” she’d say. “It’s creepy at night, with all those noises.” I’d brush it off with a chuckle. “It’s just the neighbor’s cat or a coyote sniffing around,” I’d reply, waving her concern away. “Nothing’s going to happen.” But our neighbor, Tom, had mentioned something unsettling a while back. He’d leaned over the fence one afternoon, his brow furrowed. “I saw some guy cutting through your yard a couple weeks ago,” he said. “Wore a dark hoodie, looked like he was in a rush.” I shrugged, figuring it was a teenager taking a shortcut to the street behind us. “Probably just kids,” I told him, but his words stuck with me more than I admitted.
About a month before that night, I started noticing odd things. My garden tools—a rake, a trowel—weren’t where I’d left them. I found them propped against the shed or lying in the grass, as if someone had picked them up and set them down carelessly. Then there were footprints in the soft dirt near the back fence, deep and wide, definitely not mine or Lisa’s. They were too big for an animal, too. I told myself it was nothing serious—maybe a delivery guy had wandered back there, or a neighbor’s dog had gotten loose and some guy chased after it. But Lisa wasn’t so sure. “You need to lock the shed,” she said one evening, her voice sharp as she stirred a pot on the stove. “And for heaven’s sake, stop leaving the gate unlatched. Anyone could walk in.” I nodded, promising to be more careful, but I didn’t follow through. I didn’t want to believe anything was wrong.
The night it happened, I was out in the backyard late, around 10 p.m., fixing a loose board on the wooden fence that separated our yard from the alley behind. The fence had been wobbling for weeks, and I wanted to nail it down before it fell over. I had my flashlight propped on the bench, its beam casting a pale glow across the grass, and a small toolbox at my feet. The only sounds were the rhythmic tap of my hammer and the occasional hum of a car passing on the street out front. I was focused, sweat beading on my forehead, when I heard a faint rustle from the bushes near the shed. I paused, hammer mid-air, my ears straining. “Hello?” I called softly, my voice sounding small in the darkness. Silence answered, and I shook my head, muttering to myself. “Just a raccoon,” I said, and went back to hammering.
But then it came again—louder, deliberate, like dry leaves crunching under a slow, careful step. My stomach knotted, and I set the hammer down, my hand trembling slightly. I grabbed the flashlight, its beam wobbling as I pointed it toward the shed. The bushes were still, their shadows jagged in the light. “Who’s there?” I said, louder now, trying to sound bold. Nothing moved, but the hair on my neck stood up. I felt it—someone watching me, their gaze heavy, like a weight pressing against my back. My heart started to thud, each beat loud in my ears. I took a step backward, my sneakers scuffing the grass, and called out, “Lisa! Can you come out here?”
The back door creaked open, and Lisa stepped onto the porch, her silhouette framed by the kitchen light. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice edged with irritation. She was in her pajamas, a mug of tea in her hand. “I heard something by the shed,” I said, keeping my eyes on the bushes. “It’s not an animal.” She squinted into the dark, her expression shifting to worry. “You’re freaking me out,” she said. “Come inside, now.” I wanted to, but I needed to know what was out there. “Just wait,” I told her, picking up a shovel that was leaning against the house. Its handle felt solid in my hands, grounding me.
Then came a loud snap—a branch breaking under weight. Lisa gasped, and I nearly dropped the flashlight. “That’s no raccoon,” I whispered, my mouth dry. She stepped off the porch, her voice rising. “I’m calling the police!” But I held up a hand, signaling her to stay quiet. “Let me check first,” I said, though my legs felt like jelly. I crept toward the shed, shovel raised like a baseball bat, flashlight sweeping the yard. Each step was agony, my pulse hammering in my throat. The shed loomed closer, its weathered wood barely visible in the dim light. The bushes beside it were thick, a tangle of leaves that could hide anything—or anyone.
Another rustle, sharp and close, made me stop dead. “Show yourself!” I shouted, my voice cracking with fear. The beam of my flashlight danced across the bushes, and then I saw it—movement, low to the ground. My breath caught as a figure rose slowly from behind the shed. It was a man, thin and hunched, wearing a dark jacket with the hood pulled up. His face was shadowed, but his eyes glinted in the light, cold and unblinking, like a predator’s. In his right hand, something metallic caught the beam—a knife, its blade maybe six inches long. My blood turned to ice. Time seemed to slow, every detail burning into my mind: the dirt smudged on his jacket, the way his fingers twitched around the knife’s handle, the faint rasp of his breathing.
“Get out of my yard!” I yelled, gripping the shovel so hard my knuckles ached. My voice sounded braver than I felt. Lisa screamed from the porch, her mug shattering on the ground. “I’m calling 911!” she shouted, fumbling for her phone. The man’s head jerked toward her, then back to me. For a heartbeat, I was sure he’d lunge, that blade flashing toward me. I braced myself, shovel raised, my legs trembling. But instead, he moved fast, bolting toward the fence like a startled animal. He crashed through the bushes, leaves tearing, and scrambled over the wooden slats, his boots thudding as he landed in the alley.
I ran after him, adrenaline flooding my veins, but I stopped at the fence, my chest heaving. He was gone, swallowed by the darkness. I staggered back to the porch, my hands shaking so bad I dropped the shovel. Lisa was already on the phone, her voice high and frantic. “Yes, a man in our backyard! He had a knife! Please, hurry!” She grabbed my arm, pulling me inside. “Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes wide with panic. I nodded, but I was far from okay. My mind kept replaying those eyes, that knife, the way he’d stood there, watching me. I locked the door, my fingers fumbling with the bolt, and sank into a chair, my legs weak.
The police arrived about ten minutes later, their sirens cutting through the night. Two officers, one tall with a notepad, the other shorter with a flashlight, stepped into the yard. “Show us where he was,” the tall one said, his tone calm but serious. I led them to the shed, pointing out the crushed leaves, the footprints in the dirt, the broken branch. “He was hiding right here,” I said, my voice still shaky. The shorter officer knelt, shining his light on the ground. “Fresh tracks,” he said. “Looks like he was here a while, maybe watching the house.” My stomach lurched at the thought. “You’re lucky he ran,” the tall officer added, glancing at me. “Guy like that, with a knife? Could’ve been bad.”
They searched the alley and the neighbor’s yard but found no sign of him. “Keep your doors and windows locked,” the shorter officer said as they left. “Call us immediately if you see anything else.” Lisa nodded, her face pale. “We will,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. That night, we didn’t sleep. We sat in the living room, lights on, jumping at every creak of the house. Lisa held my hand, her grip tight. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” she asked, tears in her eyes. “He could’ve killed you.” I swallowed hard, guilt twisting in my chest. “I didn’t think it was real,” I said. “I thought I was safe out there.”
The next morning, Tom came over, his face grim. “I heard what happened,” he said, standing at our front door. “That’s the same guy I saw before, I’m sure of it. He’s been lurking around the block for weeks.” My heart sank. Later that day, the police called with more details. The man matched the description of someone tied to a string of break-ins in our area. He’d been spotted watching homes, sometimes hiding in yards or garages, waiting for a chance to slip inside. One neighbor had woken up to find him standing in her kitchen, knife in hand, before he fled. They caught him a week later, hiding in a shed three blocks away, still carrying that knife.
We installed a security system the next day—motion lights, cameras, the works. I locked the shed, fixed the gate, and stopped going to the backyard at night. But the fear lingers. I can’t look at the shed without picturing him crouched there, his eyes locked on me. I hear that rustle in the bushes, even when it’s just the wind. My backyard, once my refuge, feels tainted, like a place where danger hides, waiting for me to let my guard down again. I know he’s gone, locked away, but those moments in the dark changed me. I don’t feel safe anymore, not even in my own home.
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