"The Road":
It started small, the way these things often do in a place like this—far out on a dirt road where houses sit spaced apart, and the nearest store is a twenty-minute drive. My wife Myla and I had picked this spot in Kings Mountain, North Carolina, back in 2014, thinking it would be quiet for raising our kids. The road we shared with our neighbor Robert Chad Bridges was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars, and rutted from rain. At first, he seemed fine, a guy who kept to himself, living with his fiancée Leslie. But then the problems began.
Robert drove too fast down that road, kicking up dust and rocks. Our son, who was twelve at the time, liked to play outside, and I worried about him getting hit. One day in September 2015, I asked Robert to slow down. He got angry, said it was his road too, and before I knew it, he swung at me, his fist connecting with my jaw. I stumbled back, tasting blood, and called the police. They took a report, but nothing came of it. Myla was furious when she heard. She confronted Robert's fiancée, telling her to keep him in check. That led to them filing complaints against us, saying Myla had threatened them and stalked around their property. It wasn't true—Myla was protective, sure, but she wouldn't do that. Still, the bad feelings grew.
By December, things got worse. Myla was out walking our dog one evening when Robert came out with a shotgun, pointing it right at her. She ran back to the house, pale and shaking, and told me what happened. "Jeff, he looked ready to pull the trigger," she said, her voice low so the kids wouldn't hear. I held her close, but inside, a knot formed in my gut. We filed another report, but again, no arrests. The police said it was he-said-she-said, and without witnesses, their hands were tied. From then on, we avoided Robert as much as we could. I'd see his truck parked at odd angles, like he was watching our house. Nights, I'd lie awake, listening to every creak and rustle outside, wondering if he was out there.
The tension built slowly, like pressure in a sealed jar. We'd exchange glares if our paths crossed. Once, when I was fixing the fence, Robert drove by slow, staring at me with this cold expression. "Better watch your step, Oaks," he muttered through his open window. I didn't respond, just turned away, but it stuck with me. Myla started keeping the doors locked even during the day. Our son noticed too—he'd ask why we didn't wave to the neighbors anymore. We told him it was nothing, but I could see the worry in his eyes. The road became a battleground. Robert would rev his engine loud in the mornings, waking us up. We'd find trash dumped near our driveway, stuff that looked like it came from his place. I confronted him once more, saying, "This has to stop, Robert. We're all trying to live here." He laughed, a sharp bark. "You started it, Jeff. You and your wife, always complaining. Maybe you should move if you don't like it."
January 27, 2016, was a regular Wednesday. I woke early to take our son to the bus stop at the end of the road. Myla was still in bed, but she called out, "Be careful out there." I nodded, though I didn't think much of it. The air was crisp as I loaded our son into the car. He was quiet, fiddling with his backpack. As we drove down the dirt path, I saw Robert's truck coming the other way. He was heading to work, I figured. The road was too narrow to pass easily, so I pulled to the side, expecting him to do the same. But he didn't slow down. Instead, he swerved, and his truck slammed into the side of my car with a crunch of metal. The impact jolted us—my son yelped, and I gripped the wheel hard.
I got out, heart racing, checking on my son first. He was okay, just scared. Robert climbed out of his truck, face red. "What are you doing blocking the road?" he shouted. I fired back, "You rammed me! You could've gone around." We were yelling now, inches apart. My phone was in the car; I thought about calling the police, but then I heard another engine—Myla's truck pulling up. She must have heard the crash from the house. She jumped out, rushing over. "Jeff, are you alright? What's going on?" Her eyes went wide when she saw the damage.
Robert turned to her, pointing. "This is your fault too. Always in the way." Myla stepped forward, protective as ever. "Don't talk to us like that. You caused this." The argument heated up fast. Words flew—accusations about the past months, the punch, the gun incident. Robert's voice rose higher, veins bulging in his neck. "I've had enough of you two." I saw him reach into his truck, and time seemed to slow. He pulled out the shotgun, the same one from before. Myla gasped, "Jeff..." I pushed her behind me, raising my hands. "Put it down, Robert. This isn't worth it."
But he didn't listen. His eyes were wild, like something had snapped. He leveled the gun at us. "You think you can push me around?" he snarled. My son was still in the car, watching through the window, his face pressed against the glass. I begged, "Think about the kid. Just calm down." Robert hesitated for a split second, then fired. The blast was deafening. Myla screamed as the shot hit her— she crumpled to the ground, blood spreading on the dirt. Pain exploded in my head next, a burning sear that dropped me to my knees. Everything blurred. I heard my son crying, the bus rumbling in the distance. Robert stood there, gun smoking, before walking away like nothing happened.
I don't remember much after that—the world fading in and out. Paramedics arrived, voices urgent. "He's been shot in the head. She's not breathing." My son ran to the bus, traumatized, not knowing his mother was gone. I woke in the hospital days later, head bandaged, body weak. Doctors said I was lucky to survive, but I'd never be the same—headaches, memory issues, a limp. Myla was dead, killed instantly. The police arrested Robert that day; he claimed self-defense, said we had drawn on him first. But the evidence showed otherwise—no weapons on us.
The trial in 2018 was a nightmare relived. I testified from a wheelchair, describing the feud, the collisions, the shots. Our son took the stand too, his voice small. "I saw the man shoot my dad and mom. They weren't doing anything bad." Robert testified, saying he feared us, that we blocked him in. But the jury didn't buy it. He was convicted of second-degree murder for Myla, assault on me, and more—sentenced to 38 years.
Even now, years later, that road haunts me. I moved away, but the memories linger—the way the dirt crunched under tires, the isolation that let hate fester unseen. What scares me most is how ordinary it started, a simple road dispute, turning a neighbor into a monster right before our eyes.
"The Lenoir Standoff":
I still remember the day Amy and I drove up that winding dirt road to our new home in the foothills outside Lenoir. We had two little girls, full of energy and ready for country living. The man who sold us the place, Roland Younce, lived right next door. He seemed like a solid guy at first—a Vietnam vet in his sixties, living with his daughter Aleashia and her boyfriend Ricky. He even introduced us to his dog, a pit bull named Harley. "He's a good boy," Roland said with a nod. "Keeps the critters away." We shook hands, and I thought this was the start of a quiet life.
Amy worked long hours out of town as a nurse, so I handled most things at home. I had lost my leg in a car accident years back, but I got around fine on my prosthetic and used an ATV for chores. The girls loved the space to run. Aleashia was sweet with them; she'd invite them over to pick movies from her collection. "Come on in, kids," she'd say, smiling wide. "I've got all the Disney ones." Ricky helped out too, offering to fix things since he noticed my disability. "If you need a hand with that fence, just holler," he told me one afternoon. I appreciated it but preferred doing things myself.
Things changed one January afternoon in 2008. The girls, then seven and eight, went next door to borrow a movie. They slid open the glass door by accident, and Harley bolted out. He chased them across the yard, snapping and biting. Both girls ended up with puncture wounds on their legs. I rushed them to the doctor, and the bills started coming. Roland came over that evening, looking sorry. "I'm real apologetic about that," he said. "Harley don't usually act up. I'll cover the costs." He paid the first bill, but when the second one hit for about nineteen hundred dollars, he balked. "This looks faked," he grumbled when I showed him. "Ain't paying that." We argued right there on my porch. "It's legit, Roland. The girls needed stitches and shots." He just shook his head and walked off.
We had no choice but to sue him for the medical costs. The court sided with Roland that summer, saying the evidence wasn't strong enough. But he offered to pay in installments anyway. "How about a hundred a month?" he suggested over the phone. I turned it down flat. "No, I want it all at once. You owe us." After that, the friendliness vanished. Aleashia and Ricky stopped coming by. I caught Roland staring at our house from his window sometimes, just standing there motionless. It made my skin crawl.
The complaints started small but built up fast. He'd call the sheriff about our ATV tracks near his property line. I'd report him for letting Harley roam free. Over the next year, we must have filed over two dozen reports between us. One day, Ricky came stomping over, yelling about some boundary marker I supposedly moved. "You think you own everything?" he shouted. I told him to back off, but he kept pushing. Things got physical—I fired a warning shot into the air, then swung a log that clipped his head. Blood everywhere. The cops arrested Roland and Ricky for trespassing or something related, and they spent two weeks in jail. When they got out, Ricky glared at me from across the yard. "This ain't over," he muttered before driving away. Soon after, he and Aleashia packed up and left Roland's place for good.
Living next to Roland alone felt different after that. He'd mow his lawn at odd hours, the engine roaring when we were trying to sleep. I'd wake up to the sound, peek out, and see him silhouetted against his porch light, pausing to look our way. "What's he doing?" Amy whispered one night, pulling the curtain back. "Just ignore him," I said, but I felt uneasy. The girls started asking questions. "Why doesn't Mr. Younce wave anymore?" the younger one asked. I didn't have a good answer.
Harley became the flashpoint. The dog kept wandering over, chasing our cat up trees or snarling at the girls through the fence. I'd shoo him away, but Roland would yell from his side, "Leave my dog be!" Tensions simmered until that night in late May 2009. It was around ten at night. I was outside checking on the cat when Harley charged across the yard again, teeth bared. He went after the cat viciously, cornering it. I grabbed my gun and shot the dog to stop him. He yelped and dropped. My hands shook as I called 911. "My neighbor's dog attacked our pet," I told the dispatcher. "I had to shoot it. Now Roland's threatening me."
Minutes later, I heard Roland's voice booming from his house. He was on the phone too, I figured. Then his words carried over: "You better get here quick before I kill him." My pulse quickened. I herded the girls inside and told Amy to stay low. "Lock the doors," I said. She nodded, eyes wide. "What's happening, Dad?" my eight-year-old, Ashley, asked, clutching her sister's hand. "Just a misunderstanding. Police are coming."
Two deputies arrived soon after—Sergeant Thomas McManus and Deputy Marty Robbins. They parked and approached my porch, flashlights sweeping. "Mr. Moore, tell us what happened," McManus said calmly. I explained about the dog, pointing to where it lay. Robbins nodded and went to check. The girls stood behind me, peeking out. Roland's house was dark except for one window glowing faintly. I wondered if he was watching us.
Suddenly, a shotgun blast shattered the quiet. Buckshot peppered the air. Robbins jerked back, hit in the chest, arm, and leg. He crumpled with a groan. "Get down!" McManus yelled, shoving the girls toward the door. Another shot rang out—Tony felt fire in my shoulder, then my back and hip. Pain exploded as I fell. Ashley screamed, "Daddy!" and then she gasped, clutching her side. Blood seeped through her shirt; the bullet had grazed her kidney.
McManus took a hit in his forearm but fired back toward Roland's house. Robbins, bleeding but conscious, joined in. More shots echoed. I lay there, vision blurring, hearing the girls cry inside with Amy. "Hold on," I whispered to Ashley, pulling her close despite the agony. Sirens wailed in the distance as backup arrived. The shooting stopped. Later, they told me the deputies' return fire had killed Roland right there in his living room.
The ambulance ride was a haze. Doctors said I got hit six times but nothing vital. Ashley needed surgery, but she pulled through strong. The officers recovered too—Robbins with scars, McManus back on duty eventually. We moved away after that, couldn't stay in a place soaked with that memory. Sometimes I think about how a simple bill turned into this nightmare, how a neighbor's gaze went from friendly to something darker. It creeps into my dreams, that feeling of eyes on us in the dark.
"Too Far Out":
I always thought moving to this remote spot in northern California would give my family the peace we needed. Wide open spaces, dirt roads, and neighbors far enough apart that everyone minded their own business. But that changed when the man next door started acting strange. His name was Kevin Neal, and at first, he seemed like just another guy trying to live off the grid. Over time, though, his anger built up, and it turned our little corner of the world into a place of constant worry.
My wife Tiffany and I had three boys: John, Jake, and little Nikos. We chose Rancho Tehama because it felt safe for them to play outside without the city chaos. The houses were spread out, surrounded by hills and trees, and the nearest town was miles away. Police didn't come around much, which was fine until Kevin started firing his guns at all hours. It began about a year before everything went wrong. I'd hear pops in the distance, like fireworks, but closer and more frequent. Every other day, it sounded like a battlefield. I remember lying in bed one night, listening to round after round echo through the valley. Tiffany would whisper, "Johnny, do you think it's him again?" I'd nod and say, "Probably just target practice," but deep down, I knew it wasn't normal.
Kevin lived about 200 feet from us on Bobcat Lane, in a beat-up mobile home. He kept to himself mostly, but rumors spread fast in a small place like this. People said he was paranoid, thought everyone was out to get him. Our neighbor Danny Elliott and his mom Diana Steele had the worst of it. They lived right next to him, and Kevin accused them of running a drug operation, even though no one believed it. I'd see Danny working on odd jobs around the area, fixing fences or clearing brush, and he'd tell me stories. One afternoon, while he was helping me repair our shed, he said, "Johnny, that guy's losing it. He yells at us over nothing, waves his gun around. Called the sheriff a dozen times, but they don't do much."
I nodded, wiping sweat from my forehead. "We've heard the shots too. Keeps the kids up. You think he's dangerous?" Danny paused, looking serious. "He's already stabbed Hailey, you know? Got arrested for it back in January. Bail got him out, but now there's a court order saying he can't have guns. Doesn't stop him, though." Hailey was Danny's girlfriend, and the stabbing happened when she and Diana were collecting wood near Kevin's property. He came at them with a knife, screaming. The sheriff took one of his rifles, but we all knew he had more. After that, a judge issued a restraining order—Kevin had to stay away from Danny's family and turn in all his weapons. He handed over a pistol, claimed that was it. But the shooting never stopped.
As months went by, the fear grew. Kevin would fire hundreds of rounds some nights, large magazines emptying fast. I'd peek out the window, seeing flashes from his yard. One time, I mustered the courage to walk over during the day. "Hey, Kevin," I called from the edge of his fence, keeping my distance. "The noise is scaring my boys. Could you tone it down?" He stared at me with cold eyes, gripping a tool in his hand. "Mind your own, Johnny. This is my land. You hear things you don't like, move." His voice was flat, but there was rage underneath. I backed away, heart racing, and didn't push it.
Then came the threats. One evening in late October, I was outside fixing the truck when I heard shouting from Danny's place. Kevin was yelling across the property line, "I'm gonna kill you, Danny! I'm gonna teach you a lesson. And after, I'm going after your boy at that school!" His words cut through the air like bullets. I froze, straining to listen. Danny shouted back, "Leave us alone, man! We've got the order!" But Kevin kept ranting. I ran inside and told Tiffany, "Call the sheriff. This is bad." She dialed, her hands shaking. The dispatcher said they'd send someone, but hours passed, and no one came. That wasn't unusual—deputies had been called 21 times that year to Kevin's place, for gunfire, fights, everything. They'd show up late, if at all, and Kevin would go quiet, acting like nothing happened. Neighbors like Joel and Nancy down the road complained too, but the sheriff's office brushed them off. "Too far out," they'd say, or "No proof."
The isolation made it worse. Out here, help was always slow. We'd text each other warnings: "Shots again tonight." My boys started asking questions. John, the oldest at 10, said one day, "Dad, why does that man shoot so much? Is he mad at us?" I hugged him and said, "No, son. Just stay inside when you hear it." But inside, I was terrified. What if Kevin snapped? His sister even called the sheriff from out of state, warning he was unstable, but nothing changed. We felt trapped, like sitting ducks in our own homes.
November 13 was eerie. The gunfire was louder than usual, closer. I heard arguing from Kevin's house, but it stopped suddenly. Tiffany and I locked the doors early that night, whispering about moving away. "We can't afford it yet," I said. "But soon." She nodded, holding Nikos close. Little did we know, Kevin had already killed his wife that night, hiding her body under the floor. The next morning, November 14, started normal. Tiffany loaded the boys into the car for school, waving goodbye as I headed to work on the property. "Be safe," I called. She smiled and drove off.
Minutes later, shots rang out—rapid, close. Not practice this time. I dropped my tools and ran toward Danny's place, where the noise came from. Smoke rose from Kevin's yard. "Danny!" I yelled, but no answer. My phone buzzed—Tiffany calling. "Johnny, something's wrong! Shots everywhere!" Her voice was panicked. Before I could respond, she screamed, "He's ramming the car!" Then gunfire over the line, kids crying. The call cut.
I sprinted to my truck, heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe. Dirt flew as I sped down the road. Sirens wailed in the distance, but too far. I found Tiffany's car off the side, windows shattered, blood on the seats. She was slumped over, shot five times. John and Jake were hit too, Nikos cut by glass. "Tiffany!" I shouted, pulling them out. A deputy finally arrived, helping load them into an ambulance. Kevin had already moved on, stealing a truck, firing at random people, crashing into the school gates.
He targeted the elementary, looking for Danny's son, I later learned. Kids hid under desks as he blasted windows, wounding several. A brave custodian drew his fire, getting grazed. Kevin kept going, killing more—Michelle McFadyen in a crash, others along the way. Police chased him down, shooting him dead after he wrecked.
Danny and Diana were his first victims that morning, executed in their home. Five dead total, besides his wife, and over a dozen wounded, including my family. Tiffany survived after surgeries, the boys too, but scars remain—physical and deeper. We moved away, but the memories haunt us. That rural dream turned nightmare because one man's rage festered unchecked. If only someone had listened sooner.
"The Uffelman Feud":
I moved to Machiasport with my parents when I was eight years old. We left Indiana because my mom and dad wanted a quieter life for me, away from the noise and trouble back there. Our new house sat on a stretch of road by the sea, with just a few other homes around. Across the street lived the Uffelmans—Richard, his wife Anita, and their two boys, Rick and Jerry. At first, everything felt right. Richard even helped my dad build a deck in our backyard. We had barbecues together, and I played with Rick and Jerry almost every day after school.
"Dad, can I go over to Rick's?" I asked one afternoon, kicking at the gravel in our driveway.
My dad looked up from his tools. "Sure, son. Just be back before dark."
Those early days were easy. Richard was a Navy veteran who worked at the post office. He talked a lot about discipline and order. His boys were polite, always saying "yes sir" and "no sir." But then small things started to change. It began with the dogs. Richard had a couple of them, and they barked a lot, especially at night. My mom mentioned it once, politely, when we were all outside.
"Richard, do you think you could keep the dogs quieter after bedtime? It's hard for us to sleep," she said.
He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "I'll see what I can do, Florence."
But the barking didn't stop. If anything, it got louder. Soon, Richard started complaining about us. He said our car lights shone into his windows too much when we came home late. My dad apologized and parked differently, but that didn't help. One evening, I heard raised voices outside. I peeked through the window and saw Richard standing in his yard, pointing at my dad.
"You're trespassing too close to my line, Michael. Stay on your side," Richard said, his voice sharp.
My dad held up his hands. "We're not, Richard. Let's talk this out like neighbors."
From then on, the friendliness faded. Richard stopped waving when he saw us. His boys weren't allowed to play with me anymore. Anita called my mom one day to tell her.
"Florence, Richard doesn't want the boys mixing anymore. It's for the best," she said quietly over the phone.
My mom hung up, looking worried. "What's going on with them?" she whispered to my dad.
I missed playing with Rick and Jerry, but what came next made me forget about that. Richard began using a megaphone. He'd stand on his porch and yell things at us whenever we were outside. "Get back in your house! You're bothering us!" His voice echoed across the road, loud and angry.
The first time it happened, I was riding my new bike in the driveway. The sound made me jump, and I fell over, scraping my knee. My mom rushed out and pulled me inside.
"Why is he doing that?" I asked, tears in my eyes.
"I don't know, honey. Stay away from the road," she said, hugging me tight.
My parents started calling the police. They came a few times, talked to Richard, but nothing changed. He filed complaints too—said we were throwing trash in his yard, stealing his mail, even shooting at his pool. None of it was true, but he had witnesses, friends who backed him up. The police were stuck in the middle.
Things got worse. Richard put up bright spotlights on his house, aimed right at our windows. At night, our rooms lit up like daytime. I couldn't sleep. I'd lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of those lights.
"Dad, I'm scared," I told him one morning over breakfast.
He ruffled my hair. "We're handling it, Mikey. Don't worry."
But I could see the strain on his face. My mom looked tired all the time. They bought heavy curtains to block the lights, but it didn't help much. Then Richard started shooting guns in his yard with his boys. Loud bangs, over and over, like they were practicing. It felt like a warning.
One night, I heard my parents talking in low voices in the kitchen.
"We need proof," my dad said. "The lawyers say without evidence, it's just our word against his."
My mom agreed. "Let's set up the camera. It'll catch what he's doing."
They placed a video camera in the kitchen window, pointed at his house. It ran all the time, recording everything. I watched them test it, hoping it would make things better.
But the harassment kept building. Richard drove by our house slowly sometimes, staring. His boys watched from their windows, never smiling. The whole neighborhood knew about the feud, but no one wanted to get involved. It was a small place; people picked sides quietly.
A few weeks later, my dad started carrying his pistol in a holster when he went outside. "Just in case," he told my mom.
That made my fear grow. What if something bad happened? I stopped going outside alone. The road between our houses felt like a line no one should cross.
On August 29, after dinner, my parents decided to go for a walk. It was something they did to clear their heads. They checked the camera first, making sure it was running.
"Stay inside, Mikey. We'll be back soon," my mom said, kissing my forehead.
I nodded and watched them step out the door. I went to my room, trying to read a comic book, but I couldn't focus. The house felt too quiet.
Then the shots started. Bang! Bang! Bang! So many, coming from across the street. I dropped the book and ran to the window. My heart raced as I looked out. My parents were on the ground, not moving. Richard came out of his house, holding a rifle. He walked over to them, calm as anything, and fired again, close up.
I screamed. "Mom! Dad!"
I didn't know what to do. I hid under my bed, shaking, until the police came. Sirens wailed, lights flashed. They found me there, pulled me out. Anita was outside, crying, but Richard just stood there, like nothing was wrong.
The police took the tape from our camera. It showed everything—the shots from Richard's window, his boys firing too, him finishing it. He said it was self-defense, that my dad had a gun and was coming for him. But the tape proved otherwise.
After that, everything blurred. I went to live with relatives. Richard went to trial, got life in prison. His boys were taken away, not charged because they were kids following orders.
Years later, I still think about it. The way a simple neighbor talk turned into something so dark. Richard had turned his house into a fortress—guns everywhere, secret rooms, wires to trip intruders. He trained his sons like soldiers. We never knew how deep his anger went until it was too late.
I visit Machiasport sometimes, but I avoid that road. The fear lingers, a reminder that even in a quiet place, disputes can turn deadly.