"The Roses":
I moved into the boarding house on F Street back in the summer of 1987 because life had knocked me down hard. I had lost my job at the factory, and money was tight. A friend told me about this place run by an older woman named Dorothea who took in folks like me—people who needed a roof and three meals a day without too many questions. The house looked nice from the outside, painted blue with white trim, and the rent was low since she helped with social services. I figured it was a good spot to get back on my feet. Dorothea greeted me at the door with a warm smile, her gray hair pulled back neat, wearing an apron like she had just baked cookies. "Come in, John," she said, shaking my hand firm. "You'll fit right in here. We all look out for each other."
The first few weeks felt okay. There were about eight of us tenants, mostly older men and women who had seen better days. Some struggled with drinking, others had health problems. We ate together in the dining room—simple food like stew or sandwiches. Dorothea cooked everything herself, always insisting we clean our plates. "Waste not, want not," she'd say with a little laugh. I shared a room upstairs with a guy named James, who was quiet but friendly. He had some medical issues, talked about seeing the doctor for his stomach pains. We'd chat in the evenings, sitting on the porch, watching cars go by. But soon, little things started to bother me.
One night, after dinner, James didn't come back to the room. I asked Dorothea about him the next morning over coffee. "Oh, he left for Los Angeles," she said, stirring sugar into her cup without looking up. "Family business. He packed quick and caught a bus." It seemed odd because James hadn't mentioned any family, and his stuff was still in the closet. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe he was forgetful. But then, a week later, I noticed a bad smell coming from the backyard. It wasn't like garbage—more like something rotten, sweet and sour at the same time. The yard was small, fenced in, with rose bushes along the edges and a new gazebo Dorothea had some workers build. She spent a lot of time out there, tending the flowers, but sometimes I'd see her digging holes late in the evening, her flashlight bobbing in the dark.
" What's with all the gardening at night?" I asked her one afternoon while helping carry groceries in from her car. She paused, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Just fixing the soil, John. These roses need deep roots to bloom pretty. You wouldn't understand—it's a woman's touch." Her eyes narrowed a bit, like she was measuring me, but then she smiled again and handed me a bag of apples. "Here, have one. Fresh from the market." I took it, but something in her voice made me uneasy. That night, I couldn't sleep. I heard scraping sounds from below my window, like a shovel hitting dirt. I peeked out, careful not to make noise, and saw her silhouette in the yard, bent over, pushing soil around. What was she burying? Trash? It didn't add up.
More people started vanishing. There was Leona, a sweet lady in her seventies who lived downstairs. She was always knitting scarves and complaining about her aches. One day she was there, chatting with me about her grandkids, and the next, gone. Dorothea said, "She moved to be with her daughter. Happier that way." But I remembered Leona saying she had no family left. Then Vera disappeared right after her birthday. I had seen Dorothea giving her extra tea in the evenings, saying it would help her sleep. "Drink up, dear," Dorothea would coo, patting Vera's hand. "It'll make you feel better." The smell in the yard got worse, especially near the new concrete slab by the shed. I started avoiding the backyard, sticking to the front porch.
I began to watch Dorothea closer. She was always collecting mail, especially the checks that came for the tenants. She'd sort them at the kitchen table, humming old songs. Once, I caught her signing something that looked like Vera's name. "What are you doing?" I asked, trying to sound casual as I poured water. She folded the paper quick and stood up. "Just helping with paperwork, John. These folks can't always manage on their own. You worry too much—go rest." Her tone was sharp, like a warning. That evening, my dinner tasted funny, a bitter edge to the soup. I ate half and dumped the rest when she wasn't looking. My head felt fuzzy afterward, and I wondered if she had put something in it. Was that how the others went? Quiet, without a fight?
The fear grew slow, like a knot in my gut. I stopped eating full meals, making excuses about not being hungry. At night, I'd lie awake, listening for footsteps on the stairs. Once, I heard her in the hall outside my door, pausing, like she was checking if I was asleep. My breath caught, and I stayed still as stone until she moved on. Another tenant, Bert, arrived in early 1988—a nice guy with some mental troubles, always talking about his fishing trips. Dorothea doted on him, calling him "my Bert." But by summer, he was gone too. "He went to visit family in Mexico," she told me when I asked. "Sent me a postcard—want to see?" She showed me one, but the handwriting looked like hers. I nodded, pretending to believe, but inside, panic built. What if I was next? I had no place else to go, but staying felt like waiting for the end.
One day in November, a social worker named Judy came by, asking about Bert. She had placed him here and hadn't heard from him. Dorothea was all smiles, offering her tea. "He's fine, dear. Just traveling." But Judy looked doubtful, her eyes scanning the room. Later, police showed up—two detectives and an agent. They talked to Dorothea first, then asked us tenants questions. When it was my turn, I felt her watching from the kitchen. My hands shook as I spoke. "People keep leaving," I whispered to one detective, a guy named Cabrera. "But their things stay. And the yard... something's wrong out there." He nodded, but Dorothea called me over right after. "What did you tell them, John?" she asked, her voice low and even. "Nothing bad, I hope. We're family here." I mumbled something about routine questions, but her grip on my arm was tight, fingers digging in.
That night, I couldn't take it anymore. The next time police came back, I slipped a note into Cabrera's hand while Dorothea was distracted. "She's making me lie for her," it said. "Check the yard." They did. I watched from the window as they started digging, first near the gazebo. The shovel hit something solid. They pulled up cloth, then a shoe with a foot still in it. My knees went weak. More holes, more bodies—wrapped in sheets, some old and dry, others fresh enough to turn stomachs. Seven in all, buried right under where we walked every day. Dorothea stood on the porch at first, calm as could be, saying it must be a mistake. But when they found the third, she asked to go inside for a coat and vanished. Ran off, they said later, to Los Angeles, trying to start over.
They caught her quick, thanks to a man she met in a bar who saw her face on the news. Me? I moved out fast, but the memories stick. The way she smiled while hiding death in the dirt. The quiet house full of ghosts that weren't ghosts—just people she erased for money. I still check my locks at night, wondering if anyone else like her is out there, digging in the dark.
"2 A.M. on Parker Avenue":
I had just finished folding the last load of laundry that night, stacking the towels neatly in the basket by the couch. It was late, around two in the morning, and the house felt too quiet without my boyfriend, David, around. He was out of town for work, but his car sat in the driveway like always, a small comfort that someone might think twice before causing trouble. I lived on Parker Avenue in West Palm Beach, a neighborhood where folks kept to themselves mostly, but you never felt completely isolated. My phone buzzed on the nightstand as I climbed into bed, and I glanced at it—an alert from the security camera app. Motion detected in the backyard. I figured it was probably a raccoon or the wind knocking something over again, so I tapped the notification to check the live feed.
The image loaded slowly, and at first, I didn't understand what I was seeing. The camera, which should have been pointed straight at the back door and the patio, was angled off to the side, showing the edge of the fence and part of the neighbor's yard instead. My fingers tightened around the phone. That didn't make sense. Those cameras don't move on their own. I switched to the recorded clip from moments earlier, rewinding a bit. There, in the grainy night vision, a figure appeared—a man, slim and not too tall, with hair that fell around his face. He reached up, grabbed the camera, and twisted it away from the house. My breathing got shallow as I watched him step back, look around, and then walk toward the back door.
I dropped the phone for a second and pressed my hand to my mouth to keep quiet. He was out there right now. I picked it up again and hit the live view, but the feed was still sideways. No sign of him. Had he left? I crept to the bedroom window, which overlooked the backyard, and peeked through the blinds, careful not to make them rattle. The yard was small, just a patch of grass with a swing set for my little boy, who was thankfully at his grandma's that night, and a few potted plants along the fence. I strained my eyes in the dark. Then, movement—a shadow shifting near the door. He was there, his hand testing the knob gently, like he was seeing if it would turn. He lingered, glancing over his shoulder, then stepped back and looked up at the windows, as if sensing eyes on him.
Panic surged through me, making my legs feel weak. I backed away from the window and grabbed my phone again, dialing 911 with trembling fingers. The operator picked up quickly. "911, what's your emergency?"
"There's a man in my backyard," I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. "He's trying the door. I'm alone here. Please send someone fast."
"Ma'am, stay calm. What's your address?" she asked, her tone steady but urgent.
I rattled off the address, keeping my eyes on the door through the window now, from farther back in the room. "He's slim, maybe in his twenties, longer hair. He moved my security camera so it wouldn't see him. He's been out there for minutes already."
"Okay, officers are on the way. Stay inside, lock all doors, and don't go near the windows. Can you see him now?"
I peeked again. He was pacing a little, looking at the house, then he bent down and picked something up from the grass—maybe a tool? My mind raced with possibilities. What if he had a way to break in? The back door was old, the lock not the strongest. "He's still there," I said to the operator. "He's checking around the patio now."
"Keep talking to me. Are there any weapons in the house?"
"No, nothing like that. Just me." I moved to the kitchen, grabbing a heavy pan from the counter, feeling ridiculous but needing something in my hands. The minutes stretched on forever. I heard a faint scrape outside, like feet on concrete. Was he trying the door again? I imagined him forcing it open, stepping inside quietly, moving through the dark rooms toward where I stood.
The operator kept me on the line. "Officers are two minutes out. Stay where you are."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see, and whispered, "Hurry." Then, on the camera feed—which he had somehow twisted back partway—I saw him straighten up, look around one last time, and slip toward the fence. He climbed it quickly and vanished into the night. Relief washed over me, but it mixed with dread. Where had he gone? Was he coming back another way?
Sirens approached faintly, and soon blue lights flashed through the front windows. I heard boots on the ground outside, and my phone buzzed with another alert. The live feed showed an officer in the backyard, gun drawn, sweeping the area with a flashlight. He checked the door, the fence, called out, but found no one. I unlocked the front door carefully and let him in.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" he asked, holstering his weapon but keeping alert.
"I think so," I said, my voice shaking now that the immediate danger was gone. "He was right there, at the door. He moved the camera."
The officer nodded, taking notes. "We've had a few similar reports in this area lately—guys scoping houses at night. We'll patrol more, but you should consider extra locks or lights back there."
I showed him the footage on my phone. He watched it closely. "Bold one, doing that with a car in the driveway. He must have figured the place was empty or didn't care."
That thought made my skin crawl. Did he know David was away? Had he been watching the house before? I thanked the officer and locked up after he left, but sleep was impossible. Every creak in the house made me jump, every shadow outside the window looked like a figure.
The next morning, I called David first thing. "You won't believe what happened last night," I told him, my words tumbling out.
"What? Are you alright?" His voice was full of worry.
"Yeah, but scared out of my mind. Some guy was in the backyard, trying the door. I called the cops, but he got away."
David sighed heavily. "I should have been there. That car in the drive should have deterred him, but if he was set on getting in anyway... that's dangerous. It could have ended so badly."
"I know," I said. "What if he comes back? What if he knew I was alone?"
"Lock everything tight. I'll be home tomorrow. Maybe we need a better system, like more cameras or an alarm."
I agreed, but the fear lingered. I posted about it on the Nextdoor app later that day, warning the neighbors: "Hey everyone, just a heads up—had an intruder in my backyard last night around 2am on Parker Ave. Slim guy, early 20s, messed with my camera and checked the door. Cops came, but he fled. Stay safe."
The responses poured in quickly. One neighbor wrote, "That's terrifying! We've seen suspicious people walking late at night here too. Glad you're okay." Another said, "I'll keep an eye out. Let us know if you need anything." It helped a little, knowing people cared, but it also made me realize this wasn't isolated. Others had experienced similar scares.
Days passed, and the police followed up, saying they were investigating but no leads yet. I added extra lights to the backyard, double-checked locks every night, and kept my phone close. But even now, when I'm alone, I catch myself staring at the camera feed, waiting for another alert. What if he returns, more prepared this time? What if next time, he doesn't just check the door?
I try to push the thoughts away, but they creep back in the quiet hours. That night changed everything—the backyard, once a place for barbecues and my son playing, now feels like a vulnerability, an open invitation to the unknown. I listen for footsteps that aren't there, watch shadows that shift too much. Safety feels fragile, like it could shatter with one wrong move in the dark.
"Locked Away":
I was fourteen when my parents decided I didn't belong in the house anymore. It all began with small arguments, things like not finishing chores fast enough or talking back once too often. Dad, who everyone saw as this upright man in our community, lost his patience one evening in March. "You're acting out," he said, his voice low and firm as he stood in the kitchen doorway. "You need time to think about your behavior." Mom nodded along, her arms crossed, not saying a word against him.
That night, they led me out to the backyard. The shed sat about a hundred yards from the back door, an old wooden structure they used for storing tools and forgotten junk. It was just big enough for a cot, a small table, and some shelves. No lights inside, no heat, and for a bathroom, they pointed to a hole they'd dug in the dirt behind it. "This is where you'll stay until you learn," Dad told me, handing me a blanket and a bucket for water from the outdoor spigot. I looked at him, my throat tight. "Please, Dad, I don't want to be out here alone." He shook his head. "It's for your own good. We'll check on you in the morning."
The door clicked shut, and I heard the padlock snap into place. I sat on the cot, staring at the walls, listening to their footsteps fade back to the house. The backyard was quiet, except for the occasional rustle of leaves or distant cars on the road. I tried the door, pushing against it, but it held firm. Hours passed, and I curled up under the blanket, telling myself it was just for one night.
But one night turned into days. Every morning, Mom would bring a plate of food—bread, maybe some fruit—and unlock the door long enough to hand it over. "How are you feeling today?" she'd ask, her tone flat, like she was checking on a chore. "I want to come back inside," I'd reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's dark out here at night, and I hear noises." She'd glance away. "Your father thinks this is best. Show us you're ready to change." Then the door would close again, the lock clicking.
As weeks went by, the isolation started to wear on me. The shed smelled of damp wood and earth. I spent days sitting by the small crack in the wall, watching the house, seeing my siblings through the windows going about their normal lives. At night, it got worse. I'd lie there, eyes wide open, listening to every sound. Branches scraping against the roof, animals scurrying in the grass outside. Once, I heard footsteps circling the shed—slow, deliberate. I sat up, holding my breath. "Who's there?" I whispered, but no one answered. I convinced myself it was just a deer or a neighbor's dog, but deep down, I worried someone else might find me out here, vulnerable, with no way to call for help.
One afternoon, Dad came out alone. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, his face stern. "We need to talk," he said, sitting on the edge of the cot. "Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, my voice cracking a little. "I'm your son." He sighed. "You're testing us. The church teaches discipline, and this is how you'll learn it. God expects obedience." I wanted to argue, to tell him how scared I was, but his eyes warned me not to push. "When can I come back?" He stood up. "When you're ready. Pray on it." Then he left, locking me in again.
The fear built slowly. I started noticing things missing— a piece of bread from my plate, or the blanket folded differently than I'd left it. Was someone sneaking in while I slept? I asked Mom about it one morning. "Did you come out here last night?" She frowned. "No, why?" "Things are moved around." She laughed it off. "You're imagining it. Focus on improving yourself." But I wasn't sure. That night, I stayed awake, back against the wall, listening. Around midnight, I heard the footsteps again, closer this time, pausing right outside the door. The handle rattled slightly, like someone testing it. My breathing quickened. I grabbed a rusty tool from the shelf, holding it tight, ready to swing if the door opened. Minutes dragged on, but nothing happened. The steps moved away, fading into the night.
Days blurred together. I lost track of time, marking scratches on the wall to count them. My clothes got dirty, my skin itched from not bathing properly. The hole outside was disgusting, and I dreaded using it, especially after dark. One evening, as the light faded, I heard voices from the house—my parents arguing. "How long are we keeping him out there?" Mom said, her voice carrying on the breeze. Dad replied, "Until he breaks. It's working." Breaks? The word hit me hard. They weren't planning to let me back soon. Panic rose in my chest. I had to get out.
I waited until late that night, then started working on the door with the tool I'd grabbed—a old screwdriver. I pried at the hinges, sweat dripping despite the chill. It was slow, noisy work, and I stopped every few seconds to listen. After what felt like hours, one hinge loosened. My hands shook as I pushed the door. It gave a little. Freedom was close. But then, footsteps again—this time hurried, coming from the house. "What are you doing?" Dad's voice boomed from outside. The door flew open, and he grabbed my arm, yanking the tool away. "You think you can defy us?" His grip hurt. Mom appeared behind him, flashlight in hand. "We trusted you," she said, disappointed. They fixed the door right then, adding another lock, and left me in the dark.
The next few months were the worst. I stopped asking to come inside. Food came less often, and I grew weak. The noises outside became constant—scrapes, whispers almost. One night, a storm hit hard, rain pounding the roof, leaking through cracks. Water pooled on the floor, soaking my cot. I huddled in the corner, shivering, wondering if they'd even check on me. Morning came, and Mom brought dry clothes. "You okay?" she asked. "No," I said flatly. "This isn't right." She paused. "It's for the family."
Everything changed in August. I heard cars pulling up to the house, voices I didn't recognize. Then knocking on the shed door. "Police," a man called. "Open up if you can." I stood, legs shaky. The lock clicked from outside, and light flooded in. Two officers stared at me, then the shed. "How long have you been here?" one asked. "Months," I whispered. They took me out, wrapped a blanket around me, and led me to their car. I saw my parents being questioned, faces pale. "He needed discipline," Dad said to them. The officer shook his head. "This is endangerment."
They arrested Mom and Dad that day, charging them with putting me at risk. I went to stay with relatives, but the fear lingers. Every night, I check the locks on my door, listen for footsteps. What if they get out on bond and come looking? The shed is gone now, torn down, but in my mind, it's still there, waiting in the backyard.
"A Machete in the Dark":
I had just put our eight-year-old son to bed and was winding down in the living room when I heard a faint rustle outside. At first, I thought it was one of the dogs getting into something again, maybe knocking over a planter on the patio. We live in a quiet neighborhood near Bell and Litchfield roads in Surprise, Arizona, and noises like that happen sometimes. But this felt different—too deliberate, too close. I paused the show I was watching and listened. There it was again, a soft scrape, like someone dragging their feet through the grass.
My husband, George, was in the other room checking emails, so I got up and walked to the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard. The curtains were partly drawn, but I could see the outline of the yard through the gap. I slid the door open just a crack and called out softly, "Buddy? Luna?" thinking it was the dogs. No response. The yard looked empty at first, but then I saw him—a man standing right there in the grass, about fifteen feet away. He was motionless, staring straight at the house. My breath caught. He had something in his hand, long and shiny. It took a second to realize it was a machete.
I slammed the door shut and locked it, my hands shaking. "George!" I yelled, my voice louder than I meant. "There's someone in the backyard!" He came running from the hallway, his face going pale when he saw mine. "What? Who?" he asked, peering through the glass. The man hadn't moved. He just stood there, like he was waiting for something. George grabbed his phone and dialed the police while I backed away, pulling the curtains tight. "Stay inside," he whispered to me. "Keep an eye on the boy's room."
We have cameras around the house, so George pulled up the app on his phone. That's when we saw the full picture. The man had shown up earlier, around early morning hours—way before I heard the noise. The footage showed him at our front door first, holding up pieces of paper like notes, mumbling to himself. He looked right into the camera, his eyes vacant, like he was talking to someone who wasn't there. Then he wandered around the side of the house and slipped into the backyard. He passed right by our son's bedroom window, close enough to touch the glass if he wanted. My stomach tightened at that thought. What if the boy had woken up and looked out?
On the video, he paced slowly, machete dangling at his side, along with a small knife and what looked like a can of pepper spray clipped to his belt. He stopped near the patio furniture and just... lingered. For almost an hour. Not touching anything, not making much noise, just standing and watching the house. It was the waiting that scared me most—like he was building up to something worse.
George handed me the phone. "Police are on their way," he said quietly. "But I can't just let him stand there." I grabbed his arm. "Don't go out. He's armed." But George was already unlocking the door. "I have to get him away from here." He stepped onto the patio, keeping the door cracked behind him. "Hey! You need to leave right now," George called out, his voice firm but not yelling. The man turned slowly, his face blank. He didn't say anything at first, just raised the pepper spray like he was testing it.
"I'm telling you, get out of my yard," George said, stepping closer but staying out of reach. The man muttered something low, like "Someone told me to come here." His voice was flat, emotionless. Then he lunged a bit, trying to spray George, but missed. George jumped back, and the man bolted toward the wall, scrambling over it with surprising speed. George shouted after him, "Don't come back!" and then ran to the front to see where he went. Our neighbor heard the commotion and came out, helping George chase him a short distance down the street.
I stayed inside, heart racing, checking on our son who was still asleep, oblivious. The police arrived soon after and caught the man a few blocks away. His name was George Kotselas, they said. He had the machete, the knife, the spray—all of it. They arrested him for trespassing, but it was just a misdemeanor. By morning, he was out. That's what terrifies me now. We showed the police the videos, hoping they'd do more, but they said the sergeant would look into it. What if he comes back? What was he planning with that machete, standing there so long?
That night changed everything. Now, every little sound in the yard makes me freeze. I double-check the locks, keep the curtains drawn tight. Our son asks why we don't play outside as much anymore, and I don't know how to explain without scaring him. The man knew our house, passed our boy's window. He waited. And he's free.