"The Neighbor from Hell in the Hills":
I moved to this quiet spot in the hills outside Knoxville with my wife Amanda and our boy Kadence about five years ago. We wanted a simple life, away from the city noise. Our home sat on a few acres, with solar panels for power and a well for water. No grid ties, just us and the land. The driveway wound up from the main road, shared with the empty lot next door. For a long time, it felt peaceful.
Then Jed showed up. He bought the place next to ours, a small cabin he fixed up quick. At first, he seemed normal. One afternoon, I saw him unloading boxes from his truck. I walked over with a plate of Amanda's cookies.
"Hi there," I said. "I'm Cody, from next door. Welcome to the neighborhood."
He looked up, wiping sweat from his brow. "Jed," he replied, shaking my hand firm. "From up north. Needed a change."
We chatted a bit. He mentioned driving trucks for a living, how he liked the space out here. I told him about our setup, how we grew some veggies and kept chickens. "If you need anything, just holler," I offered.
Things went fine for a week or two. But then I noticed him pacing along the edge where our properties met. He had a tape measure, marking spots with stakes. One day, he knocked on our door. Kadence answered, but I came quick.
"Cody," Jed said, holding a map. "This line here, it's wrong. Your fence cuts into my land by ten feet."
I frowned. "We've had surveys done when we bought. It's all marked proper."
He shook his head. "I checked the deeds. You're over."
We argued polite at first, but he wouldn't let it go. Days later, I found my stakes pulled up, his pushed further into our yard. I called the county, got a surveyor out. The man confirmed our line was right. Jed watched from his porch, arms crossed.
When the surveyor left, Jed marched over. "That guy's wrong," he snapped. "I know my rights."
"Jed, it's official," I said. "Let's drop it."
He stared hard. "This ain't over."
After that, the little things started. I'd catch him staring at our house through his windows, sometimes with binoculars. At night, I'd hear his truck idling near the driveway, lights off. Amanda got nervous. "Cody, he's watching us," she whispered one evening as we sat on the porch.
I tried to calm her. "He's just lonely. I'll talk to him again."
But talking made it worse. He began complaining about everything. Our chickens clucked too loud, he said. Kadence playing outside bothered him. One time, the boy was riding his bike near the shared drive when Jed yelled from his yard.
"Hey, kid! Stay off my side!"
Kadence pedaled back fast, eyes wide. "Dad, he sounded mad."
I confronted Jed that afternoon. "Leave my son alone," I warned. "He's just a boy."
Jed smirked. "Teach him boundaries."
The harassment built slow. He'd blast music late, aimed at our house. Trash appeared on our side of the line, like he tossed it over. I found footprints around our well one morning, fresh in the dirt. "Amanda, lock the doors tonight," I said.
She nodded, pale. "What if he does something?"
I didn't sleep much. Every creak made me sit up, listening. One night, I saw a shadow move near the chicken coop. I grabbed my flashlight, went out quiet. Jed stood there, shining his own light inside.
"What are you doing?" I demanded.
He turned slow. "Heard noises. Thought it was coyotes."
"On my property?"
He shrugged. "Lines are blurry."
I told him to get off. He walked away laughing low.
Weeks passed like that, tension thick. Other folks nearby, like Charlie and Robin down the hill, had troubles too. Charlie told me over coffee, "Jed's been at us about the road. Says we drive too fast. Called the cops twice."
"Why's he like this?" I asked.
Charlie sighed. "Some people bring their problems with them."
I started recording everything, just in case. Set up a camera by the driveway. Caught Jed pulling stakes again, middle of the day. Showed it to the sheriff. They warned him, but he denied it.
Then came the sign. Jed called me a hillbilly once, mocking our simple ways. So I painted "Hillbilly Holler" on a board, nailed it by our gate. Thought it might lighten things. Instead, he ripped it down that night. I heard the wood crack, looked out to see him stomping back to his cabin.
Amanda begged me to sell. "It's not safe, Cody."
But this was our home. We built it.
The breaking point hit one hot afternoon. Kadence and I were hammering together a new chicken coop. He held the nails, smiling. "Dad, can we get more hens?"
"Sure, buddy," I said.
Then Jed's truck roared up the drive. He jumped out, face red, charging at us. "You think you're funny with that sign?"
"Jed, calm down," I said, stepping in front.
He shoved me hard. I stumbled back, hit the ground. Kadence yelled, "Dad!"
Jed loomed over, eyes wild. "You will die," he hissed, voice low and cold.
Before I could stand, he grabbed the mattock from my tools – that heavy pick with the sharp end. He swung it down fast. Pain exploded in my face, blood everywhere. My ear tore, teeth cracked. I screamed, rolling away.
Kadence ran inside, crying for Amanda. She called the cops while I clutched my head, world spinning.
Jed stood there a second, breathing heavy, then dropped the tool and drove off.
At the hospital, doctors stitched me up. "You're lucky," one said. "Inch closer, it'd be worse."
My face hurt bad, swollen and bruised. Couldn't eat solid food for weeks. Amanda sat by my bed, holding my hand. "He almost killed you."
The police arrested Jed the next day at his job. Charged him with attempted murder. He claimed self-defense, said I attacked first. But my camera caught it all – the shove, the threat, the swing.
In court, things dragged. Witnesses from the neighborhood spoke up, about his temper, the disputes. Charlie said, "He's been trouble since day one."
Jed's lawyer argued he felt threatened, living alone out there. But the judge saw the video. Charges stuck at first, but somehow, they dropped to lesser ones later. Plea deal or something. He sold his place quick, moved away.
We stayed, but it changed us. I check the locks every night, scan the trees for movement. Kadence has nightmares, wakes up asking if Jed's back. Amanda jumps at every car sound.
Out here, off the grid, you think you're free. But a bad neighbor turns it into a trap. I still feel his eyes sometimes, even though he's gone. Like the fear he planted never leaves.
"The Man in the Trees":
I moved my family to that old cabin last summer because Emily's dad left it to her in his will. It sat way out in the woods, about seventy miles from the nearest town, with no power lines or water hookups. We had to rely on a generator for lights and a well for everything else. Emily thought it would be good for us—fresh start away from the city noise. Our boy, Tom, was ten, and little Lily turned eight right after we got there. They loved running around the trees at first, exploring like kids do.
The cabin needed work. I spent days fixing the roof and clearing brush. Emily handled the inside, painting walls and setting up the kitchen. We homeschooled the kids since school was too far. It felt peaceful for a while. No neighbors close by, or so we thought. The closest store was a twenty-minute drive to Walter's place, this old gas station with shelves of canned goods and tools. Walter was friendly, always chatting about the area. "Watch out for folks who wander," he said once when I bought some wire. "Some people live rough out here."
One afternoon, Tom and Lily came running back from playing in the woods. "Dad, there's a man watching us," Tom said, out of breath. Lily nodded, her eyes wide. "He just stood there, behind a tree." I figured it was their imagination, but I walked out with them to check. Nothing. No tracks, no sign. I told them to stay closer to the cabin.
A few days later, the generator sputtered and died in the evening. I went out with a flashlight to fix it. The cap was loose, like someone tampered with it. Fuel had leaked everywhere. I tightened it, got it running again. Emily worried it was animals, but I started wondering. That night, I sat up late, listening. The woods were quiet, but I felt eyes on the place.
Next morning, Walter at the store asked how we were settling in. I mentioned the generator. He frowned. "Might be Marty. Lives a couple miles through the trees. Keeps to himself. Heard he's got a temper." I asked more, but Walter just shrugged. "Best not to poke around."
The kids saw the man again that week. Lily described him: tall, scruffy beard, old coat. "He waved at us, but not nice," she said. Tom added, "He had a gun on his belt." I told Emily we should talk to him, set boundaries. She didn't like it. "What if he's dangerous?" But I couldn't let it go.
I hiked out one day, following a faint path. Found a shack, run-down, with junk piled outside. A man stepped out—Marty, I guessed. He looked at me hard. "What you want?" he grumbled.
"I'm from the cabin down the way," I said. "My kids say they've seen you around. Just want to make sure everything's okay."
He stared, then spit on the ground. "Kids shouldn't wander. This is my land."
"It's not," I said calm. "But we can stay out of each other's way."
He grunted and went inside without another word. I walked back, feeling uneasy. That night, the generator failed again. This time, cables were yanked loose. I fixed it, but anger built up. Someone was messing with us.
Emily and I argued about it. "We should leave," she whispered in bed. "For the kids."
"Not yet," I said. "We can handle this."
The real trouble came a Saturday. The kids were playing near the edge of the woods. I heard screams. Ran out, saw Tom and Lily bolting toward me, faces pale. "He's chasing us!" Tom yelled. "With a gun!"
I grabbed my rifle from inside, heart racing. Pushed the kids to Emily, told her to lock up. Then I headed into the trees. Branches scratched my arms as I moved fast. Heard footsteps ahead. "Hey!" I shouted. "Stop!"
Marty burst out from behind a bush, shotgun in hand. It was sawed off, illegal looking. He pointed it at me. "Your brats trespassed," he snarled. "Told you to keep them away."
"They're kids," I said, raising my rifle slow. "Put that down."
He laughed, a mean sound. "You think you own this? I was here first."
We stood there, guns aimed, seconds stretching. Sweat trickled down my back. I thought of Emily and the kids, alone at the cabin. "Back off," I said firm. "Or I'll shoot."
He lowered his gun a bit, eyes narrowing. "This ain't over." Then he turned and vanished into the woods.
I rushed back, shaking. Emily met me at the door, hugging the kids. "What happened?" she asked.
"He chased them with a shotgun," I said. "We need help."
We drove to town right away, found the sheriff's office. Sheriff Harlan listened, nodding. "Marty's known around here. Let's check it out."
They went to his shack that afternoon. I waited at the cabin, pacing. Emily kept the kids inside, doors locked. Hours later, the sheriff called. "You were right to come in," he said. "Found something bad."
"What?" I asked.
"His wife's body. Buried shallow behind the shack. Shot multiple times. Looks old, maybe years."
I sat down hard. "His wife?"
"Yeah. And we dug into records. Marty killed her ex-boyfriend back in the eighties. Got off on some technicality. Been hiding out ever since."
They arrested him that day. Charged with murder, plus the threats to us. The kids were scared for weeks, asking if he'd come back. Lily drew pictures of the man in the trees. Tom stopped playing outside much.
We stayed in the cabin, but it changed everything. Emily homeschools now, and I keep the rifle loaded. Walter at the store shook his head when I told him. "Lucky you caught it early," he said. "Could've been worse."
Sometimes at night, I hear branches snap outside. I tell myself it's deer or wind. But I check anyway, flashlight in hand, rifle ready. Out here, you never know who's watching from the woods.
"Ten Acres of Trouble":
I bought this small cabin in the woods last year, looking for some quiet after years in the city. The place sat on ten acres, far from the main road, with power from solar panels and water from a well. My closest neighbors lived about a mile away, a couple who kept to themselves. They ran an off-grid setup too, no electricity from the grid, growing their own food, hunting for meat. I met them once when I first moved in. The man, Tom, shook my hand firm and said little. His wife, Lena, smiled but her eyes stayed cold. "We like our privacy out here," Tom told me. "You will too."
At first, everything felt right. I spent days fixing up the cabin, chopping wood, walking the trails. But after a few weeks, odd things started. One night, around midnight, I heard footsteps outside. Crunch, crunch on the dry leaves. I sat up in bed, listening. The steps circled the cabin slow, like someone checking the windows. I grabbed my flashlight and looked out, but saw nothing. No animals, no people. I figured it was a deer or maybe a coyote. But the next morning, I found boot prints in the mud near my porch. Big ones, like a man's. They led from the trees and back into the woods toward Tom's place.
I walked over there that afternoon. Tom was splitting logs in his yard. "Hey," I said. "You hear anything last night? Footsteps around my cabin?"
He stopped, wiped sweat from his face. "No. Why?"
"Found prints. Looked like someone walked around my place."
Lena came out then, carrying a basket of vegetables. "Probably just wildlife," she said. "We get all sorts out here."
I nodded, but it didn't sit right. Their yard looked neat, tools hung on the barn wall, but something about how they glanced at each other made me uneasy. I went home and locked my doors tighter that night.
A couple days later, it happened again. Footsteps, closer this time. I heard a soft thump against the wall, like a hand testing the wood. My dog, Buddy, growled low from his bed. I whispered, "Quiet, boy." But he kept at it, ears up. I peeked through the curtain. A shadow moved near the trees, tall and thin. It stood there for a minute, then slipped away. My pulse raced. I waited until dawn to check outside. More prints, fresh ones, circling the cabin and stopping under my bedroom window.
I called the sheriff's office. The deputy who answered sounded bored. "Out there in the hills? Could be hunters or kids messing around. We'll send someone by when we can."
No one came that day. I drove into town for supplies and asked at the general store. The old guy behind the counter leaned in. "Tom and Lena? They've been out there forever. Keep to themselves. Heard stories, though. Folks say they don't like newcomers much. Watch your back."
That night, I couldn't sleep. I sat in the dark with a shotgun across my lap, Buddy at my feet. Around two in the morning, a rock hit the roof. Thunk. Then another. Thunk. Buddy barked sharp. I jumped up, flipped on the porch light. "Who's out there?" I yelled.
Silence. Then a voice from the woods, low and rough. "Hey."
My skin went cold. It sounded like Tom, but twisted. I shouted back, "Tom? That you?"
No answer. Another rock sailed over, landing near the door. I fired a warning shot into the air. Boom. The echoes rolled through the trees. Everything went quiet after that. I stayed up until sunrise, shaking.
The next morning, I marched to their place again. Tom was fixing a fence. Lena watched from the porch. "You throw rocks at my cabin last night?" I asked straight.
Tom looked up slow. "What? No. We were asleep."
"I heard a voice. Sounded like yours."
He laughed, but it came out forced. "Must be the wind playing tricks. Or maybe you got coyotes mimicking sounds. Happens out here."
Lena stepped closer. "You sure you're cut out for this life? City folks sometimes hear things that aren't there."
I stared at them. Their faces gave nothing away, but I saw a fresh mud streak on Tom's boots, same as the prints by my window. I turned and left without another word.
Things got worse after that. I started finding small things moved around outside. My axe leaned against a different tree. A chair on the porch turned to face the woods. One evening, as I chopped wood, I felt eyes on me. I looked up and saw a figure in the trees, gray clothes blending with the bark. It stood still, watching. I called out, "Hey! What do you want?"
The figure ducked back and vanished. I ran after it, but the woods swallowed any trail. That night, more footsteps. More rocks. Buddy whined and paced. I barricaded the door with a chair.
I went to the sheriff again, in person this time. The deputy listened, took notes. "We'll check on Tom and Lena. But without proof, it's hard."
They visited my place later that day. "No signs of anything," the deputy said. "But we'll talk to your neighbors."
I waited. That evening, Tom showed up at my door. His face looked hard. "Heard the law came by. You accusing us of something?"
"Just want to know who's messing with me," I said.
He stepped closer. "Ain't us. But out here, people protect what's theirs. You understand?"
Lena appeared behind him in the yard. "Come home, Tom. Leave him be."
He glared at me one more second, then turned away. As they left, I saw something in Lena's hand—a small rock, like the ones thrown at my roof.
I didn't sleep much. Installed motion lights around the cabin. Set up a camera by the porch. The next night, the lights flicked on at midnight. The camera caught it: a man in gray clothes, face hidden, circling the house. He stopped at the window, peered in. Then he picked up a stick and threw it at the wall. Thunk.
It was Tom. Clear as day.
I called the deputy right then. "Got video. It's Tom."
"Hold tight. We're coming."
But before they arrived, I heard scratching at the door. Like nails digging in. Buddy went wild, barking. I grabbed the shotgun. "Get away!" I yelled.
The scratching stopped. Then a voice outside, close. "Let me in. It's cold."
It was Lena's voice, soft. But I knew she wasn't there. Tom again? I looked through the peephole. No one.
Then the back window shattered. Glass flew. A hand reached in, groping for the lock. I fired through the wall. Boom. A yell outside, pain-filled.
I ran to the front, flung the door open. Tom lay on the ground, clutching his shoulder, blood soaking his shirt. Lena stood in the trees, holding a crowbar. "He just wanted to talk," she said, voice flat.
The deputy arrived minutes later, lights flashing. They arrested both. Turns out, Tom had a record—stalking an old neighbor years back, driving them out. Lena helped cover it. They saw me as a threat, too close, too nosy. Wanted my land for their setup.
The sheriff told me later, "They lived off-grid to hide. You're lucky you caught it on camera."
I sold the cabin soon after. Moved back to the city. But sometimes, at night, I still hear footsteps. And I wonder if they're really gone.
"The Bunker at the End of the Road":
I decided to move out to the quiet hills of Calaveras County back in the early 1980s. The place felt right for someone like me, tired of the noise and crowds in the city. I bought a small piece of land with a modest cabin, nothing fancy, just enough to live simple. Power came from a generator, water from a well, and the nearest store was a good drive away. My closest neighbors were about a mile down a dirt road, two men who kept to themselves mostly. One was older, in his forties, with a scruffy beard and a way of talking like he had all the answers to life's problems. His name was Leonard. The other was younger, quieter, with a sharp stare that made you wonder what he was thinking. He called himself Charles.
At first, I figured they were just like me, folks wanting peace. I ran into Leonard one day while fixing my fence. He walked over from his side, carrying a toolbox, and offered to help. "Looks like you could use an extra hand," he said, his voice calm but firm. I nodded, and we worked together for a bit. He told me about his setup—completely off the grid, solar panels he built himself, a big garden, even a bunker he dug for storage. "You never know when things go bad," he explained. "Society falls apart, and you need a place to hole up." I asked what he meant by that, and he just smiled. "Preparation, my friend. That's all it is."
Charles showed up later that afternoon, standing at the edge of the property like he was watching us. He didn't say much, just handed Leonard a wrench and muttered something about checking the traps. I thought they meant animal traps, for hunting rabbits or whatever. But the way Charles looked at me, his eyes narrow, made me pause. "You live alone?" he asked suddenly. I said yes, and he nodded slowly. "Good. Less complications."
Over the next few weeks, I saw more of them. They'd invite me over for coffee sometimes, brewed strong on their wood stove. Their cabin was basic on the outside, but inside, it had this odd feel. Books on survival everywhere, maps pinned to the walls with remote spots marked. Leonard liked to talk philosophy. "People are weak," he'd say, leaning back in his chair. "They rely on others too much. Out here, you learn who you really are." Charles would sit silent, sharpening a knife or cleaning a gun. Once, I asked about their past. Leonard said he was a photographer, used to travel a lot. Charles mentioned the military, but he cut it short. "Not worth discussing," he grumbled.
One evening, I heard noises from their direction. A muffled cry, like an animal in pain, carried on the wind. I stepped outside my cabin, listening. It stopped quick, but it stuck with me. The next day, I walked over to check if everything was okay. Leonard met me at the door, smiling as usual. "Just dealing with some pests," he said. "Nothing to worry about." Behind him, I glimpsed Charles dragging a heavy bag toward the bunker. It looked bulky, awkward to carry. "What's in the bag?" I asked, trying to sound casual. Leonard's smile faded a touch. "Supplies. Why do you ask?" I shrugged it off, but as I left, Charles stared at me from the window, his face blank.
Things got stranger after that. I started noticing cars pulling up to their place at odd hours—late night, early morning. Not locals, from the plates. People would go in, but I never saw them leave. Once, a woman in a red coat arrived alone. I watched from my porch with binoculars, curious. She knocked, Charles let her in. Hours passed, no sign of her. The next morning, her car was gone. I asked Leonard about it when he came by to borrow some wire. "Friends visiting," he said lightly. "She left early." But his eyes shifted, and he changed the subject fast. "You ever think about joining us for a real project? We could use someone handy like you."
I declined, but the invitation bothered me. That night, I couldn't sleep. Around midnight, another sound—a scream, human this time, cut short. I sat up, grabbing my flashlight. My hands shook as I dressed and stepped out. The road to their place was dark, no lights. I crept closer, staying off the path. From the trees, I saw their cabin lit dim. Shadows moved inside. Then, a thump, like something heavy hitting the ground. I inched nearer, heart racing quiet. Through a side window, I caught a glimpse: Charles standing over a figure on the floor, tied up. Leonard was there too, holding a tool I couldn't make out. The figure whimpered, and Leonard whispered something I couldn't hear.
I backed away slow, careful not to snap a twig. Back at my cabin, I locked the door, pushed furniture against it. What had I seen? A game? Something worse? I thought about calling the sheriff, but the phone line was spotty out here, and what proof did I have? The next day, everything seemed normal. Leonard waved as he drove past in his truck. But I noticed fresh dirt piles near their bunker, like they'd been digging.
A week later, they invited me again. "Come for dinner," Leonard said, stopping by my place. "We got fresh meat." His tone was friendly, but Charles stood behind him, arms crossed. I made an excuse about feeling sick. Leonard's face hardened. "Suit yourself. But don't be a stranger." As they left, Charles turned and said low, "We know you watch us."
That did it. I packed a bag that night, planning to drive to town at dawn and talk to authorities. But around 3 a.m., footsteps crunched outside. I peered through the curtain. Two figures approached—Leonard and Charles, carrying rifles. "Open up," Leonard called. "We need to talk." I stayed silent, gripping my own gun. Charles circled the cabin, testing windows. "He knows too much," I heard him say. Leonard laughed soft. "Then we'll handle it."
I waited, breath shallow. They tried the door, rattled it hard. When it held, they whispered plans. "Bunker," Leonard said. "Like the others." My mind raced—the screams, the visitors who vanished, the dirt. They were killers, hiding bodies right next door. I aimed through the window, but they moved back, melting into the shadows. Minutes dragged. Then, engine noise—their truck starting, driving away.
I didn't wait. Grabbed my keys, ran to my car. As I sped down the road, headlights flashed behind me. Their truck, gaining fast. I pushed the pedal, curves twisting sharp. They rammed my bumper once, twice. My car swerved, tires screeching. Ahead, a bridge over a ravine. I floored it, crossed just as they hit again. My rear tire blew, car spinning. I jumped out, rolled into bushes. They stopped, doors opening. "Where is he?" Charles growled.
I ran through the woods, branches whipping my face. Gunshots echoed, bullets whizzing past. I hid behind a rock, listening. Footsteps neared. Leonard's voice: "Come out. We can make this quick." I held still, praying. Then, distant sirens—someone must have heard the shots, called it in. The footsteps paused, retreated. Their truck roared off.
Police arrived soon after. I told them everything. They searched the neighbors' place. What they found... bodies in the bunker, tools for torture, videos of the killings. Leonard swallowed poison when cornered in town. Charles fled but got caught later. Turns out they'd been at it for years, luring people with ads, promises of work or adventure. Eleven confirmed dead, maybe more.
I sold my land, moved back to the city. But sometimes, I wake up hearing those footsteps, wondering if I missed something. Out there in the remote hills, people like them blend in too easy. Neighbors, just a mile away, hiding horrors in plain sight.