"Beneath the Quiet":
I’d been living in that quiet Wylie suburb for a few years when the Gores moved in down the street. My husband and I mostly kept to ourselves—quick nods over the fence, the occasional chat about the weather. Betty Gore always had a smile ready, though sometimes it looked like she’d put it on like lipstick, just another part of her morning routine. She taught at the local elementary school, chased after her two little girls—Alisa, bright and talkative, and baby Bethany, still in diapers. Her husband Allan traveled often for work, gone days at a time.
Candy Montgomery lived just a couple streets over, but everyone knew her from church. Candy was bubbly, the kind of person who always volunteered to run the bake sale or organize the Christmas pageant. She had her own husband, Pat, and two kids. On the surface it all felt like a Norman Rockwell painting of small-town Texas—church potlucks, kids on bikes, neat lawns. Ordinary. Safe. Until that one Friday in June 1980.
That morning began like any other. I was folding laundry, the hum of the dryer filling the kitchen, when the phone rang. Allan Gore’s voice on the other end sounded strained.
“Hey, it’s Allan,” he said. “I’m up in Minnesota for work, and I can’t get ahold of Betty. She’s not picking up the phone. Could you and your husband check on her? The girls should be there too.”
I paused, the receiver cold against my ear. “Sure, Allan. Probably just out running errands or something. We’ll head over right now.”
My husband was in the garage tinkering with his car. When I told him, he wiped his hands and we walked the short distance to the Gores’ house. From the outside, everything looked normal—the curtains drawn, no car missing, the quiet of midday hanging over the street. We knocked a few times, called out Betty’s name. Nothing. My husband tried the door. It swung open easily. That was odd. Betty was careful about locking up, especially with two kids in the house.
Inside, the air felt heavy, still. A faint metallic smell drifted toward us. “Betty? Alisa?” I called, my voice softer now. The living room looked normal, toys scattered like breadcrumbs across the carpet. Then, from down the hall, came a faint cry—thin, insistent.
We followed the sound to the baby’s room. Bethany was in her crib, her diaper soaked, her little face red and wet from hours of crying. My husband scooped her up, rocking her gently. “Where’s Betty?” he muttered, scanning the hallway.
I moved toward the kitchen, my steps slow. That smell again—copper and something else, thick enough to taste. On the linoleum, I noticed dark smudges leading to the utility room. At first, I thought it was mud or spilled paint. But as I drew closer, the odor sharpened, like pennies left to rust in a hot car. My hand trembled as I pushed the utility room door open.
What I saw made my knees give out. Betty lay on the floor, her body twisted, surrounded by a spreading pool of red that glistened under the fluorescent light. Her face was unrecognizable, slashed open, and beside her lay an axe, its blade crusted and dark. For a second, I couldn’t even breathe. A sound rose in my throat but stuck there. My husband came running at my gasp, saw what I’d seen, and pulled me back. “Don’t look,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He grabbed the kitchen phone, his fingers shaking, and dialed the police. “There’s been a murder. Betty Gore—she’s dead. Send help quick.”
The police arrived fast, lights flashing against the neat houses. They taped off the entryway, ushered us outside, and began their questions—when had we last seen Betty, had we noticed anything unusual. While we waited, Allan called again, his voice sharper now.
“What happened? Is Betty okay? The girls?”
I took the phone from my husband. “Allan… it’s bad. Betty’s gone. The police are here. Bethany’s safe, but Alisa—she’s not home.”
Silence. Then: “Alisa’s with Candy. She stayed over after Vacation Bible School. I’ll call her.”
That night, after the police let us go, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak in our house made me jump. Allan flew back the next day, pale and shattered. He told police about his affair with Candy—how it had ended, but how Betty had found out. Candy had been the last person to see Betty alive, stopping by that morning to pick up Alisa’s swimsuit.
Whispers spread like wildfire. People said Candy and Betty had argued. I remembered seeing Candy at church, always so composed, always smiling. But now, little moments resurfaced. A few weeks earlier, I’d run into Betty at the grocery store. She’d looked tired, eyes swollen.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
She forced a laugh. “Just the usual. Allan’s away again, and the baby’s teething. Candy’s been a big help, though.”
Her hands gripped the cart so tightly her knuckles whitened.
The police came to our door again. “Did you notice anything strange between the Gores and the Montgomerys?” the detective asked. My husband shook his head. “They seemed like friends. Church pals.” But I recalled a barbecue last summer. Candy and Allan had laughed a little too long over some joke, while Betty sat at the picnic table, poking at her plate. It hadn’t seemed like much then.
Days turned to weeks. The Gore house stood empty and dark. I’d walk past and feel eyes on me, even though no one was there. One evening, I was in my backyard hanging clothes when a car pulled up next door. It was Candy, dropping off some of Alisa’s things for Allan. She waved at me. “Horrible, isn’t it?” she said, her voice steady. “Poor Betty. I can’t believe it.”
I nodded, but my skin prickled. Why was she out on bail? News trickled out: Betty had confronted Candy about the affair. Candy claimed Betty had lunged at her with the axe. She said she fought back in self-defense—striking Betty over and over until she stopped moving. Forty-one times. That number stuck in my head, brutal and endless.
At the trial that fall, everything spilled into the open. Candy took the stand, her voice soft, her expression calm. “She came at me with the axe,” she said. “I was scared for my life. I grabbed it and… I just kept swinging until the threat was gone.”
The prosecutor leaned forward. “Forty-one blows? That’s not defense—that’s rage.”
Her lawyer countered with a doctor who claimed hypnosis had uncovered Candy’s repressed childhood anger. The jury listened. After hours of deliberation, they found her not guilty. The courtroom erupted. Allan sat stone-faced, holding Alisa’s hand.
Life went on—or tried to. But at night, lying awake, I’d imagine Betty’s last moments—the flash of the blade, the pain. And Candy, walking free, smiling maybe, going back to church. We’d see her sometimes around town, and I’d cross the street. Because once you know what a neighbor can do—hide an affair, wield an axe, walk away—you never feel safe again. Every locked door, every shadow in a window, is a reminder: evil can live right next door, wearing a friendly face.
"A Quiet Street":
The trouble started small—so small, it barely felt like trouble at all. A missing birthday gift for our daughter Ava. It had been left on the porch by a friend, a simple wrapped box, now gone. I accused Gary Hembree’s daughter across the street. Gary came over that evening, his face already flushed, knocking hard on our door.
“Barbara, why are you blaming my kid?” he barked the moment I opened it. “She didn’t take anything.”
I stood my ground. “Things don’t just disappear, Gary. Kids play around here all the time.”
He shook his head and turned away, but that was the spark. From then on, little things built up, like cracks creeping through a wall you don’t notice until the whole house shifts.
We lived on Smith Drive in Titusville, Florida, a stretch of asphalt where families like ours tried to keep their heads above water. My husband, Billy, had served in the Army during the first Gulf War. He came back changed—pains he never talked about, nightmares that woke him sweating. He kept chickens in the backyard, twenty of them clucking softly, a strange therapy he said helped calm his mind. Our two kids loved scattering feed, their giggles rising like bright notes over the birds.
Across from us lived Gary with his girlfriend Kim Sillsbury and his friend Roger Picior, always hanging around. Next door to them were Tim and Keri Blake, who used to be close to us once upon a time. Our kids had played together in the yards, barefoot, laughing. But after the gift incident, Gary reported our chickens to the city. Billy had to kill them all. I watched him do it, axe in hand, his face blank and tight.
“This is wrong, Barbara,” he said quietly, not looking at me. “Gary did this to hurt us.”
I nodded, feeling anger take root like a thorn.
After that, calls to the police became routine. Billy reported Gary for parking his truck on the grass. Gary reported noise from our house. One day, Keri Blake came over with a folded piece of paper in her hand.
“Barbara, you need to control Billy,” she said, her voice clipped. It was a notice. She and Roger’s girlfriend had gotten a protection order against him for staring too long.
I laughed at first. “That’s silly, Keri. He’s just watching the street.”
But her eyes stayed cold. “It’s not silly. He’s scaring people.”
Billy overheard and went quiet. Later, he told me, “They’re ganging up on us. I hear them talking.”
The court date came soon after. We all went before a judge for injunctions—Billy against Gary and the others; they against Billy. Stories spilled out like dirty laundry—stolen items, threats yelled across lawns. The judge listened, stone-faced.
“Go home and sort it out,” he said at last, denying everything.
Outside, in the parking lot, the tension cracked. Billy lunged at Gary, punching him hard enough to leave bruises. Police arrested Billy, but he was out quick. Gary looked at me as Billy walked away from the station.
“This isn’t over, Barbara,” he muttered.
I felt a knot form inside, wondering what he meant.
Weeks passed with more shouting. One night Billy played me a recording he’d made from across the street. Voices whispered through the static: “We’ll get him… make him pay.” Then laughter, low and ugly. Billy’s eyes were wide.
“See? They’re planning something.”
“Maybe it’s just talk, Billy,” I tried to soothe him.
“No,” he whispered. “Kim said she’d have Ava hurt bad. Rape, Barbara. Our girl.”
I gasped. “Who told you that?”
“Keri mentioned it in passing, like a warning.”
From then on, I held Ava closer, checked the locks twice every night.
Labor Day weekend arrived, hot and airless. Voices carried from Gary’s barbecue—laughter, music, clinking bottles. Billy paced the house like a caged animal.
“They’re out there now,” he whispered. “Plotting.”
I put the kids to bed early. “Mom, why is Dad upset?” Ava asked.
“Just tired, sweetie,” I told her, kissing her forehead.
Billy sat by the window, staring out into the dark. Midnight came. I tried to sleep but couldn’t. Sometime after, Billy slipped outside. I thought he needed air.
Gunshots cracked the night—sharp, one after another. I sat up, heart hammering. More shots, then screams. I ran to the window.
Across the street, figures moved in the dark. Roger’s son cried out, “Dad!” I saw Billy moving with a gun in his hand. He shot Roger first, right there in Gary’s yard, blood spreading fast. Then he crossed to Tim’s carport. Tim stood there, confused, hands half-raised. Billy fired eleven times. Tim jerked with each hit, collapsing slow. Gary came out his door, shouting, “What the—” before a shot to his chest dropped him. Billy walked back to Roger, who groaned on the ground, and fired twice more into his head.
Silence followed, broken only by distant sirens.
I stood frozen at the window, hands over my mouth. Billy came back inside, the gun empty, his face pale.
“They were coming for us, Barbara,” he said, his voice steady but eyes wild. “I heard them say it—get Billy tonight.”
Police arrived soon, red and blue lights flashing against the houses. They took Billy away in cuffs. I answered questions in a daze.
“He thought we were in danger,” I told the officer. “The threats were real.”
Gary and Roger died that night. Tim lived, but scarred forever. Billy went to jail, claiming self-defense under the law. Years later at the hearing, his lawyers played the recordings—taunts, plans whispered. Some neighbors even spoke for him, saying the bullying was constant. But the judge didn’t buy it.
“You struck first. Unnecessary,” the judge ruled.
Billy now faces trial for murder and attempted murder.
Nights are quiet on Smith Drive again, but I still check the locks. The kids ask about their father. And I still wonder if the voices Billy heard were real—or only in his head. Either way, the fear lingers, a shadow in every corner. What starts small can end in blood, and once-trusted faces can turn into strangers with dark intent.
"The Lot Next Door":
I had been living with James for about two years when we found that little rental on a quiet road in Encinitas. It seemed perfect at first—sunlight slanting through pepper trees, the ocean breeze sneaking in at night, a slice of calm where James could edit his films and I could design from home. James had a warmth about him that drew people in. He’d listen, really listen, and offer help without making you feel like you owed him. I’d always been more private, more observant. Maybe that’s why I noticed things sooner.
Our backyard backed onto an overgrown lot owned by our neighbor, Victor. At first, he just looked like any solitary man in his late fifties, the kind who tinkers with his land instead of talking to people. But there was something relentless about him—how he attacked his property like it was an enemy to be conquered. Every morning before sunrise we’d hear the scrape of his shovel, the snap of branches, the drag of brush across dry soil.
He started with the tall pepper trees lining the strip by our door—the only barrier between us and the road. I remember the first time James tried to talk to him. I was in the kitchen making coffee, watching from the window as James stepped outside, palms open in a neighborly gesture.
“Hey, neighbor,” James called out. “Mind if we chat about these trees? They’re on your land, I know, but they give us some privacy. Maybe you could leave a few?”
Victor stopped sawing. His eyes, narrow under thick brows, flicked toward James. Sweat rolled down his temple, but his stare didn’t waver.
“This is my property,” he said, his accent thick, hard to place. “I clear what I want. You don’t tell me.”
James nodded slowly, still calm. “I’m not telling you anything. Just asking. It affects us, too.”
Victor’s grip tightened on the saw. “You live on rent. This is mine forever. Go back inside.”
James returned shaking his head. “He’s stubborn,” he muttered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Maybe he’ll ease up if we leave him be.”
But Victor didn’t ease up. If anything, he escalated. The chopping grew louder, earlier. His glances at our house lingered, cold and unreadable. It felt like he wasn’t just clearing land—he was clearing us out, piece by piece.
Weeks passed. Our front yard felt naked without the trees. Victor muttered to himself as he worked, words too low to understand but sharp in tone. When James tried again to speak to him, asking him to cut back the noise, Victor’s face reddened like a warning light.
“You yell at me?” he snapped, leaning on his shovel. “You think you own this? You stop bothering me, or there will be trouble.”
James kept his voice steady. “We’re just asking for some consideration.”
Victor’s eyes flashed. “Consideration? You harass me. Like a bully. I see how you are.”
That night James sat on the couch, staring at nothing. “He’s twisting everything,” he said. “Making me the bad guy.”
I started to dread the sound of Victor’s tools. It wasn’t just noise—it was a signal, a rhythm of tension building outside our walls. I’d catch him staring at our windows while raking, his expression blank but heavy. Once I waved, trying to be polite. He turned away without a word.
Then came the note. A single sheet taped to our door, blocky handwriting pressed into the paper:
“Stop watching me. My land. Your problem if you push.”
I showed it to James, my hands shaking. “He’s accusing us of watching him now?”
James crumpled the note. “He’s paranoid. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Calmly.”
The next day, James tried. I cracked the window to listen.
“Victor, about that note,” James said. “We’re not watching you. We just live here. Can we find a way to get along?”
Victor dropped his rake and stepped closer. “Get along? You scream at me, threaten me. Every day you come out, yelling to stop. You act like criminal!”
“I never threatened you,” James said, raising his hands. “I’m trying to be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” Victor spat the word. “I fear you. You come at me one day, I know it. Stay away!”
James came back inside, jaw tight. “He says he’s afraid of me. Me!”
I touched his arm. “Maybe we should move. This isn’t worth it.”
But James wouldn’t. He loved that house, loved his work, and didn’t want to uproot everything over a neighbor. Still, I saw the shift in him. He checked the locks more. He kept his phone nearby, even in the yard. And always, Victor’s chopping. Day and night.
Then came the morning it all broke. I was in the shower, steam curling against the glass, when I heard James’s voice through the water: “That’s it. He’s out there again, right in front.”
By the time I dried off, he was already outside. I called after him, “Wait—don’t confront him today!” but the door had closed.
From the kitchen window, I saw them. Victor stood at the edge of our driveway, a bag slung over his shoulder, tools dangling from his hands. His face was a storm.
“Victor, enough!” James shouted. “You’re on my driveway now? This has to stop.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Your driveway? This is my path. You come at me again!”
“I’m calling the police,” James said, holding up his phone. “Back off.”
Victor’s hand darted into the bag. His voice cracked. “You threaten me? I defend myself!”
A sharp crack split the air. James staggered, clutching his side. “What…?” Another shot rang out. He fell.
I ran barefoot onto the pavement. “James! Oh God, James!”
Victor stood there, gun in hand, his face blank as stone. He looked at me, just for a heartbeat, then turned and walked away, pulling out his phone like it was an errand.
I dropped to my knees, pressing my hands to James’s wounds, blood warm and slick under my palms. “Hold on, please hold on,” I whispered, but his eyes had already started to fade.
The sirens came eventually. The police arrested Victor. At trial, he claimed self-defense. He said James threatened him, that he thought the phone was a gun. He painted James as the aggressor, the man who pushed him too far. But the jury didn’t buy it. They convicted him of murder.
Years later, I still hear it—the scrape of a shovel, the chop of wood before dawn. I still check the yards around me, scanning for shadows. Neighbors are supposed to be safe. Victor taught me how wrong that can be.
"The Girl in the Basement":
I never thought leaving home with my sister would lead to something so awful. Our parents worked the carnival circuit, always on the move, and that summer in 1965, they decided to leave Sylvia and me with a woman named Gertrude in Indianapolis. They said it would only be for a few weeks—just long enough for them to finish the season. Gertrude had a house full of kids, and she’d agreed to take us in for twenty dollars a week. It seemed fair enough. My parents believed we’d be safe.
We arrived one humid afternoon on East New York Street, carrying two small suitcases and the kind of nervous hope that comes with meeting someone new. Gertrude Baniszewski opened the door in a faded housecoat, her face pale and drawn, cigarette dangling from her lips. Smoke curled around her as she looked us over.
“Come on in, girls,” she said. “You’ll fit right in here.”
At first, things didn’t seem so bad. The house was crowded—seven kids already lived there—and the walls felt thin with noise and life. The wallpaper peeled, dishes stacked in the sink, and the air smelled faintly of stale bread and ash. Sylvia, sixteen, was the outgoing one. She had this bright laugh that filled the room, and she loved singing Beatles songs while helping with chores. I was fifteen, quieter, still a little self-conscious from the limp left by my bout with polio. We shared an upstairs room with Gertrude’s daughters, Paula and Stephanie, who were about our age.
It was messy but manageable—until that first check came late.
Gertrude changed overnight. One evening she sat us down at the kitchen table, her voice cold and sharp. “I took care of you two for nothing this week,” she said, eyes narrowing on Sylvia. “That won’t happen again.”
Sylvia tried to calm her. “It’ll come soon, Mrs. Baniszewski. Dad promised.”
Gertrude just exhaled smoke through her nose and muttered, “Promises don’t put food on my table.”
The next day, when the mailman came empty-handed again, Gertrude grabbed a wooden paddle off the wall. She made Sylvia bend over and struck her across the back. The crack echoed through the kitchen. Sylvia flinched but didn’t cry. “That’s for the trouble,” Gertrude said.
I froze. My stomach twisted.
When she turned toward me, Sylvia stepped forward. “Don’t hit Jenny,” she pleaded. “It was my fault. I ate extra at supper.”
Gertrude hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. You’ll take hers too.”
And she hit her again, harder this time.
That was the beginning.
From then on, it was like Gertrude had found someone to pour her anger into. Every day, there was a new reason to lash out—Sylvia’s looks, her laughter, even her kindness. “You think you’re better than my girls?” Gertrude would sneer. Paula joined in quickly, shoving Sylvia into walls or calling her “cheap.” Sometimes Gertrude just sat back, watching, a faint smirk under the smoke from her cigarette.
One afternoon after church, Gertrude accused Sylvia of stealing candy from a store. Sylvia shook her head, voice trembling. “I bought it with my own money, I swear.”
“Liar,” Gertrude hissed, and slapped her across the face.
Paula laughed. “Yeah, think you’re so innocent?”
That night, Gertrude made Sylvia skip supper. I couldn’t stand it—I slipped her a crust of bread under the table. John, one of the younger boys, saw and shouted, “Jenny’s helping her!”
Gertrude turned on me. “You want to share her punishment?”
I shook my head so hard my neck hurt.
Things only grew darker.
Gertrude began telling people Sylvia was “loose,” spreading lies that she was pregnant or sleeping around. She’d say it with this strange, satisfied tone, as if she wanted to convince herself it was true. When neighborhood kids came over, they’d join in, laughing, mocking, hitting. A boy named Coy—Stephanie’s boyfriend—used Sylvia as a punching bag, flipping her to the ground under the excuse of “practice.” Her arms bloomed with bruises. I begged him to stop once, and he sneered at me. “Mind your business, limp girl.”
The house turned into a world of cruelty, sealed off from reason. Neighbors came by sometimes, saw bruises, heard screams—but no one interfered. One woman, Phyllis, saw Paula shove Sylvia in the yard and just said, “Kids these days,” before walking home. The walls of that house might as well have been a prison.
By September, Gertrude had convinced herself Sylvia was evil. She called her names, starved her, humiliated her. “You’re not fit to live with decent people,” she’d spit. The punishments turned sadistic—forcing Sylvia to eat spoiled food or hot dogs buried in condiments until she vomited, then making her eat it again. They burned her with cigarettes, scalded her with hot water. Once, Gertrude handed a match to her son John and said, “Let’s see how tough she really is.” He pressed it to Sylvia’s skin.
When Sylvia cried, Gertrude just said, “This’ll clean you out.”
By October, Sylvia couldn’t walk right. Her body was a map of wounds. Gertrude locked her in the basement—cold, bare concrete under her, nothing to wear, nothing to eat. The air down there was damp, heavy with mildew. I sneaked her water when I could, whispering through the door. “Hold on, Sylvia. Please.”
She’d whisper back, her voice so small. “Jenny… I just want to go home.”
The worst came when Gertrude decided to “mark” her. She heated a needle over the stove until it glowed red. The room smelled like burning metal. “Hold her down,” she ordered. Paula and John pinned Sylvia’s arms. Gertrude bent close and carved into her stomach: I’M A PROSTITUTE.
Sylvia screamed until her voice broke.
Then Gertrude handed the needle to a neighborhood boy, Richard Hobbs. “Finish it,” she said. He added the rest—AND PROUD OF IT—his hand trembling as blood ran down Sylvia’s side.
After that, Sylvia barely spoke. Gertrude forced her to write a fake letter saying she’d run away with a gang of boys who had done this to her. “We’ll dump you in the woods,” she said. “That’ll make it look real.”
The night before they planned to take her, Sylvia whispered to me, barely conscious. “Jenny… I think I’m dying.”
I held her hand and sobbed. “No, don’t say that.”
Her breathing grew shallow. Her eyes unfocused. Then—silence.
When Gertrude found her still body, she nudged it with a book. “Get up, faker.”
But Sylvia didn’t move.
The panic came too late. They called the police, waving that letter around like proof. But when an officer crouched near me and asked softly what happened, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I told him everything—every bruise, every night, every scream.
They arrested Gertrude, Paula, and the others. The trial dragged on for months. Everyone blamed someone else, but nothing could erase what had happened in that small, ordinary house.
Gertrude was sentenced to life, though she got out years later. She died old, free, while Sylvia never got the chance to grow up.
Sometimes I still see her—sixteen, laughing under the summer sun, full of songs and hope. And then I remember how it ended, and how close evil can live—right next door, behind a smile, in a place that once felt safe.