He only left his house once a week. At first when I had finally caught onto the pattern, I could forgive it because of the pandemic. "He's just being cautious." I'd think, reminding myself not to be so judgmental. That invisible illnesses are illnesses, and I wasn't in a place to judge. If anything, I should find his dedication to precaution admirable, respectable. I could learn something from a man like that.

We lived diagonal from one another. If I look out of my living room window, I can see into his living room at an angle. He left his curtains open all year round so I could see his pale-yellow walls and his floral blue couch. I could see the mail piling up on the end table next to his recliner, torn envelopes in one pile, content in the next. I could see the pile shrink and start over every Sunday. The piles being the only thing amiss about what I could see of his home. The light always turned on at sundown, the TV always turning on at exactly 9pm.

I know you think I'm nosy, which is fair enough. But I've lived across the street and one house down from that man my entire life, aside from a brief few years I spent going to college. As a child, I would glance from my own TV to his. I knew that if it was off, I still had time before I had to go to bed. As soon as I saw his TV turn onto the evening news, I knew my mother wasn't far behind. It wasn't until I came home from school that I noticed how oddly it was timed. It took me another year before I noticed the pattern.

Sunday, his end table was cleaned, ready for mail to stack up again.

Monday, he was off to the shops.

I was ashamed to be at the store that day. It was the first time since coming home that I'd needed to buy a box of condoms. In the medical supply Isle, I'd contemplated the number of things I'd have to buy to seem a little less like the person wearing the condoms was at home waiting for me. Then he rounded the corner.

I recognized him immediately, but I didn't acknowledge it - both because despite what I knew about him I didn't know him at all and because I was holding a box of condoms in front of a man who's home I'd walked past to get to kindergarten all those years ago. I turned my head away from him. I wasn't sure that he'd recognize me, but I didn't want to take the chance. He grabbed several items, tossing them haphazardly on top of several cans of bright colored cat food and a dull-in-comparison birthday cake.

Baby oil, adult diapers, baby powder, gauze-- I tear my eyes away, my cheeks flaring. Outwardly, I didn't want to see him, inwardly, I was ecstatic for my neighbor. He'd been alone all the years I'd known of him, and he'd never had a pet, let alone a friend over. in one fell swoop, it seemed as if he'd acquired both, even in his later years. As a 20something it gave me hope to see that it was never too late to live.

"Mr. P Has a friend!" I wrote in my journal that night, next to a doodle of a birthday cake and a cat attempting to swat at it's candles.

That night, when the clock hit nine, I glanced over to his TV as a force of habit. I Smiled, as he was watching the same thing I was. The news anchor spoke over flashes of pictures of happy looking people in a sorrowful voice. I changed the channel, feeling very adult for being up passed my bedtime, watching the same things that the most adult person I knew watched-- but not so adult as to commit to something as boring as the News.

I watched his window more frequently, waiting to catch a glimpse of the cat. I knew from my own cat, Molly, that cats spent most of their time perched in the window. The kitty never came, even after weeks of watching. I watched him come home with the same cans of colorful cat food every single week, I heard them, empty, clank around in his garbage bags when he came out.

Then, about a year later, he came home with a birthday cake. I smiled. maybe I'd gotten it wrong the year before. Maybe he was celebrating his own birthday. Even if he was alone I was comforted by the idea that he was with his cat. So comforted, in fact, that I decided to buy him a "Catio" For his window. I wanted to see the cat, and I also wanted him to know that someone, somewhere cared enough for him to buy him a present for him and his best friend on his birthday.

This was what caused the pit in my gut to begin to fester. I watched from my living room, with my phone in my hand as the delivery driver pulled in front of his house and left the package, my phone chirping happily at the package I'd ordered being delivered. I watched him open the door, confused. He carried it inside and placed it on top of his mail piles and opened the gift. Instead of smiling, instead of putting it up right away, he gathered it up, held it close to his chest and began scanning the neighborhood frantically. I looked down at my phone, bewildered, making sure I got the address right, that the item I ordered was, in fact, the item I intended.

By the time I looked up, his curtains were closed for the first time I could remember.

The next time I saw him with a grocery bag in his hands, it was filled with brightly colored.... dog food cans. No, that can't be right. Poor man must be getting senile in his old age. The poor cat. I begin to wonder who keeps up with the-

My heart drops.

Who keeps up with the litter box? Had I ever seen litter being discarded? A litter box, even? Had I ever seen a carrier, a cat tree, a cat at all?

By this time, it'd been over years since I'd found out about his cat. I go back into my old journal and read.

"Mr. P made a friend!" The drawing and messy scrawl written under August 8th. I check back into my order history, and see that my initial purchase order for the catio was also August 8th of a year later. The same day I saw him come home with a birthday cake. I make a note in my phone to watch him on August 8th of the next year.

He throws away his empty cans and the catio right on schedule. I watch him bring home dog food cans without ever seeing any sign of a dog. I never see his cat. I wait for August 8th. I google him, his name, our town, and I find nothing.

But I know there's something. I know it in the same way I know he doesn't have a dog. I know it in the same way I know he thinks someone is onto him as he keeps his curtains partially drawn now. In the same way I know he will being home a birthday cake on August 8th of next year.

He does. For the next 3 years, he brings home cans of pet food every week and a birthday cake every August 8th.

The birthday cake has stopped bothering me, I'm more concerned about the invisible pets. I call animal control a couple of times, telling them about my concerns that seem to be central to me.

"Unless there is inarguable evidence of neglect of an animal, we can't waste resources. You said you've never seen a cat?"

On August 9th, Three years after the Catio incident. I'm coming home from work and My street is blocked off by shining emergency vehicles. They don't need to tell me who they're here for, but I ask anyway when the officer makes me roll down my window.

I can see Mr. P's window over the officer's shoulder, I can see flashes of a large camera. Of course the officer doesn't answer me, telling me to turn around. I tell him where I live point out the house.

"Do you know Thomas Preston?" I shake my head but say "I grew up walking past him to school."

The man nods, "Stay home, be prepared to answer a few questions."

Inside, I take my usual spot in my living room. Watching as Mr. P is taken in handcuffs by a screaming police car.

All of the vehicle's flashing lights turn off. I watch as every man in sight disappers into different cars, and all women enter the home and exit with a frail middle aged woman huddled up between them.

That night, I watch in horror as my neighbor, Thomas Preston's face fills the screen.

"Awful story tonight as breaking news reveals a local man is being charged with multiple counts of unlawful imprisonment, assault, assault of a child under the age of three, and murder. 75-Year-old Thomas Preston allegedly chained his own daughter in his basement for the last 40 years following the disappearance and suspected murder of his wife, Eileen Preston in the year 1983. Eileen would have been 64 just two days ago on August 8th."

The lightning’s bolts came around the darkling moonlight.

The madness stopped in the neighborhood with him— whether much of it was noticeable to you, this keenness for dreaming sprung a pandemic.

I dismantled myself from it entirely.

The neighbors were all familiar, yet they considered everything to be an old custom perplexed in Hymenaeus from Greece.

Anyhow, his conscience navigated unguided and in an unhinged state. This seemed true.

He amused us all with a polite gesture—this was true—but it was expected. We all were.

The property was purchased in their youthful coupling. Being so, I believed, as much as they did, that a warmness departed. It was true.

The neighbors forgot that Madeline shunned—him precisely— from that home.

He frequented the sea afterward.

The island had been dry for three days.

The cloudy waters begged to be heard.

Those neighbors outside surprisingly unify a—-love! That was the disease.

From this side, the trees afflicted a shade; and so, the house was never empty. I don’t want us to be gossipy. But yesterday; the winds blew leaves away to a warm whistling tune. They say the lighthouse kept the boat at bay.

But I’m tired, Nancy. And I’m going back to work tomorrow.

Stay up if you want, for this storm will last until you rest.

And into the massive abyss

I fell.

A world within a mind,

a universe untouched.

Reality is all my own –

this is now a dream awakened.

Those men come marching –

their faces of ticking clocks,

though backwards with time,

spinning wildly.

They open their mouths to me.

And, like fireworks,

out erupts a flock of songbirds,

carrying with them a tune that ignites the magic from within my soul.

A serenade for me.

Then –

the great eagle descends.

Watch how the oaks bear their arms

for his perch.

And I revel in this mastery,

this mystery.

The giant bird sits –

he watches my pondering,

and stares at my thoughts.

The limbs of those trees

extend far beyond their own capabilities now

as they strip me bare

to this fantastic, colorful land.

A liveliness in nature.

A parade of faceless images appear –

and under the ashen smoke, the navigate their dance so precisely.

So uniquely. The intrigue stroking at my sanity.

The luminescent soldiers come forward now,

touching me.

But what a wondrous surprise in their cuff to my flesh!

Making me quiver

in only what I could imagine a great holiness to be.

A metallic, 4-dimensional rainbow bursts alive –

oh, how it streaks about so confidently

along the innocent blue skies.

Its glowing spirit of essence

illuminating the mossy earth below my feet.

I feel it awaken -

a childhood memory to everything the universe has eyed upon,

all it had ever felt,

and it covers me.

A warm, safe blanket.

Security. Peace.

I am not afraid,

sheathed in a gloss of an ever-living dream.

And, oh, how so tenderly it cradles me in its arms –

I can taste upon the breast,

and of the life inside,

as those distant, soothing melodies venture towards my ears.

I can feel the swell

of a new evolution begin.

A renewal.

A birth.

The wings of the eagle spread –

and how exquisitely they are seen,

displayed bravely,

as they shine of a peacock’s dandy nature.

I see.

Falling down upon me,

twirled sensually in an emotional vision,

is a dimly lit brightness lost in the freedom of a feather’s flutter.

Painted.

Artistically captured

though its intensity to never be shown face.

It surely is a vision to behold!

I stand,

and with newfound eyes I see,

the beauty in me.

As the festive dance of a perfect season’s day expands,

and ever so cheerfully,

a bewilderment that lays in the anarchy of happiness reincarnates –

and how that old and mutated cocoon shed itself

from the pricks of my skin!

For I now have wings!

The eagle calls to me –

I follow.

This place is now my own;

a belonging.

As the crimson sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the quiet suburban street, I pulled into my driveway, exhaustion weighing heavy on my shoulders. The day had been arduous, filled with the mundane tasks of office life. Little did I know that the tranquility of this evening would shatter the illusion of normalcy forever.

As I stepped out of my car, a commotion caught my attention. My peculiar neighbor, Mr. Johnson, stood in handcuffs, surrounded by police officers who were reciting his rights. Shock and confusion rippled through the gathered residents, their murmurs punctuated by gasps of disbelief. But not me—I had always felt a sense of unease around Mr. Johnson, an underlying suspicion that festered in the depths of my intuition.

While the others expressed their astonishment, I recalled the subtle clues that had raised red flags in my mind. Mr. Johnson was a man of quiet demeanor, his presence often fading into the background. Yet, it was his very silence that spoke volumes. Observing him from my window, I had noticed peculiar patterns of behavior.

First, there were the odd hours he kept, venturing out late at night when the world slumbered. His furtive movements, like a specter haunting the moonlit streets, suggested hidden agendas. Then there was the aura of secrecy that shrouded his dwelling. Rarely did visitors grace his doorstep, and an air of isolation clung to his house like a haunting mist.

Furthermore, the distinct absence of any personal connections heightened my suspicion. Neighbors, by nature, interacted—forming bonds of camaraderie and sharing in the joys and sorrows of everyday life. Yet, Mr. Johnson remained a solitary figure, a puzzle piece that refused to fit within the neighborhood tapestry.

Lastly, there was the undeniable feeling of discomfort that washed over me whenever our paths crossed. A chilling gaze, devoid of warmth, would briefly meet mine, sending shivers down my spine. It was as if I had glimpsed the darkness lurking beneath the placid surface of his demeanor.

As the handcuffed Mr. Johnson was led away, his face obscured by a veil of shame, I watched with a mix of relief and sadness. Relief that the menace that had quietly coexisted among us was finally exposed, and sadness for the victims of the heinous crime he was accused of committing.

The events of that evening served as a sobering reminder that appearances can deceive, and silence can mask the most unspeakable truths. Mr. Johnson, with his subdued presence, had fooled many, but not me. I had seen through the façade, trusting the whispers of my intuition. The quiet man had been a harbinger of darkness all along.

As the neighbors dispersed, returning to the comfort of their homes, I lingered in the street, haunted by the shadows of deception that had enveloped our seemingly peaceful neighborhood.

Every neighbor has a nickname, a descriptive moniker that may or may not be deemed offensive should they ever be uttered aloud. My neighbors include Loud Ass Millennial Chick from the apartment above me, Business Suit Bob on the left of me, Older Indian Lady to the right, and Side Eyes across the hall.

Looks like Side Eyes won't make it to the monthly cook-out the apartment management throws for the residents. I hope my new neighbor is a little less sketchy. How hard is it to find a Nerd Girl or Hot Construction Dude?

The day after they moved in next door, I baked cookies, my husband picked a few heirloom tomatoes from our garden, and we went to welcome them to the neighborhood. We knocked and the door was opened only enough for the woman who answered to block the view inside with her body.

“Hi! We’re your neighbors,” I said pointing to our little red house. “I’m Darla, this is my husband, Jay. We just wanted to drop these off to say welcome.”

“Who is it?” a man said from in the house.

“Neighbors,” she yelled back.

Plastering a very fake smile on her face, she accepted the cookies and tomatoes, saying, “Thanks so much. That was very thoughtful of you. I’m Angel.” A man’s head appeared above her shoulder. “This is my husband, Garrett. We’re still getting settled so I can’t invite you in for a tour…” Is that a thing? A tour?

My husband and I glanced at each other and away. “We didn’t come to visit, just to say welcome.”

Her husband gave me what one might call an intimate smile and said, “Very neighborly of you.”

Wifey must have heard the look because the sickly smile added dagger eyes when she snapped,“You’re in great shape. Do you work out?”

“Um, yes?” Rather random, but whatever.

“Figures,” she mumbled then continued with the brilliant albeit fake smile, “Well, we have to get back to it. I’m sure we’ll be great neighbors. We’re very quiet.”

“We are as well. Except I do like to play music and sing. Hopefully, we’re far enough away. Lilly and Matt never said anything anyway.” Lilly and Matt were the previous owners.

“I love music. Don’t I love music, Garrett?” He looked as confused as Jay and I felt. “As soon as we are settled in, we’ll have you over for a tour.” Again with the tour.

“Good luck,” I said as they closed the door and we headed across the lawn to our own home.

“We’re not going over there again,” my husband said.

“A little weird,” I replied. “But not as weird as Jill’s new neighbors."

“Emma and Jake?”

“I swear, Jake never blinks when he talks to you. And his eyes are such an icy blue I get chills every time he talks to me.”

“They seem like a nice family.”

“Hmph. And where did they come from? I mean, there was never a for sale sign, an open house or moving vans. One day the Davidsons lived in the big yellow house and the next, Emma, Jake, Alec and Lily Jones did.”

“I think your imagination is itching to write a new story,” Jay said kissing my forehead before opening the door for me.

“Maybe,” I replied, not convinced.

A few months later, Christmastime, Angel knocked on our door while I was at work.

“Hi, Jay. I just wanted to drop these off,” she handed him a box of chocolates. “We love these. They’re very expensive. So good. They’re Garrett and my favorites. Really expensive.”

“Thanks, Angel.”

“Jay, do you think you could give me, Darla’s cell phone number? I’d like to ask her a question.”

“Sure.”

A few minutes after Jay called to warn me, she called.

“Darla? This is Angel. Your neighbor.”

“Hi, Darla.”

“Sorry to bother you at work, but Jay said it would be okay to call you.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to ask, have there ever been any robberies on the block? I don’t really know anyone on the street yet besides you to ask, but we think someone has been trying to break into our home.”

“Really? That’s scary. But no, there has never been a problem. I mean, we do live behind the police station…I would imagine most criminals would look for easier pickings…Plus, it’s not exactly millionaire’s row.”

“Well, someone tried to come in the garage.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. The block has been a wonderful community for the nearly 30 years we’ve lived here. Have you contacted the police?”

“We don’t need the police! We know people.”

“Okay…”

“I got cameras installed all over the property. We’re close to catching them. We have some suspects.”

“Okay…” Her voice sounded like we were suspects.

“Well, we don’t know anyone so maybe you could let people know something’s going on.”

“Will do. Good luck. Bye.”

That night when I got home, they had “No trespassing signs” around the house. And I guess hidden cameras. And spotlights.

“Don’t be too friendly, Darla,” my husband said when I told him her story. “I don’t trust those people. Something’s off.”

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t planned on any double dates, don’t worry.”

Things were quiet for a few weeks – as they often are in winter. Then over a period of days in March, alternately Angel or Garrett were screaming at people who parked in front of their house to get away from there – regardless of the hour. We have a neighbor who trains people in his garage starting at 6 am and his first client of the day was parked across the street from Angel’s house at 5:45. She went out in her nightgown and screamed at him, “Who are you? What are you doing here? Get away from here!”

Another day it was some members of a Christian woman’s group meeting at the home of a long-time resident, Martha. “You can’t park there! Get away from my house!”

Then it was men from the town doing work on my curb. “I’m going to call the police!”

“Lady, the police are right over there,” the man said pointing to the cop on duty. She huffed and went inside.

The strangest was when Garett went banging on the door of the elderly couple across the street: Martha, 82 and John 84. “Stop following my wife! She saw you following her car! You better cut it out!”

John was taken aback (you think?). “I’m 84 years old, I can barely drive to the supermarket.”

“Huh. Well, you just stay away from my wife.”

At this point, we all figured they were probably some kind of certifiable paranoid and we decided together and separately to keep our distance.

The last incident involved Emma. She said, “Hi, Angel,” one day while walking by with her dog and Angel started screaming, “Who are you? I don’t know you! Don’t talk to me.”

Emma tried to remind her that they were neighbors, they’d met when they first moved in. But Angel wouldn’t stop screaming and flailing her arms, so Emma kept walking.

Maybe two days later, I got home from work and the street was full of police cars and neighbors. I parked and walked down the street to the crowd and saw that the police were leading Jake Jones out of his house, in hand cuffs.

Feeling vindicated in my earlier wariness, I asked my neighbor Jill what happened.

“Apparently, he got angry that Angel screamed at Emma. Snuck in their house last night and stabbed both her and Garrett multiple times in their bed. He must have thought the signs about cameras were a lie. The alarm company has a patch into their camera system and caught him entering and leaving on tape.

“They put the photo on the neighborhood blog and statewide police wire, and someone recognized Jake. Not only from here in town, but also from several other towns.

“From what I hear, he is wanted all over the state. Maybe the country.”

“Oh my god!”

“There’s more. Look.”

“I turned as they carried out four body bags.”

“What -?”

“The Davidsons.”

“I knew it!”

Idiots.

All of them.

Blocking the street my house is on.

How did it take the police THIS long to finally apprehend my neighbor, Mrs. Wilson?

It was obvious from the start and yet, as I drive by, all I see are gawking and chattering neighbors watching who they thought was a sweet old lady being taken in.

As I parked and left my car, I ignored the fact that Mrs. Wilson was crying about being a poor widow on the other side of the tall hedges that separated our homes. As I heard police officers walking towards her backyard wtith the familiar click of shovels against pavement, I entered my home.

How our neighbors never noticed I will never understand. A house that never had visitors while Mr. Wilson was alive, but then the moment he died, very young women began to show up on her eldery doorstep. Perhaps the Joneses-less residents of the quiet cul-de-sac thought they were her grandchildren, but if they actually paid any attention, those women looked nothing like her.

I wonder how she managed to pull it off for this long as I dropped off my briefcase and made my way into the kitchen. Did those girls casually stride up to her house like this? How did she lure them to her place?

I wondered if she poisoned any of them as I made my evening tea. Perhaps she slipt rat poison into their teas. She would serve them and watch them drink it. Watch as it took them over.

I wondered if maybe she stabbed them from behind as I sat down to watch tv. Perhaps the girls sat in front of her tv set, promising them her famous chocolate chip cookies, unknowning that she was approaching them.

I wondered if maybe she pushed them so they would hit their heads on a side table next to her couch, as I set my tea on my own. They would innocently look around and she'd shove them with all the strength that a cheater's wife could have.

As the sirens took off and grew hushed, silence settled back down over my home.

I cleaned my cup and prepared to go out.

There was another woman to arrive at her door tonight.

And, after all, it's my duty as Mr. Frank Wilson Jr. to watch my mother's back.

He was a quiet man with a basset hound that would not shut up. Which was why I stood on his doorstep at two a.m. the night before he was arrested asking him once again to please bring the dog inside. Humphrey, the soft-spoken man, answered (like he always did), listened to my polite pleas, murmured something about bones and then gingerly closed his evergreen door like it was a friend of his. As many would, I deduced from the pleasant interaction that he would be tossing a bone to the basset hound to quiet it as soon as I walked away. However, in retrospect, it was naïve of me; out of the dozens of times I had dropped by since he moved in a year ago, that dog never stopped wailing because I asked nicely.

So, perhaps it was my own fault for expecting anything different. Fifteen minutes passed, and my Monday evening was still being invaded by the sound of deep howls like a mother weeping. Feeling duped, I tugged my slippers back onto my feet and stomped outside, decidedly weary from the recent nights I’d had no rest, but also fueled by three cups of black coffee. Humphrey was not going to do this to me again; I’d make sure of it.

His backyard was predominantly covered in the shadow of a large willow tree, despite the spotlights of neighboring houses tickling its edges. I crept up on the left side of the wooden fence and peeked over without pretense. Immediately below me, the hound was howling, a lost spirit in a storm at my fence. I wanted to squeeze his lungs through his nostrils.

But I didn’t. Instead, I brought out the turkey bone I had dug out of my garbage can and held it over the fence, a few feet above his reverberating skull. The cries continued underneath me, until I banged the bone against the cedar like a dinner bell. With this, he acknowledged me, snatching the bone from my grip and lying down where he was to chomp silently. I smiled, and dumped several more scraps from dinner beside him to keep him occupied long enough for me to fall asleep. I paused only to observe the dozens of bones that were left scattered and unchewed about Humphrey’s yard. I thought it was strange, but then again, Humphrey and his dog were not normal.

Returning to my home, I went right to bed. I thought no more of Humphrey, his hound, or the bone graveyard, falling asleep as soon as I lied down to rest. However, sometime an hour later, the dog must have finished his meal, because the wails began once again shriller and (if I was not mistaken) angrier than earlier. I screamed into my pillow like a lunatic and trekked back outside without shoes on my feet.

The hound was howling back at the bottom of my fence, the remnants of the leftovers I gave him strewn on the moist grass. I couldn’t tell for sure, but they seemed unfinished. Empty-handed and desperate for a conclusion, I rapped on the inside of the fence again, hoping to draw his attention. He turned to look up at me, his mouth closed and quiet.

And the howls continued. From under where I was standing.

I ran then. Not because I was a coward, but because, to put it plainly, I thought I might be hallucinating. It was easier to blame the nights of sleeplessness than to believe a person was truly imprisoned underneath my feet. Nonetheless, I had every intention of returning and getting the police examine the spot in the ground eventually. First, however, I just needed to get away from there.

I sprinted and then walked for several miles, until halting at a twenty-four hour diner where I ordered more coffee and a plate of banana chocolate chip pancakes. By the time I finished, the sun had risen, and the morning rush was arriving. With a belly full of nerve, I decided to trudge back to my house and reexamine the patch of dirt by my fence, possibly to alert the authorities if needed. Yet, the earth was silent, so I decided I must have been delirious, and walked into my home to prepare for another workday.

Twelve minutes after five p.m. I pulled back into my driveway, the memory of the night before truly feeling like a dream. However, as soon as I saw the police outside Humphrey’s house, dragging him out in handcuffs, I remembered. A team of white jumpsuits scurried through his backyard, clustered near the back right of the dirt-covered yard around a dilapidated shed I barely noticed. I rubbed my eyes as they appeared to disappear into a doorway in the soil underneath it.

I ambled past the neighbors gathered around on the sidewalk and parts of my front lawn like flies, whispering their speculations and a few buzzing in my ear. I shooed them away, leaving them to their shock and confusion, and for the rest of the evening I sat on my side stoop watching the investigation. A few of the white spacemen put some of the hound’s bones in evidence bags, chatting (rather loudly) about how the man’s shallow basement made it so the bones could not be buried. Eventually, I also started hearing thumping from under my fence, presumably when the spacemen walked far enough into Humphrey’s hidden basement.

The thumps continued further than I expected, however, leading right beside me beneath my humble garden of zucchinis and sunflowers. I shivered, realizing in that moment why the howls of Humphrey’s ‘dog’ always seemed so deafening to me.

As the dusk embraced the sky above the neighborhood, Humphrey’s yard was lit for the first time in the darkness by portable lamps the police had arranged around the perimeter. A detective came to visit me around then and asked me a handful of generic questions. I told him who I was, and I told him it was all quite surprising. And when asked if I knew anything about the woman, the one Humphrey had been holding for weeks underneath my fence, I shook my head grimly and solemnly.

The following morning, instead of rushing out the door to my job, I lingered in my kitchen scanning the news on my cellphone. It didn’t take long to find the headline about the quiet man and the six women he had taken since his wife died last winter, yet there was only one woman I cared about: Lina Tafani. She was his final victim, dying just a few hours before the police raided his home. No family was left behind, but a photo has been used of her smiling with a young man looking happy. The police say she likely fought Humphrey and almost escaped, judging by the fresh scratches on Humphrey’s skin and the lump on his forehead.

However, they are not certain, because the struggle probably would have made quite a racket, and apparently, no one heard a thing that evening.

As I pulled into the driveway Ted is stood in the street being handcuffed by officers and being pressed up against a cop car. When I get out of my car, I start to stare at the scene happening in the street. The other residents gasp at the sight of Ted being arrested. They start to chatter about he was "such a nice man" and how they "couldn't understand why this was happening" The officers shove Ted into the car and all of a sudden, he catches my eyes, and he is staring back at me. He flashes a smile at me, and I immediately feel uneasy. I bolted into my house and locked the door. I feel anxious and terrified. So, I decided to go to sleep.

The next day I go to the store to buy some groceries and while I’m waiting in line to pay for my goods the ladies begin talking amongst themselves. "Did you hear about ted" the blonde lady says.

"Gosh, yes" the auburn-haired woman says.

"Do you know why he was arrested" she asks.

"Not sure, maybe he was the guy who robbed the mini mart" the other one replies.

"Ah yes, that must be it.”

I'm frozen in place and all I can think about is the screams I heard from his house during the middle of the night. None of the other neighbors seemed to hear because they had lived farther down the street due to the park. Therefore, only me and ted were left at the end of the block. I remember seeing ted dragging bags into the woods one particular day. He always had a creepy grin on his face. He was terrifying. then when I watched a girl run desperately out of his house one-night screaming, I knew something was wrong. So, I did it. I called the cops. I think ted knew somehow. I think I may be next.

A kind smile and an even kinder set of eyes adorned the man's face. He was more than just polite, he was the very picture perfect example of the model human being. He was always willing to help; he always helped old man Henry carry in his groceries, he hand wrote everyone on the block cards for every holiday, birthday, and wedding, he even became the unofficial neighborhood repairman. He embodied the very role of an exceptional neighbor.

"There he goes again." One neighbor said as we watched our "beloved" neighbor carry his tool kit to the newest house that needed fixing. A small leak in the pipe only needed a short visit from our resident handyman and it was as good as new. But people admired him for a variety of reasons, too many reasons.

"He's always asking me how I'm doing."

"He's so helpful!"

"He brought over fresh baked meals when my husband was in the hospital!"

"He's just so kind!"

And that was the problem, he was just so kind, too kind. It wasn't a genuine kind, at least not to me. Every warm smile had a creeping murderous intent, it was a soothing signal that calmed his prey. It prepped them, it told them he was to be trusted, it told them he was safe, it told them he was kind. And indeed he was kind but not as an adjective rather as a noun. He was the kind of man who knew how to ensnare, how to lure, how to trap.

He was the kind of man who knew no sanity but fed off the illusion of kindness he had concocted. It's inevitable that everyone falls for such an act as least once. After all, it is so easy to fall into something that seems so harmless. But there was always something so defining about him, so different, and so utterly alarming. The first time I ever realized was when he had decided to take my garbage cans out. Admittedly, it was a service I needed for I had completely forgotten such a small task amidst a terribly busy week. However, if I had noticed his true nature sooner I would've preferred he stayed on his side of the street and even more preferably inside his house.

"Oh you don't have to do that!" I exclaimed as he finished dragging the trash can out to the sidewalk.

"Of course I do!" He adorned a beautiful smile, one of warmth, one of safety, and ultimately one of deception. His pale blue eyes were glossy almost seemingly translucent but they locked onto my own as if I were a lifeline.

"Thank you." I had to force the words out while battling the prickling sensation that crawled up my neck.

He held that meticulously painted smile on his face as he continued to stare straight at me. His gaze was intense but not full, there was no hatred, no malice, no anger, no violence. That was what was so terrifying. There was simply nothing there, no hint of emotion at all, no hint of humanity. I wanted to break eye contact but even looking away for a mere second seemed dangerous. His smile seemed to stretch impossibly wide as I took a single step back. His teeth were impossibly white, almost as if the moon itself had kissed them, and they seemed to glow brightly in the night.

"I should get to bed." I attempted a smile as I took yet another step backwards. He didn't move. His facial expression didn't change, he simply stood and stared. I tried to inhale a shaky breath. "Goodnight."

With that final word he held up one hand and waved it ever so slightly as if attempting to say goodbye like a young child. That wretched smile was still plastered on his face with the accompaniment of his soulless eyes. It took everything in me to keep myself from running to the door. The naturalistic instinct in me told me to run, to escape, but I knew I had to maintain composure. The worst possible thing is showing a predator you're scared.

After that night I became the observer. I watched everything he did, every movement, every action, every loudly spoken word as well as every whispered one. He spoke to himself quite often, I had never realized that before. It was always broken bits and pieces of sentences such as a location followed by a color or a new random food or restaurant. It never made much sense and none of it ever fit together but he was consistent in muttering to himself everyday. I would watch as he would stare. He would occasionally just cast quick glances but more often then not he would hold them for just a little too long. Just long enough to make your skin crawl and hairs stick straight up and that pit in your stomach to be filled with an unending dread. Then he would flash a smile, a perfectly white crafted smile, and everyone would smile back. Then they would go on about their days discussing how he was such a good neighbor and how he was so helpful and how he was so considerate, so understanding, so perfect.

"Oh isn't he just so kind?"

He certainly was kind but not the kind one would want.