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!”

On any other day, Emma Sheldon would be rushing out the door, but one look outside gave her pause. A thick fog covered the parking lot, obscuring everything else from view. It was eerie, haunting, the perfect cover for creeps and predators. On more than one occasion, she had been catcalled and honked at by adult men back when she had been underage. Even her creepy old neighbor, Mr. Klossner had eyed her, damn near abducted her one time, but she didn't want to think about that.

She rummaged through her purse for her keys. They clinked and clanked together against all of her keychains as she sought and grabbed ahold of her pepper spray. She pocketed it in her light Autumn jacket, digging both of her hands into her pockets. Her shoulders tensed as she broke into a stiff stride, passing through the automatic doors.

The cold air felt refreshing against her warm face. Although she had been working at this Best Buy since the beginning of summer, she still found herself getting flustered by her managers and customers. Granted, she was fresh out of high school and this was her very first job. That didn't make it any less embarrassing.

Emma had broken out into a nervous sweat and now her shirt clung uncomfortably to her armpits. She couldn't wait to go home, wash off all of this flith, and change into some comfortable clothes.

With a watchful eye, she navigated throught the parking lot, wary of cars and strangers alike. She reached the sidewalk on the other side and then crossed the wide stretch of street towards the bus stop where a few people were already gathered.

There were two women. One looked around her age. Tall, slim, pretty. She had long, dark hair and wore light makeup. She held and scrolled through her bedazzled phone with bright blue nails. The other was short, stout, middle-aged. She had short, curly dark hair and wore heavy makeup. Both were in uniforms, just like her, but she couldn't tell where they worked. Their jackets covered their shirts.

Then, there was the elderly man beside them. He was short, but big. Was that her neighbor, Mr. Klossner? She felt a jolt of panic and averted her gaze. What was he doing here? He hardly left his house.

The last time she saw him was back in middle school. He had been waiting for his granddaughter, her classmate Marianne, at the bus stop on the corner of her block, the same way he did when they were in grade school. From Emma's seat on the bus, he'd be the first person she spotted among the parents and guardians. He stood in front of the crowd. He wasn't tall. He was one of the shortest grown-ups there, but he was big, stocky. He had big, hairy arms and a big, beer gut.

Whenever Emma made her way off the bus, she'd meet his eye and he'd stare back at her with blank, blue eyes. That cold, dead look never failed in making her uncomfortable. Just thinking about it gave her the creeps.

As she had stepped off the bus and onto the grass, she'd scrunch her nose at the strong smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him. She'd scurry onto the sidewalk, past him and towards her mom, who'd take her by the hand and lead her back home. All the while, she felt his eyes on her.

Was he really here right now? Emma snuck a peek at him to see him looking back at her. She startled, but she was quick to recover when she didn't see those cold, dead blue eyes staring back at her. This elderly man's eyes were warm, hazel. They creased at the corners as he gave her a friendly smile. It wasn't Mr. Klossner, after all. Her shoulders sagged in relief. She managed a small smile in return.

If she was still on the floor and he was a customer, Emma would've given him her best customer service smile, asked him how he was doing, and if there was anything she could help him with, despite feeling less than capable. But she wasn't. She was done for the day. She had a headache. She was tired, hungry. She just wanted to go home.

The bus turned onto the street and pulled over. She stood back as the two women and elderly man approached the door, allowing them to board first before she quickly followed after them.

A tall guy seated in the front rose to his feet so that the elderly man could sit down. The elderly man thanked the guy as he lowered himself down onto the seat. The guy himself squeezed through the cluster of people in the front, making his way to the back. Emma paid her toll and did the same, murmuring "excuse me" a few times before she found a spot by the back door. She held onto a yellow pole to keep herself steady so that she didn't bump into anybody.

There wasn't really a need to do so, not when the bus moved at a snail's pace, caught in rush hour traffic. She noticed an empty Snapple bottle rolling back and forth underneath the seats. Every time it rolled into a corner or wall, it made a sharp, loud clank, which made her cringe. She grew anxious, fearing that it might break with enough force and shatter at everyone's feet. It was a hazard in plain sight. No one seemed the least bit concerned about it, too busy talking to their friends, listening to music, or texting on their phones.

Emma wished she remembered her own headphones so that she could listen to her Spotify, drown out all of the chatter and that sharp, loud clank.

As she gazed out of the window, her mind drifted back to a foggy day, just like this one, back when she was in grade school.

Marianne was absent that day, but Mr. Klossner still showed up at the bus stop.

Emma's mom was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was in the bathroom or something. Whatever. It wasn't like her house was that far away. It was just across the street. She could get home by herself.

She did her best to ignore those cold, dead eyes and the strong smell of smoke that hit her when she stepped off the bus. She was about to walk the short distance home when he lunged forward and snatched her hand.

"Come on, sweetheart." He urged, gently. His voice was deep, gravelly. "Your mom told me to take you home."

It happened so fast. He took her off guard. Weird as it was, she was just a child at the time. She was too naive. She took everything at face value. She figured that this was just the way Mr. Klossner was.

She remembered the leathery feel of his hand and just how strong his grip was. She couldn't pull away, even if she wanted to. She had yet to find her voice so she didn't even think to scream, not until years later. He took long strides and she struggled to keep up as he pulled her across the steet.

Their neighborhood had semi-detached houses. He lived in the second house, right door. She lived in the fourth, left door.

Mom emerged from the house, hurried down the stoop, and jogged over to them. "Henry," she addressed him, slightly winded. She was tall and skinny, but she carried a lot of weight in her stomach. Mom was subconscious about it, but she hid it well underneath her black top and jeans. "What are you doing with Emma?"

"Emma?" Mr. Klossner echoed, confused. He squinted at her, then plucked a pair of glasses from his breast pocket, sliding them onto his face. His eyes widened and he jerked his hand away. "Oh!" He exclaimed once he realized. "Emma, it IS you." He turned to address Mom. "I must apologize. I should've put these on sooner." He tapped the bridge of his glasses with a self-deprecating chuckle. "My eyes don't work like they used to. Looks like I mistook Emma here for my granddaughter, Marianne. Without any glasses on, they look alike. They're about the same size and they both have long, blonde hair and blue eyes. They're such beautiful girls."

Emma didn't like how Mr. Glossner grinned at her, then. She hid behind her mom's leg.

Mr. Glossner chuckled, amused. "Timid, is she?"

"Yeah." Mom agreed, goodnaturedly. She always saw the best in people, even when they were waving red flags in her face. She laid a hand on Emma's shoulder. "She's like this with everyone."

"Marianne is the same way," he replied.

"Speaking of," Mom segued, looking around. "Where is Marianne?"

"She wasn't in school today," Emma piped up.

"That's right!" Mr. Klossner exclaimed, as if he just remembered. "She was out sick today. Poor thing is in bed with a fever. Silly me." He gave his forehead a light smack. "My mind must be going if I can't remember that much."

Mom frowned. "I hope not," she sympathsized.

"Yeah, me too," he responded with a worried frown. Just as fast, he mustered a smile. "Well, I better get back to her. It was nice seeing you ladies."

"Nice to see you, too, Henry." Mom returned the sentiment. "Hope Marianne feels better soon."

"Don't you worry now. I'll take good care of her."

With that, Mr. Klossner climbed the steps, fumbled with his keys, and turned it in the lock, opening and disappearing behind the closed door.

Mom made sure he got in okay before she finally took Emma by the hand and led her back home.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, slightly. Stupid anxiety. The last thing she wanted to do was think, obsess about this. It was just one incident. Nothing happened. He didn't do anything to her. He was just a creep. One who used to stare at her all of the time. One who lived rent-free in her head way more than he should.

He wasn't here. He wasn't going to be waiting at her stop, staring at her with those dead, cold blue eyes. He was in his house, all alone, probably drinking all of his sorrows away.

She was okay. Well, she wasn't okay-okay, but she was fine. She was going to be okay.

On the way back, the bus emptied little by little until it was just her and a couple of others. The bus driver took this chance to pick up the bottle and threw it in a trash can at one stop. At this point, she had taken a single seat by the back door. It didn't feel nearly as claustrophobic and she was glad she didn't have to hear that clanking noise again. She could breathe a bit easier.

It felt like forever before the bus finally reached her stop. Just as she thought, Mr. Klossner wasn't there. She sighed in relief.

She pushed open the back doors and stepped onto the sidewalk, dragging her feet towards her block. As she turned the corner, she saw the flashing red lights and cop car in the distance. Was that by her house?

Emma quickened her step. There were more neighbors closer to the scene. Some were on their stoop. Others stood in front of their driveway. Her tall, big, muscly dad was one such person. Dad was across the street, speaking with their neighbor, his close friend Tony, who looked small beside him. He appeared to be engrossed in a serious conversation. Emma didn't have it in her to interrupt.

"He was such a quiet man," she heard one of the neighbors say. "I thought he was just shy, reserved. He never came out of his house. I knew he had issues, but nothing like this..."

Emma looked both ways before crossing the street, spotting her mom looking outside through the screen door window. When she reached the other side, Emma followed her gaze and saw him. His back was to her, but Emma knew it was him. Mr. Klossner. He was handcuffed. A police officer was detaining him, pushing his white head of hair down as he ducked and settled into the back of the squad car.

This didn't surprise her. Emma knew he was a creep. She didn't know to what extent, though. Not until her parents broke the news to her later that evening.

Turned out Tony was friends with Mr. Klossner's son, Marianne's dad, who filled him in on what happened. Tony relayed what was told to him to Dad.

That night, Emma laid wide awake underneath the covers, staring at the ceiling. She couldn't believe it. She was in shock. All of this time, Mr. Klossner had been molesting, raping his own granddaughter.

He only got caught because Marianne returned home that morning with a black eye and swollen cheek. It took some prodding, but her parents managed to get an answer out of her. Marianne broke down and told them about all of the abuse she suffered at the hands of her own grandfather. Mr. Klossner had threatened her into silence, told her that he'd kill her if she spoke up. He isolated her, kept her for days, even weeks at a time. He had convinced her that she was nothing but a burden to her parents, that nobody would care about or love her as much as he did.

Both of her parents worked. One of them could drop her off at school, but they couldn't pick her up or watch her in the afternoon. Sometimes they worked overtime so they couldn't get to her until later in the evening. Mr. Klossner had offered to watch and take care of her. He fooled her parents into thinking that they were close. Even as she got older, Marianne still went to go see him.

Emma felt sick. She turned onto her side and curled up into a ball, hugging her stomach.

She remembered seeing Marianne in school. Like her, Marianne was always alone, separated from the crowd. She'd sit by herself at lunch and outside during recess. Even at a distance, Emma felt a kinship with her. Emma would feel the urge to approach her and talk to her sometimes. But Emma had no idea what to say. Just walk up to her, say hi, how are you? It seemed so random, so weird to do that out of nowhere when they had been in the same class for so long. Emma had been so stuck in her head back then. She still was at times. While she struggled with her own anxiety and insecurities, Marianne had suffered in silence all by herself.

Emma couldn't help but wonder. If she had mustered up the courage, would Emma have helped Marianne feel any less alone? Would Emma have been able to be a friend to her, someone she could lean on and confide in? Maybe Emma would've been able to help her break free from the abuse much sooner.

Maybe that was arrogant of her. She had only been a child herself. What could she have possibly done? She didn't do anything when Mr. Klossner had taken her by the hand and dragged her off. If Mom hadn't shown up when she did, Emma doubted he would've taken her home. Mr. Klossner had looked at her so often, he could've very well been targetting her. If Mom hadn't shown up, Emma could've become his victim, too.

Her stomach churned and she covered her mouth as tears stung her eyes.

These thoughts spun around and around in her head all night long and into the early hours of the morning.

The reality of the situation, the fact that it happened so close to home, made her that much more afraid of the world.

It wasn't him. Not that one that you are asking about. The one with the piercing eyes, palest of blue. Pieter. No, it wasn't him. He was a wisp of a man. Harmlessly, he haunted his own household and yard, at the edge of the neighborhood, with a wife that nobody hardly ever saw. Glimpsed here and there, to suggest, some vague existence of Mrs. & Mr., when the sliver sedan backed out of that rear detached single car garage. But that was all. It was a very quiet house.

That was the lemonade yellow home on the Left.

No, the one you are asking about, lived on the Right. Under the flag. Under the badge of medallioned veteran. George. He had half a left leg, and one-and-a-half loud attitude about what we did or didn't, and what he would if he could, unspoken, heavily axed in the silence of the air around the khaki and olive-colored porch he never seemed to venture off.

If we were late with cutting the grass, he'd crack something about "somebody having a bad back, eh?" or if we tarried with taking out the trash till dawn of garbage truck day, he'd be there on the front deck bar stool with his barrel of a service dog and stump of cigar, insinuating that "we forgot." If we did the bare minimum of shoveling, to attend to other tasks inside, he'd remark snidely about not bothering to go the extra mile.

In short, he made everyone feel handicapped. He preempted any sympathy one might have had, or any respect, as Civilian.

When they carted him away, in Sirens, it was his woman Ruth that had called. Standing on the deck, hands on her hips, watching the Police and EMS, I gave my condolences and asked with caution, "Was it coronary?"

She looked at me like she'd bagged a terrorist, something like a damp white handkerchief of a restraining order waving in her hand.

"Hon, he lost his heart in Afghanistan."

I have grown up in many places

and strangeness seems to follow me from every

neighborhood to the next.

There is a man,

he looks different each time but I swear

he is one soul in many bodies.

In this life he is wrinkled,

his hair has begun to gray,

and he should not be quite old enough to have lost

his entire mind --

yet,

he is after my young and

swollen brain…

and other cavities.

I am guarded by bone and

I know by now that men are

never to be trusted.

They may as well all be the same.

One man, many bodies.

So I have seen him through the window many times

and like every one of the dozens,

he met my eyes with hunger.

Of course it was only a matter of time until someone

other than me was devoured.

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.

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?

With the bronze illumination of the setting sun flowing in through the rear window, I turned slowly onto Clark Street. The wheels of my car had traversed this same turn thousands of times, with little to no variation. Creeping along past the rows of cute, Virginian homes, I noticed a few familiar figures. There solemnly stood Mr. and Mrs. Maddox, Mr. Franklin, and Ms. Harriet, all conversing quietly in front of my quaint abode. Mr. Maddox, known to neighbors as Pete, noticed me soon after. Motioning to the others, he scuttled out of the drive and into the street. The rest followed. The sound of the squeaky brakes rose, and so did my curiosity. I was half surprised to see Pete walk up the open door of my car with a soft look on his face, for once.

"Evenin' Sean. Did'ya hear 'bout that odd fellow Darren down the street?" There was a slight chuckle before he continued in a more serious tone. "They say he's been charged with a double-homicide of some girls from Culpeper. Poor thangs." He gestured towards the undercover police vehicles parked a few houses down.

It was clear that the scruffy man had expected more of a reaction out of me, or some sort of surprised gasp. The truth was, I wasn't the least surprised.

"Awe, well, I's sure you has. It's spread all over the damn town in 'bout an hour" he said in a matter-of-fact voice. It was then that petite Ms. Harriet noticed Pete and I, and made her way over in a nervous waddle.

"He was such a quiet man." she said upon arriving, "Didn't expect nothing like this at all! He only seemed a little different, don't you think, Sean?" There was a touch of pity in her words, which was clearly to Pete's chagrin. He rolled his eyes.

It was only now that I realized I hadn't said a word since arriving on this worried scene. I was deep in thought, juggling ideas and memories inside my head. So deep was my thinking, in fact, that I ignored the commotion which ensued at the sight of the convicted neighbor Darren being dragged out in handcuffs. I only looked up in time to see the crazed face of that stranger-turned-murderer, and the uninterested look painted on it. I shuddered.

I knew from the day he moved in that something was different about this character. He had ignored my knocking on his door, when I planned to give him a warm welcome to Clark Street. From that moment on, I kept a particularly keen eye on him. That was when things got weird. When I finally heard his voice for the first time, I wished immediately I had never. The slight stutter, the strangely-placed emphasis, and the uncanny charisma which inevitably drew you in. Everything he said was in a slow, smooth, and deliberate fashion, always with some hidden purpose or agenda. Every word twisted, molded into some creation of evil intent. It was clear to me how some clueless girls could fall into the traps of his dialect.

His slicked-back hair, with long, greasy locks, made him appear neat, yet maniacal. There was some eerie aura around his dark, beady eyes and cleanly shaven face. The way he conversed with the unsuspecting mail-lady gave me uncomfortable feelings and judgement for him rose up within me. I suspected some villain-like intention behind everything he did, yet my good-nature did not let the words of allegation ever leave my mouth. I accused him secretly, reported him silently, but never had the guts to publicly raise a red flag.

So, as my eyes followed the police vehicles containing that murderous lunatic, rolling down the avenue, I felt some semblance of guilt. My brain made me believe there was some way to blame myself for the death of two innocent girls. Yet I knew there wasn't.

As the last sliver of the golden star slipped behind the horizon, I drew in a deep breath. Along with the rest of Clark Street, I would eventually forget the murder, and the story of the two victims would be lost to time. But I wasn't convinced that the memory of such a deranged, demented human could ever leave my mind.

Now from this cold cell I write.

I write so that I do not forget my dearest neighbor, Sean. The only one who knew, the only one who could have made a difference. Of all the stupid people I found on that doleful street, he was the least stupid.

But alas, he was just not brave enough. I imagine he is sitting now, feeling that beautiful mountain of guilt. If only he would have told someone, and warned them about me. Rising suspicion would have brought about caution. Maybe, just maybe, the lives of those two lovely ladies would have been saved.

But probably not...

Darren S. Leonard, #2334.

Central Virginia Correctional Unit, Cell 38B, 2/23/21.

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.

One sweltering day in August, a family of five moved into our village in a clunker truck that squealed as it gripped the road and purred as it slowed, carrying a stained mattress and a refrigerator.

Nobody took much interest as the family busied themselves, unloading and carrying the things they could bring into the house facing ours.

The family worked silently, reserved to themselves, and never uttered a word of greeting. This was fine for the rest of the villagers, for we neither offered a helping hand.

Their youngest son, named Samuel, was somewhere around twelve years old. We later presumed he was the only boy in the village who didn’t kick balls or beg his parents for ice cream.

Once in a while, in those meager times when he kept his curtains open, I could observe him from my bedroom window. From what I could tell, he was no more than a bony stick figure with distinctly outlined collarbones and shoulder blades poking underneath his shirt. The village was poor, and not everyone had enough to eat, but Samuel? He looked nothing better than a punished stray dog.

Some time passed, and the family adjusted well enough on their own.

Samuel’s mother purchased eggs and butter from the supermarket every Thursday morning, sober enough to apologize when she bumped into passersby, and smoke rose from the chimney every evening, signifying dinner preparation.

Soon enough, the neighbors lost the little interest they scarcely had from the beginning, and I wasn’t inquisitive in poking my nose into other people’s businesses either.

Besides, we had our own lives to live, which were demanding and depressing enough on their own. I was getting older every day, and I had to start preparing for my future, or so they say.

When things started to slide off, nobody noticed.

One autumn day, Samuel was swinging alone in an empty playground, wearing a handkerchief across his face pirate-style. Perhaps he was trying to look brave, but the purple and yellow edges of a bruise spilling out from his left eye were unmistakable.

At the crack of dawn, his father cussing at his clunker to get it moving was so loud that it woke me from my sleep across the street, and I could often hear his sauntering footsteps returning home late after darkness pervaded.

His father was a walking zombie during the day and a violent beast during the evening. A cold shiver ran down my spine from the frequent racket of dishes crashing onto the floor and leather belts being swung.

It continued that way for several months, then one day, in the glow of daylight, I watched Samuel’s mother leaving the house and crossing the sidewalks with a suitcase dangling behind her. She was dragging one foot behind the other.

When I searched her eyes for a sense of pain or regret, I couldn’t find any. Her expression was blank and empty, devoid of emotions.

As if following by example, as the seasons changed, his siblings began to leave one by one as early as they could manage. And soon, Samuel, aged fourteen, was alone in that dark house with his father.

The violence has never been so severe. Once, an old lady knocked on his door and asked what was happening. Samuel’s father waved her off, telling her that he was only correcting his son’s bad attitude and it was none of her business.

Sometime later, cops were summoned to the scene with a child abuse report. They banged on the door and announced they were not going away before Samuel’s father opened it. His father opened the door alright, well-dressed and shaved for the first time in weeks, offering coffee to the officers. In his gentle humor, he said his son had been misbehaving, and he was giving him a few spanks. The officer, hearing this, nodded and drove away.

Then there were other things happening in the village. A miscarriage, a wedding, a cheating scandal, triplets born. There were other things to gossip about, other things for people’s minds to be occupied with.

Samuel never came outside.

Like fading vapor, he was forgotten.

Years passed. I was accepted to a university in a different state and worked hard to get a degree in botany. My efforts paid off, and my dream came true. I got married, had two beautiful children, and got a job as an agriculture engineer, with not much but a satisfactory salary, enough to support my family and me.

It had been a long time since my mind had erased that little boy named Samuel.

Then one day, after receiving a one-week vacation, I decided to visit the village I grew up in. After driving miles after miles of vast landscapes that stretched on forever, doubting whether I was taking the right route a dozen times, I eventually managed to find myself at my destination.

The village was the same, as if time had frozen in this place. The flickering streetlamps and the hideous graffiti sprayed on the concrete walls, the little playground with peeling paint, and a truly intoxicating aroma rising from the bakery with freshly-baked buns in the display.

It was wonderful.

I rented a motel for two days.

I managed to hang out with the people I knew, socialize, make new acquaintances at the pub, and everything was peaceful until the day of departure. Around ten in the morning, I was awakened by sirens blaring, tearing open my eardrums.

“What the—” I shuffled out of bed and peered out of the dusty window. Below the motel were two officers hand-cuffing a man in his mid-twenties. The blue and red lights of the sirens flashed in all directions as if this was the devil’s party.

I furrowed my eyebrows. I had a long day ahead, and this was obviously not the best way to begin. I shook off the troubling thought of lousy luck awaiting me and went downstairs to the lobby to check out.

“Have you heard?” The woman by the counter asked as she counted the bills. She was a plump woman with graying hair and rectangle spectacles. “About the murder?”

I scratched my head and sort of nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to drop land prices,” she said, massaging her knitted eyebrows.

“Yeah… I hope it doesn’t.” I said, hoping to sound as sincere and apologetic as I could manage.

She handed me the receipt with hardly visible ink and heaved a sigh as if the world was tumbling down. “That man killed his own father,” she said. “Samuel Tomson, a disgraceful bastard.”

Watching him be marched off didn’t seem at all odd.  The sirens of the police car blared, threatening to pound out every thought in my head.  The soft crunch of loose gravel over my driveway seemed to seep into my ears.  The figure of the man hobbling away, dragged by two officers, it was like watching two ants take away a large crumb.

The crumb had a large tail, his skin riddled in scales.  He turns back scanning all the fellow residents.  His golden eyes pierced every person.  The swing of his head is followed by the horns protruding over his head.  Long and spiraled, they resembled a ram’s horn if it was to grow upwards.

His eyes land on me, the thin slits of his eyes getting ever smaller.  He digs his heels into the ground using the claws that protrude out of his shoes to turn himself.  He seemed to be shouting something, but the blaring sirens and gravel drowned him out.  I don’t react, I simply look, his tongue whips out, long and slit.  He grew more irate, his fangs gleaming against the siren lights.

The two officers struggle to hold onto him.  The man struggles, trying to run towards me.  A third officer steps out from the police car and takes out a small taser.  The man is too distracted to see, to hear.  The third officer clicks the taser and two small digits shoot into the man’s skin.  The thin wires bouncing between the officer and the man as electricity is pumped into the man.  He stops shouting and trembles for a few seconds before crumpling to the ground.

The three officers load him onto the car and drive off.  The man’s front door is still open, claw marks from his initial resistance still on display.  One of the neighbors starts to gossip to another holding out their phone.  I walk past them and take a peek.

“Local man arrested for killing 3 people”

The article had an image of the man attached.   Hornless, scaless, tailless.  I continue to walk and step over the neighbor’s tail.  I take care to avoid another’s horn.

No one can see.