Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. I was thirteen when we moved
to a place called Granger Hollow. It barely deserved a
name town one of those backward spots, and saw then
a palatia. Were the trees at numbered the people ten
to one. The biggest landmark was a half claps gas
station with a single pump and a soda machine that
only took quarters. The population was just under three hundred.
That was if you counted petshimit ever lived under the
floorboards of the church. We weren't moving there for fun.
My dad had just inherited an old leaning farmhouse from
his uncle Jasper. I'd only ever seen Jasper in one
faded froto, wearing a cap and holding a trap. We
hadn't heard from that side of the family in years.
Then suddenly this house just fell into Dad's lap. We
were broken enough to see it as a gift. Man
called it a fresh start. Dad called it free land.
I didn't call it anything, but my goat was uneasy.
Before we even pat the first box. The house looked
like it had been lu using an argument with the
weather for thirty years, sagging porch, moss in the roof,
paint peeling down to gray, the kind of place that
creaks even when nobody's inside. But it had four walls,
and it wasn't in foreclosure, so we moved in. The
quiet hit me first, not peaceful, quiet, wrong, quiet, like
it was hiding something. No passing cars, no lambers, no radio,
was drifting from windows, sometimes not even birds. It was
like the whole place held its breath whenever we stepped outside.
Our nearest neighbors live across a scraggly patch of wheels
and broken fence posts. Their house looked worse than ires,
if that was possible, big and crooked shutters, waped potch
tilted so far it seemed like it might peel off
and walk away. I remember wondering how it was still standing.
A brother and sister lived there. I never caught their
last name, nobody offered it. The woman wore her gray
hair in a single, stiff braid, like it hadn't been
done in years. She always had on the same faded
dress and apron, stained from decades of spills. Her brother
was heavy set. He shuffled more than he walked, dragged
along like something unseen was pulling him. When he looked
to you, it was still expectant, like he was waiting
for what I never knew. They never spoke first, never wave,
just watched. The mailman, one of the only people who
actually talked to us, told my dad they'd been here
since to flood back in the five thousand eighties. They've
seen this town gonder and come back. Menar, he said,
Then he lowered his voice. Folks around here don't ask
too many questions. I'd advised the same. A week after
we moved in, Dad asked me to return a hammer
he borrowed from them. He tossed it to me, casual,
like it was no big deal. But the second I
stepped into their yard, my stomach twisted. Their gravel puff
crunched under my shoes louder than a shoudou. The world
around me when silent again, like even the wind had
stepp aside to let me pass. I was about to
knock when the door creaked open. She was already standing
there at the sister apron and hands hidden out of sight.
She stared at me, then said, flat a stone. Oh
it's the new girl. I held up the hammer, trying
to keep my hands steady. She didn't take it. Her
eyes flicked toward a house. You tell yer, Daddy not
to dig too deep, she said that land remembers. I
didn't ask what she meant, didn't even say good bye.
I set the hammer on the porch rail and walked back,
not running, not hurry to steady, like running might invite
something to follow. That night, I woke to tapping. Light
measured it came from under my bed. I lay frozen,
staring at the ceiling, listening at taps, pause and more
like it was waiting for me to countle. All in
the morning, there were scratches on the front door, not claws,
not deep, then almost delicate, like a child dragging their
fingers over and over. Dad said it was raccoon's. I
didn't argue, but I knew better. Then things began to move.
Mom lost our baking tins. We found them later in
the shed, stacked neatly, each one filled with dried leaves, bones,
and twine soaked in oil. My algebra book disappeared. A
week later. It turned up unto the porch, swollen with damp,
stinking of vinegar. The garden we just planted went limb overnight,
Lee's blackened, boiled looking. The scarecrow in Dad's old flannel
collapsed into a wet pile. Leggett had melted. I told Dad.
He said, houses creak, folks fall, animal's dike, wind blows.
Then one evening I saw the brother. He stood at
the edge of the cornfield, just beyond the light, mouth moving,
no sound. I could tell he wasn't talking to me.
He stared at our house until the shadows swallowed him whole.
And then Malm's brakes failed. One moment she was driving
to the store. The next shoe was in a ditch,
kaw twisted but not destroyed. She crawled out with a
cut on her arm, shaking. The mechanic said the brake
line was slah clean, no rust nowhere, just cut. Dad
brought the shotgun to the door. A week later, they
brought us a pie. The sister stood on our porch,
smiling faintly. We're praying for your wife, she said, holding
out the pie like a peace offering. It's elt, we cloves, sugar, honey,
and something earthy. Dad waited until she was gone, then
he dropped it straight in the trash. That night, the
scratching returned, not onto the floor inside the walls. Plus,
I pressed my ear to the drywall. Something was pacing.
Not an animal, not unless Rikins had learned how to whisper.
We called the sheriff. He searched every inch at a
cross space under the porch. Nothing. Before he left, he
leaned toward Dad's window. Don't poke the quiet once, sir,
he said, this town learned to leave them be. Neither
of us slept that night. Then we found our dog
nailed to a tree. No fight, no blood, eyes opened,
body posed. That was it. Dad started packing. We were leaving,
no debate, but when we tried the car it was dead.
Lugnut's gone, all four tyrus loose. So we decided to walk.
By sun rise, we were on the road, but a
we supped. Furniture blocked the path, chairs, tables broken, crib's cracked,
mirrors stacked into a barricade, nailed to the top, or
sheets of paper, our names written across them, man, Moms, Dad's.
We turned back that night. We locked everything, windows, doors, doors,
even the att catch. But sometime past midnight I heard
footsteps above us. Soft careful, I took the flask light
and climbed every stair grown like a warning. In the
center of the attic floor sat a doll. Not just
any doll. It had my face, stitch, features rough but unmistakable,
my braid, my hurdy trunk, and sown around its cloth frame.
It sat up right, hands folded, mouths sown shut. The
next morning, the sheriff's cruiser was in our drive. Engine
called door shut. He's still in the ignition, but no
sheriff on the passenger seat a note let it finish.
That afternoon we heard the brother had died heart failure,
they said. But that evening the sister came to our door.
Our apron dotted red braid half and done. Her voice
was thin. He was supposed to last ten more years,
she whispered. He wasn't ready. I'll have to bind it again.
Dad slammed the door before she could say another word.
That night, we gathered every hand made thing we owned, dolls, trangkets,
the clay mug from the kitchen, even the fur none
of us remembered by We tossed it all into the fireplace,
and we watched it burn. The scratching stopped. Weeks later,
a man from Dad's old job helped us get the
car running. We left before dark, no good byes. We've
never been back. I was nineteen when I moved into
a duplex at the far edge of a tiny town,
cold Albridge. It sat right where the paved rowers gave
up and the woods started closing in. The road together
was barely a road, more like a stubborn to a
path that looked like it used to be something, then
gave up halfway. Trees arched over it. They can close,
and most days I had to slow down to a
croll just to keep my car from scraping underneath. By
the time wh I reached the place, it felt like
I had left regular life behind completely. The duple stood
alone at the end of the stretch, half hidden by
overgrew and brush. A saged like it hadn't had any
reason to stay at Brighton years. My half wasn't great,
but it was livable if you squinted. The paint was peeling,
the steps creaked. The kitchen sinker had a habit of
groaning every time I used it. But I was nineteen,
broke and trying to make it through the first months
of adult life without crashing, so I told myself it
was fine. The other half belonged to the Greshams. No
one ever used their first names, just the Greshams, like
they came as a set, and you didn't question the packaging.
In a town that small, people usually filled you in
on the locals right away, who runs the diner, who
gives the best card deals, who to avoid. When it
came to the Greshams, the only thing anyone ever said
was they keep to themselves. That was putting it mildly.
Mister Grisham never spoke. I mean that literally. In all
the months I lived there, not once did I hear
his voice. He just stood on the porch for long stretches,
not smoking, not drinking, just standing. His mouth hum slightly opened,
like he was trying to tast something in the air.
His eyes never saddled where you expected, they dotted just
a little past everything. Missus Grsham was the talkative one,
if you could call at that. She never said more
than a few words at a time, usually just mottering
to herself while she collected the mail or watered a
row of dead looking plants in the side yard. She
always looked like she wanted to say more, but didn't.
Her mouth stayed tight like she was chewing on words
that refused to be spoken. Every window on the side
of the duplex was sealed with tin frill, not taped
around the edges, but folded and pressed until it looked
melted into the frame. No light went in, no light
came out at night, though I sometimes caught faint flicker
behind the foil, like candle light or an old lantern.
It pulled slowly like it was breathing. Even in those
late July heat waves when I was sweating through two
fans in an open window, the Greshams kept the reopening, sealed,
door shut, windows locked, not so much as the screen
cracked open, and I never once heard an air conditioner
running on the side. Still, I tried to mind my business.
It was easier that way, But things started getting strange
and I couldn't ignore it for long. It started within knocking,
not banging, not even knocking on a door. This was
tapping light percize. It came from the wall we shared
my bedroom against whatever was on their side. At first
I thought it was just the house settling or pipes
doing that clanking thing for no reason. But it wasn't random.
It began around twelve point thirty. Every night three taps pause, pause,
five taps pause pause, two, then again three five, five two.
I would lie af frozen in bed, counting them like
I could make sense a bit off. Listen long enough
three five two, then again. It was too specific to
be nothing, but too quiet to call anyone about. That's
how it starts. You tell yourself it's probably nothing. You
just need more sleep. A lot of weird things feel
less weird in daylight, until they don't. A few days later,
I started waking up even earlier, just before sunrise. Every time,
without fail, I was jolted awake by the sound of birds,
not chirping, not morning psalms, crows, loud, loud, angry, endless.
The first screech would echo through the trees, then another,
then dozens. They circle blow over the roof, sometimes close
enough that their wings look like they might hit the siding,
but they never landed on my side. Only the greshams
they caught at the shingles, stomping like they were trying
to get in. The noise was unbearable, not just loud,
but shore up, like it was meant to drill into
your skull. Then, as soon as the sun rose above
the tree line, they vanished vawn. I asked the land,
what about it? Once, they'll be guy with a beard
that made him look like he'd been chopping wood since
Berth I caught him behind the bait shop. He ran
out near the main road, brought it up casually, something like, hey,
those birds ever bothered the neighbors. He didn't even pause,
didn't even think. He just said, don't mess with the
Greshams and walked off, didn't even look at me. About
a week later I came home late and saw something
I still count explain. Mister Gresham was dragging something through
the grass behind the house. It was long, bulky wrapped
in an old colt that was soaked through in spots.
At first I thought it might be a rug or furniture,
but it was too limp for that. Whatever it was,
it left a trail in the dirt. He hauled it
at the back step and pulsed just before the door,
like he knew I was watching. Then he turned his
head slowly like a hinge creaking. He saw me, and
he smiled. It wasn't right. It looked force like he
hadn't done it in years and couldn't quite remember how.
Then he yanked the bundle inside and slammed the door
hard enough to shake the porch. After that, the tapping
turned into pounding. Always after midnight, the frames on my
walls trembled. Once my lamp slid half an inch across
the night's tent, I stopped sleeping completely. One night, I
pressed my ear against the wall. I don't know what
I expected, silent, maybe something I could pretend was harmless.
But I heard them two voices, not whispering, not talking, chanting,
that we repeating the same lines over and over in
some language I didn't recognize. It wasn't gibbersh. It was structured,
rhydmic and calm. That was the worst part. That night,
I slaid a pocket and I thunder my pillow, not
because I thought it would help, just because it made
me feel less helpless. Then came the last straw. One afternoon,
I noticed the front door was shut all the way,
just cracked, maybe an inch, like it hadn't latched. I
should have gone inside, but I glanced over and I
saw and the walls were painted black, covered in red markings, spirals, slashes,
uneven cymbals, like some one had been trying to write
with broken fingers. The furniture was gone. In its place
where rows of Mason jars lie neatly across the floor.
Each one held a bird, dead winds, folded, beaks open.
Some were fresh, others weren't. I could smell it from
the porch, sweet war on, like fruit lift in the sun.
Too long, I bolted back to ma car, drove to
the highway gas station and slept with the engine running.
The next morning, a coal tailor, she was one of
the only people in Elbert who didn't think I was
imagining things. I told her I needed back up to
grab a few things, just clothes, my laptop, something. She
didn't ask questions, just say d I'll come. We drove
back that afternoon of rose, the jars, every last one
now lying along the Gresham's portrayling polished and clean. You
could see the feathers, the dried blood, the open eyes,
and the Greshams were standing behind them, still silent, watching us.
They didn't blink. Taylor whispered, let's go now. But I
couldn't move. It wasn't fear. It was pressure that in
the air, like something was holding me in place. Finally
I turned, got in the car, slammed the door we
drove away. When I first moved into that little rental
house at the edge of a hollow outside Renfield, I
honestly thought I was finally catching a brake. You know,
that kind of tired that settles near bones after too
many years of cramped apartments in a commute that turns
every day into a battle. That was me. I'd spent
most of my doll life stop between traffic lights, dead
end jobs, and paper thin walls. So when I found
that listing quiet to bedroom of Mountain View cheap rent,
I didn't even hesitate. I signed the least before I
saw the place in person. The house itself was small,
nothing fancy, but it had a wide front porch, enough
room for a rocking chair or two, and the air
smelled like wet dirt and pine instead of car exhaust.
The hills behind the house folded into each other in
this layered way, like they were keeping something tucked inside.
I like it. It felt separate, like it existed slightly
outside of time, a fresh start. The house next door
looked like mine, but only if mine had been left
out in the rain for a couple decades too long.
Same structure, same bones, but it leaned just slightly to
one side, like its frame was too tired to hold
itself upright any more. The siding was bowed in spots,
the pain peeling in strips, and the roof had patches
of rust that glowed orange in the sun, like someone
had spilt acid cross it. What struck me first, though,
with the windows. Every single one was covered. Curtains hung
in rigid lines behind the glass seal shut like they'd
been glued there. No sunlight slipped through, no movement, just
fabric pulled so tight. It was hard to tell if
the house was occupied or not. I figured maybe it
was a rental to or maybe some old of folks
who liked their privacy. Didn't think too much of it
at the time, not until the first night, when I
was hauling boxes out of the truck. They were just
sitting there, three people on the porch of that sagging house,
right in a row, like they were waiting for a
bus that never came. They didn't wave, didn't smile, didn't
even glance away when I looked straight at them, just
sat still, eyes fixed forward, like whatever was in front
of them was more important than anything else. I tried
not to make it weird, gave them a polite nod,
half a wave of the usual awkward neighbor gesture. Nothing,
not even a twitch. I thought, Okay, maybe they'd just shy,
or maybe they didn't see me, or maybe this was
just the kind of place where people didn't bother pretending
to be friendly. But the next morning, still there. I
opened my front door with a mug of coffee and
stamped out into the chilly air. And there they were.
Same three people, same chairs, same positions. I looked for
signs of life, movement, a cough had turned, but they
sat there like mannequins. I raised my coffee and called out, mourning,
just to see nothing. No response, no flicker of recognition.
I stood there full ten seconds, hand half way raised
before I finally turned and went back inside. That's when
the first little needle of anee settled under my skin.
I brushed it off, told myself it was just one
of those backwards things people in small mountain towns didn't
take to outside as fast I'd read about it. Maybe
they were just sizing me up, trying to decide if
I was worth talking to. Either way, I didn't plan
to be home much, so I let it go. But
the thing was the pathen didn't break. Every single morning,
without fail, they were there. I'd open the door to
leave for work, and though they'd be sitting perfectly still,
I'd come back late, headlights sweeping across the front of
the porch, and yet still there never a light on
inside the house, never a curtain moved, just those three
figures in their chairs facing the road. I started watching
for small things, any sign that they'd moved, even slightly,
but if they did, it was only when I wasn't
looking like they were set themselves every time I blinked.
Then things started changing around my house. It began with
the curtains. I'm particular about them. Grew up with a
mom who was borderline obsessive about cemmetery, so I always
made sure mine were drawn evenly. But one morning I
came out of the bedroom and the ones in the
living room were tugged to one side, not yanked, not
like wind had blown them, just sustily off Santa, like
some one had peeked out and didn't quite put them
the same way. Then my trash can, I'd wheel it
out to the cup every Monday, same spot, but twice
in the same month. I came home and it had
been moved exactly two feet closer to the property line,
not knocked over, not disturbed, just repositioned precisely like it
had been measured. Then came the footprints. I'd gone out
for groceries one night. It was late, maybe a little
past midnight, and when I got home my porch light
was out. That alone spooked me. It had been working fine, Urler.
But what really stopped me with the muddy prints. Three
sets leading up my steps, spaced just far enough apart
to suggest a careful climb, one lodge, one medium, one small.
They ended at my door. Didn't go in, didn't wander,
just stopped. I didn't go inside for solid five minutes,
just stood there on the grass, clutching a pack of
cereal and frozen peas, telling myself I was being paranoid.
When I finally went in, every room was exactly how
I left it, no doors open, no windows cracked, no
signs of anyone or anything inside. I didn't sleep much
that night either. The Next day I started asking around
at the gas station in town. I made small talk
with the cashier, mentioned the house next door. He gave
me a shrug and said, they keeped it themselves, wouldn't
meet my eye. At a little diner on the edge
of Rerenfille, I brought it up again. Told the waitress
I was renting the place next to the one with
all the curtains. She froze for a second midpoor then
she quietly said, don't bother them. I laughed a little,
trying to play it off, asked what their story was.
She didn't laugh back, just said, real, Oh, they've always
been there, they always will be. That was it. No
more questions answered. From then on, something in the air shifted.
Every time I stepped outside, I felt, assess like I
was being measured, maybe not by sight, but by something else,
something patient. I'd catch myself holding my breath in the porch,
glancing over at them, trying to spot a flick of movement,
a go off, a blink, a blink. Nothing. Then one
night everything tipped. It was true. In the morning, I
woke up to a sound I hadn't heard before, my
porch swing, squeaking back and forth slowly. It took me
a second to register it. Lying there in the dark,
listening to the groan of the chains. I hadn't even
used the swing once. I remember staring at the ceiling.
Every muscle in my body locked up, discounting the creeks
like maybe it would help. Back and forth, back and forth.
Then it stopped, just cut off mid swing. I told
myself not to look. I knew I shouldn't, but I
cracked the blinds anyway. The swing was empty still. The
porch light flickered back on, but across the road their
porch was empty too. For the first time since I
moved in, all three chairs were vacant. I didn't blink
for what felt like an iron, just stood there and
against the glass, breathing through my teeth. I didn't sleep
the rest of the night, sat in the living room
with the lights on, clutching the house key in one
hand and a kitchen knife in the other, checking the
locks every half ire. When morning finally came, I got
up the neve to look again. They were back, all
three of them in their places, like nothing had happened.
I didn't pack carefully, didn't wrap dishes or a label boxes.
I just threw everything I could into my truck, slammed
the door, and didn't look back, not really, But as
I pulled out of the driveway, I did glance in
the mirror. All three of them had turned their heads,
not toward the road, toward me, toward me. I kept
driving until the mountains leveled out and the trees didn't
feel like they were pressing in so close. I've lived
in the same mountain town my entire life. It's one
of those places where the roads bend like rivers and
the mountains lean in so close you start to wonder
if they're listening. We're tuk so deep into a crook
of the appellations that most people don't even know exists.
They passed through on their way to somewhere with fear
hills and more signal bars, rolling their windows up like
they can smell how long we've been here. The people
who grow up in Carlin don't usually leave, not because
we count exactly, but because you are never just leaving
the town. You're leaving your grandparents land, the cemetery where
your great uncle's buried, the dirt road he first drove
at thirteen. You leave, and it feels like you're turning
your back on something older than you are. Our house
sits near the bottom of a slope across the road
from the Old North property, that's what people still called it,
even though nobody could remember the Norths. The house was different.
Sit back a little farther from the road, almost hiding
behind a row of dying pines. The place always looked
like it was shrinking into itsself, like even the wood
wanted to forget it existed. No one ever said the
owner's names, if they even knew that, just the people
crossed the road, or those ones in the old North House.
I remember asking my mom once when I was little
who lived there. She just said, folks who keep to themselves,
and that was the end of it. The house of
practically a ghost. The paint had peeled into long strips
that fluttered when the wind blew hard enough. The porch
sag of, like something had been leaning on it too long.
The curtains stayed closed all year round, every single window
sealed so tight you couldn't tell where the fabric ended
and the dark began. The only sign of life was
an old pickup that would appear out of nowhere. They
sat crooked and a gravel like it had dropped from
the sky. It would stay weak, maybe less, then disappear again.
No one saw it come or go. It was just
there then not folks talked. Obviously, you can't have a
house like that in a town like this and not
have it become a story. Fearies ranged from old money
family hiding from the world, to cult, depending on who
you were talking to her and how many drinks they'd had.
I never knew what to believe, but I always figured
if something was really wrong, someone would have done something
by now call the county, brought it up at a
council meeting. But they didn't. They just let the house
be like it was some natural thing we all had
to live with. For years. Nothing changed. Then one night
in late October, a light came on upstairs. I was
in the front porch, bundled in a blanket that smelled
like cedar and smoke, sipping cold Coco. Had forgotten about,
just sword of staring at nothing. The leaves had mostly
dropped by then, and the bare branches left a clear
view of the house across the road. That's when I
saw it, a soft yellow light flicking on behind the
curtain of a second story window. It didn't turn on fast,
like a bowl. It kind of swelled like some one
carrying a lantern from room to room behind the walls.
I kept staring, waiting for a shape to pass in
front of it, a person, a shadow, anything, but the
light just floated slowly from one window to the next,
and then it blinked out. I remember sitting there a
long time afterwards, blanket pull tite, not even cold any more.
It wasn't scary, just weird, like the house had coughed
in its sleep. I didn't say anything about it until
two days later, when I saw someone standing in the drivery.
I was walking to the store, cutting down the road
like I own always did. When I spotted a figure
thalm still standing next to the truck, facing the road,
not moving, I slowed down without meaning to. The morning
sun was barely up, and the light hit their face
just enough to make out that it was pale, unnaturally pale,
no details, just blank, like someone half with through becoming real.
Instinct kicked in and I've raised a hand to wave.
That's just what you do here. If you see someone,
you wave, doesn't matter who it is. But they didn't
wave back. They didn't even blink. I looked away for
just a second, trying to shake it off, and when
I looked again, the driver was empty, like they'd sunk
into the ground. That's when the sound started. It wasn't music,
wasn't a machine. It was this slow harm, almost like
a vibration in your chest. Sometimes it pulls, sometimes it
held steady frys. It came from across the hollow, quiet
at first, but always growing loud of the longer it
went on. It didn't sound like something you could make.
It sounded like something that just was, like window pressure
or a deep note some one struck had never released.
My parents wore they couldn't hear it. They thought I
was stressed from school, spending too much time online, but
it wasn't in my head. I'd lie there in the
dark as wide open covers pulled up and just feel
the noise crawl through the walls and settle into my bones.
One evening, I was heading to my friend Evan's place
and decided to cut through the wood behind our house.
I'd done it a hundred times, but that night, when
I reached the ridge overlooking the neighbor's back yard, I froze.
They were out there, five maybe six people, standing in
a perfect ring on the dead grass, not moving, not talking,
all of them facing inward like they were watching something
in the cender. I crouched down hard enough to scrape
my knee on a rock and didn't move for what
felt like forever. Eventually I peeked again. They hadn't changed.
It was like they were statues or trees pretending to
be people. I didn't go to Evans. I turned around,
walked the long way home and didn't tell any one
what I saw. That night, just after midnight, some one
knocked on our front door. It was three knocks, odd,
spaced out, the kind that makes you sit up fast
because something in your body already knows is not normal.
My dad came out of the bedroom I still half shut,
and caught me in the hallway. He pushed me behind
him and went to the door. Didn't look through the people,
didn't ask who it was, just opened it. There was
nobody there. The porch was empty, the yard was still,
but the hum, that awful hum, was louder than I'd
ever heard it. It felt like it was crawling out
of the ground itself. My dad stood there, stirring out
like he expected someone to step forward, but no one did.
After a while, he shut the door and locked it slowly.
He didn't say anything, just went back to bed. The
next morning I found the footprints. They were all through
the mud by the porch, too many to be from
just one person, some small, some larger, circling the steps,
like someone had been pacing the rake. I left out
with standing upright, propped against the railing and the old
rocking chair. Grandma's hair had been turned to face the
neighbor's house. I didn't say anything. I just cleaned it
up and went inside. After that, I stopped going out
after dark at all. I kept the blind shut, the
doors locked, and my headphones on, but it didn't stop.
One night, I woke up with the sense that someone
was watching me. It was like a weight had settled
in the room. I got up and pulled the curtain back,
just a listle and nuts. When I saw them across
the road. The second floor window, the same one where
the light had come on, was open, just a crack.
I'm behind the glass, pressed against it like they'd been flattened.
Were faces, not one or two, a whole row of them, pale, motionless,
all turned toward my room. I slammed the curtain ships
so fast and nearly ripped it off the rod. I
didn't look again, didn't sleep just sat on my floor
until morning, wrapped in a hoodie and holding the closest
thing I could use as a weapon, a rusty old flashlight.
The next day the house was back to normal, curtain sealed,
pick up gone, yard empty, looked like nobody had lived
there for decades. I was twenty one when I moved
into a small rent or tucked deep in the mountains
outside a place called Zarahollow. It wasn't even on most maps.
If you blinked during the drive, you'd miss only stop
plight in a post office which doubled as the general store.
It was the kind of town where every face looked familiar,
but no one bothered to introduce themselves. The house I
frowned was dirtchy, almost suspiciously cheap, just one floor, faded,
green pin peeling from the siding, a porch that leaned
like it had on bad leg, and a wide view
of the ridgeline cutting across the sky like a scar.
I didn't care that it looked ready to collapse in
the next big wind. I wasn't moving there for luxury.
I kneeded out away from people, away from expectations, quiet
in space. That was the goal. The road was gravel
barely maintained. A dozen houses maybe scattered along the slope,
some so overgrown I couldn't tell if anyone lived there.
The ones I could see all looked older than mine
by at least fifty years. They seem portant to the hills,
like they belonged to the earth. No one waved, no hollos,
no hollos, just silence, pressing him for every side. Frank,
my landlord, was wiry and sun worn, with a voice
rough enough to peel paint. He handed me the keys
without much ceremony. Then he offered one piece of advice
books out here. Ain't like city people, he said it
with a half smile, but his eyes didn't match. Then,
almost as an alfy thought, he added the couple next door,
they were a little different. I didn't press him, figured
he meant they were exclusive. I wasn't there to make
friends anyway. I just nodded, took the keys, and drove
the last stretch up to the house, telling myself this
was it. Peace and quiet. First time I saw the neighbors,
I was unloading boxes, I turned arms full of books,
and they were just standing on the porch, both of them.
No footsteps, no sound just there. The man looked weathered,
with shop cheek bones and a wiry frame, the kind
that comes from a lifetime of hard labor. The woman
was pale, with long black hair braided tight against her neck.
She wore an old fashioned dress, out of place even
for the mountains. Neither of them smiled. They didn't introduce themselves,
didn't offer help. The man just asked, flat and tonless,
what brings you out here? Before I could finish answering,
the woman cut in, do you live alone? The way
she asked it, it didn't feel nosy, it felt like confirmation.
I nodded without thinking, and regretted it immediately. They turned
in perfect sink and walked off the porch, no goodbye,
no glance back. I laughed it off, later told myself
it was walk of small town etiquette. Maybe they were
just suspicious of newcomers. Still, I checked the locks twice
before bed. After midnight, I woke to a dragging sound
on the porch, heavy scraping across the boards. Slow study,
I peeked through the front window. My trash bend was
pressed against the house. That might not sound strange, but
I hadn't moved it. It was still by the shed. Earlier,
I hadn't even unpacked enough to make trash, No wind,
no animals, just there. The next week brought more signs.
The curtains never opened, but moving flickered behind them when
I stepped outside. Once I saw the storm door crack opened,
then slam shot, as if someone had changed their mind.
I tried waving once caught them at the window, raised
my hand. They just stared, unblinking until I retreated inside.
Then things shifted from unsettling to disturbing. Mails started appearing
on my porch before the mail truck even arrived. My
shed holes were laid out in neat lines across the
yard edge to edge, like someone had used a ruler.
I locked the shed after that, but the next morning
the lock was intact and the tools was stacked neatly
against my back door. That's what I stopped feeling seen
and started feeling studded. I spent more time in town,
just to be around people, but I noticed there were
no kids, not at the diner, not the grocery store,
not even at the park, only adults, all of them
carrying the same tide heavy secret in their eyes. One night,
I woke to the sound of footsteps in the gravel, slow, steady,
circling the house. I pulled back the curtain an inch.
She was standing in the yard, the neighbor's wife. Thearefoot,
draped in a thin white nightgown, had tilted back, eyes
locked on my window. She didn't blink, didn't move. I
sat on the floor, heart pounding, until the sun came up.
By then she was gone. After that, I avoided them
at all costs. Changed grocery days, ran errand early. It
didn't help. They started showing up wherever I went at
the store. They followed me through asles. No cots, no baskets,
just silent footsteps behind me. When I stopped, they stopped
when I turned, So did they once I ducked into
the bathroom. When I came back out, they were waiting
by the door. I mentioned it to the cashier, Dylan,
who barely looked up. That's just how they are, he muttered,
like that explained anything. The last night in that house,
everything broke. I came home close to midnight. Headlights swept
across the front, and I slammed the brakes. Every window
was wide open, Every door stood ajar like. The house
had exhaled inside. Nothing was stolen, nothing broken, but everything
was arranged. Drawers pulled out, contents and piles in the floor,
my clothes folded, books laid across the rug, alphabetized and
color coded pantry items lined in Rosala on the counter.
It felt like someone had spent time was touching every
part of my life. The air was still, the silence thick,
but I knew. I knew someone had just slipped out
the back. I didn't sleep, didn't even sit. I grabbed
a back, stuffed what I could, and walked straight to
the car, locked the doors, started the engine drove. I
parked in front of Frank's office downtown and waited. When
he arrived at dawn, he didn't ask why. He didn't
look surprised when I said I needed to break the lease.
He just handed me a form and said best to go.
I never went back for the rest of my things.
The first time I noticed something off about my neighbors,
I was hauling firewood from the shared up back, just
a regular evening. It was starting to get cold, and
I figured i'd better stop pile enough to make it
through the weekend without stumbling outside in my pajamas I'd
only been in that rental house a week. It sat
right off a narrow dirt road that curred into a
wooded hill. Real quiet place, too quiet, honestly coming from
a larger part of the state, the kind of town
where folks waved from their porches whether they know you
or not. So when people warn me kind of offhand
that the folks crossed the road kept to themselves, I
didn't think much of it. Everybody's got their reasons. The
house wasn't remarkable, a sagging front porch, faded blue gray,
sighing that looked like it hadn't seen paint in a decade.
Lace curtains always drawn tight. You could barely make out
the inside even during the day. The whole place had
that weather beaten, half forgotten look, But so did half
the houses in that stretch of a Polosia. What made
theirs different was how still it seemed like too still.
I know that sounds dramatic, but really every other house
had something a dog barking, a porch light flicking on
the kink, of some one stacking junk in the yard
their place, nothing, not even wind in the curtains. I
started to feel like the air around the house didn't move.
The first time I really felt weird about it was
maybe four days in. I was walking past, headed back
from the mail books. For just a second I saw
one of the curtain shift, not much, just the slightest ripple,
but the timing was too perfect. It happened right as
I passed, like someone had been watching me and nanked
back too late. I paused midstep, looked straight at the window.
Nothing just that heavy curtain again, still a stone. I
laughed a little to myself, one of those drawer I okay,
you're losing it. Last I shook it off and kept walking,
but I couldn't stop thinking about it. From then on,
every time I went out, I caught myself blunking across
the road checking the windows without meaning to. Most days
there was nothing to see, but sometimes, just sometimes, I'd
swear I felt some one's eyes on me. Not in
a horror movie way, more like that feeling you get
when someone across a crowded room is staring at the
back of your head. Not visible, just present. Then one night,
while I was stacking more firewood, I looked up and
there was definitely a face in the window. Not a
trick of the light, not a vague shadow, a face.
It wasn't pressed to the glassway anything. It was just there,
staring through a tiny gap in the curtain. No movement,
no blinking. It stayed long enough for me to register
it fully before the curtain slipped back into place, smooth, precise.
I raised my hand, light wave, trying not to look
like a creeper. No response, just silence, No footsteps, no
door creaking open, nothing that Maybe they were just cautious,
maybe they'd had a break in before, didn't trust strangers,
or maybe they were just plain weird. We've all had
strange neighbors. I convinced myself it was the big deal
until the jar showed up. It was sitting on my
front step when I got home from work, a glass
mason jar, old, looking brust on the lid's edges, inside
a block feather pinned up right, like someone had taken
real care placing it there. No note, no tape, no explanation.
It gave me pause, not in a terrifying way, more
like a what the hell is this kind of pause.
I looked around. No one near the road was empty,
the woods were quiet. I stood there, holding it for
a good minute, then set it down on the portrail.
Figured maybe it was a weird local tradition, a welcome
gift with strange taste. I decided to ask. I walked
over to the neighbor's house. Unknocked, not too aggressive, just
enough to be heard. No answer waited, knocked again, still nothing.
I was about to turn around when I heard movement inside.
Not footsteps, more like shifting weight more than one person,
a synchronized shuffle. Maybe I froze, but no one came
to the door, so I laugh, not angrily, just unsettled.
The next morning there was a new jar waiting. This
one had a piece of string tied into a perfect lezel,
news coiled just right. It sat exactly where the last
one had been, like it had replaced it in a
line up, and something about that felt pointed. I stared
at it for a while, tried to laugh it off,
but my throat was dry. I picked up, brought it
in side, and left it on the counter, just another
odd thing to persist. Later that night, after brushing my teeth,
I happened to glance out of the bathroom window. The
jar was back in the porch, exactly where I'd found
it that morning. My brain scrambled for an explanation. Maybe
I moved the wrong one. Maybe there were two jars,
But deep down nin you, I hadn't touched it since
bringing it inside. I walked into the kitchen. The counter
was empty. The jar I had brought in gone. That
was a moment. Something shifted in me. Not full panic,
not yet, but a realization something here did and follow
the usual rules. The next evening, I was done with subtlety.
I went across the road and knocked hard, three shot raps.
The door opened a crack, just an inch or two.
A man's voice came for her, You should be careful
about touching what isn't yours. Then the door clicked shut.
That was it. I didn't sleep that night, sat on
the edge of my bed, lights off, ear straining for
every sound outside. Around midnight, I heard dragging noises, lawn,
slow drags, like someone pulling something heavy through dry leaves.
I got up, crossed the living room, peeked out. Four
figures were crouched along the fence. Their movements were jerky,
not natural at all. Limbs bent in directions that made
my stomach tearn elbows too high, knees twisted the wrong way.
They went walking. They were crawling, vast and low, like
insects wearing clothes. I ducked behind the curtain, didn't move
until the sky started to lighten. Morning came. I opened
the door and froze. Ten jars lined up in a
perfect circle on the porch. Each held something different, strands
of hair, bits of fabric, a cracked tooth, a child's mitten.
One even had a small animal bone, curved and polished.
I didn't recognize any of it. I didn't touch them,
just backed up, shut the door. Called the sheriff. He
showed up about thirty minutes later, all business. I let
him out side. There wasn't a single jar, not then
clean porch, no marks, no sign anything had ever been there.
He gave me that look, half polite concern, half suspicion,
said maybe it was just teenager screwing around. But I
knew better. That night, I didn't pretend I could sleep,
turned off all the lights, sat in the dark by
the window, watching wadin. IROs passed. Then just after three
they were back, four figures, standing in the middle of
the road, upright, this time, still completely still. They were
facing the house, not moving not breathing as far as
I could tell. Just there, my whole body went rigid.
Then one of them lifted its hand slowly pressed it
forward into the air pump flap, like it was testing
a surface I couldn't see. It didn't move like a person,
too fluid, too smooth. My heart hammered so hard I
thought it might shake the window glass. That was it.
I grabbed my coat and ran out the back door barefoot,
straight into the woods. Didn't think about the cold, didn't
stop to grab a bat or shoes. I sprinted a
whole two miles to the gas station on the edge
of town. The guy work in the night shift didn't
ask a single question. I must have looked like hell.
I told him I needed to leave, didn't care where.
Just away. I moved to this tiny town, nestled deep
in Ippalation Hills, the place where I could catch my
breath and maybe stop feeling like I was constantly running
late for something. I found the house on a rental
site that looked like it hadn't been updated since the
days of dial up. Into net two stores, slanted porch
paint peeling like sunburn skin. The pictures went great, but
the price ridiculously low. I figured it couldn't be that bad.
Worst case, I'd patch it up, mind my business, and
stay just long enough to save for some way better.
Nettle Wood Lane that was the name of the street,
though you'd miss the sign if you blinked. Only six
houses total, all lined up like kids huddled in a
dark hallway, quiet tied together though like they were trying
not to draw attention to themselves. It was a week
day when I arrived Tuesday, I think, and with an
eros of the moving truck pulling up, I'd already met
nearly every neighbor. That probably sounds sweet in most towns
that I'd be called a warm welcome, except it was
First came an older couple from across the street. They
brought U Pyrubo up. I think the woman wore cardigan
even though it was warm out. Her husband just smiled
too much. They both did, really smiling, like they'd been
waiting for this exact moment, like it was part of
some ritual. Their eyes never left my face, not even
when I looked away. Then there was the guy next
door read I think his name was mid Ford. Is
tall as cut wire rimmed glasses. He leaned against the
chainling fence while I hall boxes inside, casually calling out
what was in each one, like he'd already seen me
pack them. Books, he said, as I walked about with
a box, then clothes, kitchen were he chuckled every time
he guessed right, which was every time, and not just
big stuff either. One time he said, mugs from college.
That box had a trip Syracuse coffee mug and Sye.
I laughed it off, told myself they were just good guesses.
Maybe the boxes were labeled and I didn't notice. Maybe
Reed was just quirky people like that exist. Small towns
are full of eccentric characters, right, But the friendly neighbor
thing didn't stop. It didn't taper off after the first
day like he'd expect. No, they kept showing up constantly.
If I opened the front door for a smoke or
to check the mail, some one was across the street,
just standing waiting, waving. All was waving like it was
a reflex. If I walked down the road to clear
my head, i'd hear footsteps, and without fail, one of
the neighbors would appear a few feet behind me. No hollows,
no small talk. They'd just fallen to step beside me,
like we were old friends. On the stroll, I started
cutting few people's yachts just to avoid the road. Didn't matter,
they'd still find me, like they always knew where I was.
And the weirdest part, I never saw anyone leave, not once,
no cars starting, no one running errands. Their driveways looked
in touch, like the cars were just for show. Three
days in, things got worse. I went to roll out
my trash cans and found they'd already been moved tuck
neatly back against the side of the house. I hadn't
touched them since I moved in. Inside were bags tied
in these impossibly tight knots. So tired I had to
saw one open with scisses. The bag was heavy, way
too heavy for trash. When I left it, I felt
something solid shift inside. No smell, no visible mess, but
definitely not catching waste. It felt wrong, like I was
holding something I wasn't supposed to touch. I dragged them back
to the curb and left them there. Next morning they
were gone, not just empty, scrub clean, no residue, no marks,
like they'd never been used. That same week, I caught
the old couple in my yard at night. I'd been
watching TV. Went to close the curtains, and there they were, standing,
side by side, holding hands. Edd's tilted up toward my window,
not moving, not talking, just standing. I backed away from
the glass, tried to shake it off. Maybe they were confused,
maybe dementia. But five minutes later I peeked again. Still there,
same posture, same blank expressions. Only now they weren't looking
at the house. They were looking at something just above it.
That's when I stopped sleeping properly. Every creak in the
walls felt too intentional. I started locking every door, then
checking them again. An hour later. I even jammed a
chair under the back door on a blackened movies didn't matter.
Little things kept happening. The back door lad shifted, a
kitchen chair moved half a foot from where I left it.
My mail, usually stacked neatly on the counter, was spread
across the dining table. One night, every envelope had been
sliced open with something sharp, then sailed again with precision.
No jagged tears, just smooth, clean cuts. By the end
of the week, I was barely functioning. Sleep came in
twenty minute bursts. I kept a doff a backpack beside
the bed, essentials only fun charger, cash backup keys. I
didn't know what I was preparing for. I just needed
to feel like I could leave instantly. Then came that night,
maybe two in the morning. I woke up, without knowing why.
Something yanked me out of sleep, like a hook in
the chest. I lay there, beat in shallow listening. That's
when I heard it, murmuring, dozens of soft forces, rising
through the walls like water through cracks. At first I
couldn't make out words, just low, steady hums, almost chanting.
But then I heard my name clear repeated. They were
whispering my name over and over, testing the shape of
it with their maths. I didn't breathe didn't move, didn't move.
My skin fell cold and tight, like it didn't fit right.
The whispers didn't stop, they slowed down, grew more deliberate,
like they were savoring it. I rolled out of bed,
grabbed my bag. Therefore, I moved down the stairs. The
house felled off off like the walls were listening. I
didn't turn on the lights, just unlocked the front door
as quietly as I could, eased it open, stepped outside.
That's when I saw them. Every neighbor i'd met, plus
several I hadn't stood in a perfect semicircle at the
edge of my yard, shouldered to shoulder still statues the
porch like caught their faces. No smiles, no vrons, just
blank expressions, not empty blank, like something wearing a human
face but not bothering to animate it. None of them moved.
They didn't speak, they didn't blink. They just waited. That
was enough. I didn't stop the lockup, didn't turne off,
the lights, didn't grab anything else. I just ran to
my car, jammed the key into the ignition with shaking hands,
and drove. I didn't look in the roarview mirror, not once.
I kept on until I hit the highway, didn't slow
down until the mountains were behind me. We had just
moved my parents, my younger sister, and me from a
noisy little suburb outside Charleston to this out of the
way town somewhere near Palaitian Hills, the kind of place
where you lose cell service half way in and don't
really get it back. Honestly, I didn't even know it
existed until we were already pulling up in a U hale,
bumping down a dirt road that looked more like a
deer path than anything you'd call residential. I remember the
first thing I noticed was how narrow everything felt, the
hills pressed, and like the town had been squeezed into
a fold of the mountains and forgotten. Sunlight didn't really
hit our yard until late morning, and it started to
fade way earlier than it should have. It gave the
whole place this weird half, left feeling like we were
always on the edge of dusk even at noon. Our
house was at the end of a curling gravel road,
not even gravel really, mostly packed dirt with patches of stone,
like someone had tried to fix the ruts then gave up.
There weren't any street signs. Our mail books was just
a dented metal bot propped on a slantid wooden post.
It leaned a little like it was too tired to
stand up street. The only other house ins I It
sat just across a narrow stretch of woods, maybe fifty
yards away, maybe a hundred. It was hard to tell
because the trees blurred the line the house. It looked
like it had been abandoned more than once. Sanding roof,
grayshboards that might have been white long ago, windows covered
in heavy, old curtains that never moved ever. It had
the slutch to it, like time had pushed down for
so long it eventually gave in. I got a weird
feeling from it right away. Not loud alarm bells, just
that low, unsettled churn in your stomach that you can't explain,
like something about it didn't sit right, even though nothing
was obviously wrong. We spent the first few days in packing,
swatting away mosquitoes, trying not to trip on tree roots
in the yard. My mom was excited, my dad acted
like it with some kind of fresh start. I just
felt removed, like I was floating just outside the experience,
watching it all unfold, but not really part of it.
Then I noticed the faces. At first, it was quick.
I'd glanced up from the porch or from my bedroom window,
and I'd see movement in the house across the woods curtain,
shifting a shape behind the glass. But the second I
looked directly, it vanished. No lights ever came on, no
cars in the driveway, just those slow, sneaky glances through
the curtains, always catching me when I was trying to look.
It happened enough that I started keeping track. Nothing formal,
just mental notes. Morning, late afternoon, just before dark, always
the same kind of movement, like they were watching a
settle in studying us. One evening, I was sitting on
a potch with a soda in one hand, scrolling through
old photos on my phone, just trying to feel connected
to something that was quiet and doubt. The air was sticky,
but not unbearable, just the usual summer heaviness. I remember
thinking it was finally starting to feel calm. Then their
screen door creaked. It was loud enough that I heard
it from across the trees. I looked up, and there
he was this man, tall, wiry bones, practically visible through
faded denim overrolls. He didn't walk like a regular person.
It was slow, careful, like every step was being measured.
He stopped at the edge of his yard, barely visible
between two trees, and then he just stared. Not curious enough, cautious,
not cautious, just blank. I gave a hessitan half way,
more to break the tension than anything. He didn't react,
did it blink, just hap stirring for what felt like forever,
Eventually he turned and walked back into the house. Didn't speak,
didn't speed up, just light. The door slam shut behind him,
like punctuation. That night, I found something in our mail box.
I gone to check it before dinner. Inside, sitting right
on top of a flyer for tractor pots, was a
small collection of objects. A bundle of brittle twigs tied
with fraying string, a beetle lying on its back legs,
cold tight, like it had been dead for days. And
a single marble, cloudy, scratched. A kind of kid might
have played too rough with. I stared at them for
a while before touching anything. Then I scooped them up,
careful not to drop the beal, and brought them inside.
My parents were sitting at the table half way through dinner.
I set the stuff down and said this was in
the mail box. They looked over. My mom wrinkled her nose.
My dad let out a dry laugh. Probably just some
kid being weird, he said, going back to his play.
Hilltowns are full of the kind of stuff. But there
were no kids around, not that I'd seen. No toys
in yards, no bikes, no chopped drawings, no sign that
children lived near by. It all that night I didn't
sleep well. Around two in the morning, I woke up
choking on panic. My mouth was dry, my hands were shaking.
I didn't even know why at first. Then I noticed it.
The tapping thought uneven. At first I thought it was
a tree branch, that there wasn't any wind, and the
pattern was wrong chew deliberate, not riddick, not random, just off.
I got up, walked slowly to my window and pulled
the curtain aside. My stomach dropped. There were hand princes
smeared across the glass, muddy, small, uneventtly space, like some
one had been coaling or kneeling. They warn't old. The
mud was still wet, sliding down places like finger prints.
I backed away, grabbed my desk chair, shoved it under
the knob. Even though the window was locked, I had
been locked. The next day, I walked straight across the road.
The trees didn't look thick from the house, but walking
through them felt like threading a needle. I could barely
see where I was going. The dirt underfoot was dry
and soft. At one point I swear I heard something
scourriedous out of sight. Their porch groaned when I stepped
on it. I knocked once, twice, no answer. On the
third knock, the door creaked open just an inch. Darkness inside,
not pitch black, but like no lights had been on
in days. I couldn't see anyone, but I heard her,
A woman's voice. Well, quiet, quiet, you should leave before dark.
Her tone wasn't angry, she wasn't trying to scare me.
Sounded like a warning, like some one telling you not
to drive her road with no guard rails what I asked.
Stepping forward, I tried to see her face, but the
door slam shut, hard enough to rattle the wood. I
stood there for a minute, then walked back to my
house without looking behind me. Once that night was worse.
The tapping came back. Then Fritz stepped slow, steady, pacing
across the front porch, not scurrying, not running, just deliberate
steps back and forth, like some one waiting. When I
peeked through the curtain, I froze. Fee figures stood in
the yard, lined up, perfectly, too tall, one small, Their
shoulders touched, their faces were turned directly toward the house.
They didn't speak, didn't sway, didn't even blink. I remember
how my body locked up, every muscle tense, like I
was holding myself together by force. My dad burst out
of his room, saw the look on my face, yanked
the door open. The yard was empty, not even a
footprint left behind. After that, none of us pretended any more.
Two nights later, I woke up chooking on panic, mouthed
dry handshaking. I didn't know why. Then I saw it,
the window wide open. I had locked it. I know
I had locked it. On my desk. Right in the
center was a square piece of folded paper Chris Badges,
like someone had taken the time. I opened it with
clumly fingers, three words, shaky pencil. We see ye. That
broke something in me. Whatever come i'd been clinging to
snapped When my parents said we were leaving. I didn't pack.
I stuffed clothes, berts, berts, whatever I could grab. We
weren't even unloading the truck when I felt it again,
that feeling like something was watching from the woods. From
the woods. We pulled out before sunrise. I didn't look back, couldn't.
I don't know what was in the house, but what
they were trying to do. I know we got out
just in time. If we'd stayed. I don't think i'd
be here telling you this. I was twenty eight when
I moved into that rundom rental at the edge of
a tiny town in the Appalachian Hills. It wasn't the
kind of place you'd show off to friends. The paint
was chipped, The wood floor has grown even if you
stood puffectly still. The roof was pasted with tin sheets
that rattled whenever the wind picked up just right. But
it was cheap. The lease was month to month, and
the porch faced the road with just enough yacht to
feel like it was mine. After a few rough months
in the city, I needed something slower, quieter, a place
where no one knew me, where I could breathe without
bumping into any one I used to know. I figured
a house tucked into a narrow valley, shaded by enough
trees to keep the sun off the windows in the
morning would be just right. My closest neighbors lived directly
across the road. Their plays looked like it hadn't changed
since the Civil War, with the beaten slightly leaning, like
it had given up on standing straight but hadn't quite
decided to fall. I barely started in packing when they
crossed the road to introduce themselves, Harold and May. Harald
was tall and angula, the kind of man who looked
like he never filled out after high school. His skin
had that thin paper look older folks get, but somehow
he seemed ageless. His hand stayed clasped behind his back
the whole time, like he was hiding something or didn't
trust his arms. May had a softness to her round cheeks,
a flower print dress, apron strings still tied. Her smile
stretched too wide as she didn't blink as much as
she should. Her voice was sweet, too sweet, like tea
left out too lawn in the sun. They jured used
themselves like KOs a block party, and I was the
guest of honor, asked where I came from, what I
did for work, and then as if we hurt, they
both asked the same question, ye hear by yourself? Harold asked,
at first casually, would half smile. May echoed it just
before they turned to leave. Same words, same tone, not curious,
more like hopeful. I brushed it off. Small towns are nosey,
that's part of the deal. But in the days that
followed it became clear this wasn't just neighborly interest. They
were always outside, always, but never really doing anything. If
I stepped onto the porch with coffee, May would be
by hydranges, hands on her hips, like she just finished gardening,
but the yard never changed. If I walked to the
mail box, Harold would appear by the fence, lighting a
cigarette that didn't burn. It got under my skin slowly.
I pretend not to notice, but every time I looked up,
one of them was already looking at me, not waving,
not talking, not talking, just watching. A week after I
moved in, May brought over a casserole. She didn't knock,
just opened the screen door, like she own the place,
and handed it to me, wrapped in a tell so
thin it did nothing to block the heat burning my hands.
I blinked, called off God. Before I could speak, she
leaned in. Not nosy, exactly, morelike she was checking something awfullest.
She peeked past me into the living room. Cozy little place,
she said, even though she hadn't seen more than five
feet inside. Then came the question again, you're here all
by yourself? I nodded, yeah, just me, she hummed. She
hummed like that answer saddled something. Then stepped back, letting
the door swing shut behind her. I stood there for
a while, cassarrole in hand, door half open. I didn't
like the way she asked, or how she didn't wait
to be invited in. I set the casserole on the
counter and forgot about it. Later that night I remembered it,
figured I might as well try a bite. I lifted
the lid and the smell hit me like a punch.
It wasn't just spoiled. It smelled wrong, metallic chop, like
blood in an old train. I didn't look twice, tossed
the whole thing in the trasspin out back, left a
dish on the porch. Next morning, it was gone, scrubbed clean, ditting.
At first I thought I was imagining it. A chair
pulled farther than I remembered, mail looked like some one
had flipped through it. A glass I left in the sink, dry,
sitting on the counter. Then it got worse. One evening
I came home from work with my keys in hand.
The door was unlocked, not just unlatched, unlocked. I always
locked it, double checked every time, no signs of entry,
no damage, just open. I saw the second lock, then
a third, started leaving lights on in every room before
I left, but the feeling didn't go away. Some nights
I'd catch myself holding my breath just to hear better,
waiting for a sound I couldn't name. I checked windows,
leafed the radio on low, like at my cover whatever
else was listening. Then one night, something woke me. I
don't know what, just a shift. I got out of bed,
barefoot and went to the window, pulled the blind down
a few inches. Harold was in my yard, just standing there,
not near the porch, not by the road, half way
between the house and the trees, still facing away from me,
like he was listening to something in the dark. I
watched him for what felt like forever. Then I stepped outside,
called his name, trying to sound annoyed, not scared. He
turned his head slowly, too slowly, like it wasn't quite
attached right, looked at me, then gave a lazy little
wave and walked back cross the road. Next morning, Me
waved like always, same white smile, like nothing had happened,
like she hadn't seen her husband in my yard at midnight.
A couple weeks later, a friend from work cast up by.
She borrowed a wrench. As she was leaving, she gave
me this weird look and said, by the way me
told me or her cousin's ke said, Y're staying here
till ye get back on yer feet. I froze, what
cash shrug, Yeah, distant cousin O something. That's what she said.
I hadn't told any one in town a thing about
my family. No one knew where I was from that night,
I didn't sleep, sat by the window with the lights off,
watching Their house was led up curtains, thin, windows wide.
I could see almost everything. Harold and me sat on
the couch, side by side, silent behind them. The back
wall was covered in framed photos. Dozens. I leaned in, squinting.
Some were blurry, like taken in a rush. Most were strangers.
And then near the center I saw it Nay midstep,
coffee in hand, mail loooks open, my mouth opened like house,
singing or talking to myself. I never posed for that photo,
never knew it was taken. That was it. I was done.
Next morning, I didn't shower, didn't eep, just grab every
trash bad I hadn stuffed it full, clothes still damp
from the dry plates, left in the sink, didn't lock
the door. When I stepped outside with the first bag,
May was standing there at the edge of her yard,
not smiling, not saying a word, just watching. I didn't
look at her, didn't wave, just tossed the bag into
the car. When I came back for more, Harold was
next to her since spot still a stone. They didn't blink,
didn't move. I slammed the trunk, got in the car,
locked the doors, starred at the engine. Gravel sprayed as
I backed out fast. In the mirror, they were still
standing there, watching until the curve in the road took
them out of sight. I didn't take the highway, didn't
want them following. I drove deeper into the hills, winding
through roads with no gains. The GPS gave up, I didn't.
I kept driving until the gas light came on. I'm
thirty two years old. When I moved out to that
little town, talked into the Appalition Hills. I really thought
I was buying peace, not just quiet, but real peace,
the kind that sits in your chest and doesn't buzz
with anxiety. All the time I'd been living in a
city that never shut up. Sirens every hour, traffic crawling
under my window upstairs, neighbors who acted like furniture had
to be dragged instead of lifted. Even when I was alone,
it never felt still. My whole life was just tension
and noise. So when I saw the listing online cheap rent,
big trees, no neighbors stacked ten feet above me, I
jumped on it. The photo showed the small, crooked looking
house with faded siding and a porch that leaned a
little too far forward, like it was listening in the road.
But the place had a character. It was perched half
way up a ridge and a road that led their
started paved but gave up about half way, turning to
gravel and then mostly dirt. That felt like a good sign,
like the town didn't care about appearances. I liked that
there were maybe five or six houses on my stretch
of road, all slouched into their own clearings, as if
they'd sprouted there naturally. Most looked tied but lived in.
A few seemed abandoned, with windows too dark and porches
caving inward. Mine was one of the better looking ones,
which is insane much, but still it felt like it
could be home. The town itself was small, not even
a full stop light, one gas station, a diner with
a flickering sign, and a post office that closed before.
Three people waved when they saw me, but no one
came close. They'd nod, raise a hand, then keep moving,
the kind of friendly that never crossed as the fence line.
At first I appreciated that, after years of four small
talk with apartment neighbors, the silences felt respectful, like everyone
just minded their own. Then I met the couple across
the road. Their house sat directly opposite mine, though the
trees between us tried to pretend otherwise. It was a sagging, white,
two story pink cowling off the walls like old skin.
The shutters hung lopsided, and the porch looked like at
my collapse under a strong breeze. I hadn't seen much
movement over them my first day, just to flicker behind
a window curtain, But on the second afternoon they came over.
She wore a faded green dress that hit just above
her ankles, and she was barefoot, which shrut me because
the gravel driver couldn't have felt great. In her hands
was a mason jar filled with something murky. I could
tell right away. It was beans, but a liquid. They
floated and was thick and cloudy, like the water had
gone bad. The jar was sealed with wax old skill.
He stood behind her, step or two back, tall, pale,
arms dangling like he hadn't figured out how elbows worked.
His eyes didn't blink much, and as they'd fixed on
me the whole time, not in a curious way, more
like he was cataloging me. She smiled wide, too wide,
like her face didn't understand where to stop. Welcome, she said.
Her voice was flat, like she practiced the line too
many times. We like to greet new folks proper. I
smiled back and took the jaw from her hands. It
was cold and heavier than I expected. I mumbled something
about how thoughtful that was. She just kept smiling. Then
they turned and walked back across the road. No che chat,
no questions, no where do you move from? Just done.
I set the jar on a kitchen shelf and never
touched it again. Every time I walked past, the beans
seen to shift float differently. I told myself it was nothing,
just the liquid settling. But the more I looked, the
more wrong it felt like the jar wasn't made forgiving,
like it had been stored too long. I figured that
would be it. Weird neighbors, sure, but harmless. People have
their own ways, especially out in the mountains. Then they
started standing outside, not both at once, always just one.
They'd be right at the edge of their yard, but
standing there, not moving, not doing yard work, not smoking
or talking on a phone, just watching. Sometimes it was
her in that sun green dress, sometimes Heim, always in
boots and a long sleeve shirt, no mat of the heat.
They wouldn't flinch when cars pass, wouldn't look away. If
I happened to glance over, they'd lift a hand in
the lowest wave I've ever seen, like their arms were
moving through syrup. No smile, no, not just the wave.
And they stayed there until I went inside. After a
few days of that, I started keeping my curtains closed.
It felt silly, like I was playing into some dumb
logal tradition, but it made my skin crawl to have
them just standing there. I'd drink coffee and check the
window and find one of them alridy in place, like
they never went to bed. Then the rocks started. One
morning I stepped outside and saw three flat grist stone
stacked on the top step. They were smooth, almost perfectly round,
arranged deliberately. I stared at them, trying to decide if
it meant something. Eventually I picked them up and tossed
them into the yard. The next morning, five more, ten, seven,
always an odd number, always stacked. I never heard anyone
walk up to the porch at night, and the gravel
should have made noise. One afternoon I caught the woman
hanging laundry and decided to just ask, hey, I called
across the road. You wouldn't know anything about the rocks,
would you. She turned, slowly like her neck didn't want
to obey, that same two wide smile cold back onto
her face. That's just how we say good morning here,
she said. Before I could respond, the man came out
onto their porch. He didn't say a thing, just stood
there staring. His eyes dropped to my hands, then my chest,
then lingered at my vert. He turned round and went
back inside, like the whole exchange hadn't happened. I stopped
asking after that, but the rocks didn't stop. By the
time October rolled in, I found them every morning, sometimes
in stacks, sometimes laid out in trails leading across my
porch to the door, like something wanted in. And then
things started shifting inside the house. I'd leave for work,
make sure everything was locked, and come home to small changes.
A lamb turned slightly, drawer not quite closed, curtains pulled
open when I knew they'd been drawn. I thought I
was losing it. I tried setting up little tess, placing
a book at an angle, marking the spot of a
chair leg every time something was off, subtle but off.
One night I poured a gass of water before bed
and left it on the table. In the morning, it
was gone, not spilled, had just gone. I found the
glass washed and dry in the cabinet. I stopped trying
to explain it. Then came the night I saw someone inside.
I was just giving home keys in hand when I
glanced at the living room window and saw a movement,
a figure, just a blouse, slipping past the curtain. I
froze on the porch. My whole body went cold. My
first instinct wasn't to call the police. It was to
not go inside, like maybe if I waited long enough,
whatever it was would leave. But I made myself do it.
I unlocked the door, stepped in and found everything perfectly
in place, except for the smell. The whole living room reaks,
not rotten, but wet and earthy, light moss after rain,
mixed with something metallic. I opened the windows, but it
clung to the walls like it had soaked in. That night,
I slept with every light on. A few nights later,
I woke up to footsteps, heavy ones. They circled the
porch once, then stopped under my bedroom window. I held
my phone in one hand, gripping it so hard my
knuckles ached. I didn't dare move, didn't breathe. The boards
creaked under the weight of whoever was out there. Then nothing.
When the silence stretched too long, I peeked. No one, porch,
empty yard still, But I didn't sleep again. And then
came November. I was turning off lights for the night
when I saw them through the window, both of them,
standing at the edge of the yard. She had a lantern,
an old eye, and thing that threw shadows across her face.
A smile had grown grotesque, all gums and teeth. He
held something wrapped in thick cloth, heavy enough that he
had to brace his legs to keep us steady. They
didn't wave, didn't move, just stared. I backed away from
the window and called the sheriff. A deputy came by,
walked the property and said he didn't see anything. No
footprints in the frous no lantern light, no signs anyone
had been there. Said they were just old timers, probably eccentric,
and I should get a dog if it kept bothering me.
I decided to leave. Took a few weeks to set
things up, but my mind was made up. I started packing.
I slept with the bat beside my bed every morning.
Another rock some days on my truck, once in my mailbox.
One morning, lined up along the window sill of my bedroom,
three perfect stones, balanced like they had been placed from
the roof. The morning I left, I loaded my car
until it was crownfl did one last weep of the house,
left the key where the landlord asked. When I came
back outside, the road was still their house, lopt boarded up,
nothing moved. Then I opened the driver's side door and
stopped right there on the seat, resting like it belonged,
was a single reverse stone, perfectly smooth, round as a coin.
I didn't think, just picked it up, walked to the
edge of the woods and threw it as hard as
I could. I waited to hear it land nothing. I
got in a car, I started the engine and drove
until the trees thinned out and the ridge disappeared behind me.
And that is the end. Thank you for listening, and
I will see you in the next one.