The Neighbor’s Secret

I moved into my new apartment with the usual mix of excitement and exhaustion. The building was old creaky floors, faded wallpaper, and thin walls but it was affordable and quiet. I was grateful for that after years of noisy roommates and street traffic.

From the first day, my neighbor next door caught my attention. Mr. Dalton was an older man, maybe in his sixties or seventies, with thin white hair and sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He never spoke to me or anyone else, but I often caught him staring out his window, blinds half-open like a secret window to the world.

The first week went by without incident, but I started noticing odd things. At odd hours, I’d hear faint thuds and whispers coming from his apartment. Once, I heard what sounded like someone moving furniture or maybe something heavier. I tried to shrug it off as a restless old man moving things around, but the sounds persisted, growing louder over time.

One evening, around 9 PM, I saw Mr. Dalton struggling to carry a large, heavy box down the hallway. His steps were slow and deliberate, but he didn’t make eye contact or say a word when I greeted him. The box looked bulky and taped shut, but there was something unsettling about the way he held it as if it weighed more than its contents.

The next day, an unpleasant smell started creeping into the hallway near his door. It was a mix of rot and chemicals sharp and sickly sweet. I considered calling the building manager but hesitated, not wanting to cause trouble for the quiet man next door.

Days later, I heard from the manager that Mr. Dalton hadn’t been seen leaving the building for almost a week. Concerned, I wondered if he was okay. The smell from his apartment was worse, and no one had checked on him.

That night, after a restless sleep, I made a decision. Something inside me demanded answers. I grabbed a spare key I had copied when I moved in and went to his door. To my surprise, it was unlocked.

The air inside was stale and heavy. The living room was spotless, almost unnervingly so, with furniture arranged perfectly as if waiting for a guest. But the bedroom door was shut tight.

I pushed it open slowly, and what I saw made my blood run cold.

The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with photographs. Faces of people neighbors, strangers on the street, even myself were pinned up with notes scribbled in a shaky hand: “Watching,” “Lonely,” “Waiting.” Some photos were taken through windows, others from afar, all seemingly collected over months or even years.

A cold sweat broke out on my skin as I scanned the room. On the floor lay an open box, filled with old newspapers and bundles of human hair tied with frayed twine.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: Mr. Dalton had been spying on everyone in the building. Collecting pieces of us in ways I didn’t want to imagine.

My heart pounded. I dropped everything and fled the apartment, locking the door behind me.

I told the manager what I found the next day, but Mr. Dalton was gone. No forwarding address. No explanation.

Now, months later, I still live here. But sometimes, late at night, I hear faint thuds and whispers through the thin walls. And I can’t shake the feeling that I’m still being watched.

Since that day, I’ve changed the locks and installed a small security camera in the hallway. I tell myself it’s for peace of mind, but sometimes, when the building is silent, I catch myself staring at the walls, wondering what other secrets might be hiding behind doors I’m not meant to open.

And late at night, when the wind presses against the windows, I swear I hear the faint scratching of nails… like someone still watching.