Why I Think My Neighbor Is a Serial Killer

I live in a quiet neighborhood where nothing ever happens—at least that’s what people like to believe. Rows of identical houses, tidy lawns, and the occasional barbecue. It’s the kind of place where everyone waves but no one truly knows each other. That illusion of peace shattered for me the night I began watching Mr. Derren.

He moved in across the street about eight months ago. Tall, pale, mid-forties, always in a gray hoodie no matter the weather. He rarely spoke. I wouldn’t have thought much of it—lots of people are private—but there was something unsettling about him. Something… off.

At first, it was small things. He’d only take out the trash at 3 or 4 a.m., always wearing gloves. I know because I started leaving my curtains cracked just enough to watch. Some nights, he’d open his garage and just sit there in the dark—no car inside, just him, still as a statue. No phone. No radio. Just silence.

I probably sound paranoid, but stay with me.

Then the pets started disappearing.

It began with Molly, the Hendersons’ golden retriever. She vanished from their backyard—no broken fence, no open gate. A week later, Mrs. Chen’s cat didn’t come home. Within a month, five pets on our block had gone missing.

Neighbors chalked it up to coyotes. But I’d lived here ten years—no one had ever even seen a coyote in our suburb. That’s when my suspicion turned into obsession.

I bought binoculars.

Every night, I’d watch from my upstairs bedroom, lights off, staring across at his windows. He always kept the blinds drawn—except for the one in the attic.

That window was my focus.

Sometimes, a dim red light would flicker from within, barely visible through the dusty glass. One night, I swear I saw something—or someone—move past it, slow and twitching like it was hurt. But when I looked again, it was gone.

Then came the smell.

The wind must’ve shifted. I stepped outside one evening to grab the mail and nearly gagged. It wasn’t garbage or sewage—it was sharper, more metallic. I know that smell now. Rotting meat. Blood.

Still, no one else seemed to notice.

Or maybe they didn’t want to.

I tried to talk to the mailman, casually. Asked if he’d ever seen anything weird about the guy across the street. He laughed. Said Mr. Derren always greets him with a smile. That didn’t sit right with me. I’d never seen him smile.

Then, about a month ago, something happened that I can’t explain.

It was 2:17 a.m. I was at my usual post, watching through the binoculars. The attic window was dark. But then—I saw the garage open.

A red light spilled out.

Inside stood Mr. Derren… and what looked like a table, covered with a plastic sheet. I couldn’t see what was on it, but his hands were red. He leaned over it, working at something with a large knife.

I recorded it on my phone. I still have the video.

The next morning, I went to the police.

They humored me at first, but the second I said “serial killer,” their tone changed. They watched the video, nodded, and said, “Could be food prep. Wild meat. Maybe deer.” One officer even joked, “Got a big hunter on your hands.”

They didn’t follow up.

I started to doubt myself. Maybe I was watching too many crime documentaries. Maybe I wanted it to be true—to make my life less boring.

But then came the knock.

It was two nights ago. 3:11 a.m.

I was dozing at my window when I heard it. Not at my front door—my back door.

I froze. Who knocks at 3 a.m.? I crept downstairs, heart pounding, and peeked through the blinds.

No one.

But there was something on the ground.

A shoebox.

I opened the door slowly, half expecting to be pulled into the dark. But there was nothing. Just that box.

Inside?

Fur. Blood-soaked fur. And a collar.

Molly’s.

No note. No fingerprints.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Yesterday, Mr. Derren waved at me for the first time. He smiled.

His fingers were bandaged.

I haven’t gone to the police again. What would I say? That someone left me a box of dog fur? That my neighbor smiled at me?

But I know what I saw. I know that smell. I know what he is.

And I think he knows I know.

So if anything happens to me… check his attic.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes, the truth hides in plain sight—and the price of ignoring your instincts can be deadly.