Buried Secrets: The Night My Sanity Slipped Away

I always knew something was wrong with my neighbor, Mr. Langley. People thought he was just quiet, maybe a little eccentric, but I saw right through him. Every night, when the rest of the street fell into its peaceful slumber, he would be out in his garden. Not tending to plants or flowers, no. He’d be out there digging, always digging. No one else seemed to notice or care. But I did.

At first, I thought he was burying something. Maybe a box of old memories or some trinkets from a past life. I wasn’t naïve; I knew there could be something more sinister lurking beneath those dirt-stained hands of his. So, I watched. For weeks, I stayed up late, peeking through my blinds. I could see him from my window, hunched over, dirt flying from his shovel as if he was unearthing a great secret. Sometimes I’d hear the muffled clang of metal hitting stone, or was it bone? It’s hard to tell, honestly. But I knew better than to ignore it.

I started keeping a journal, jotting down everything I saw. April 3rd, 2:30 a.m. - digging. April 8th, 1:45 a.m. - digging, but slower this time. It was always the same. He never faltered. Not until the night I finally got brave enough to confront him.

I walked over under the guise of borrowing sugar, knowing full well it was well past midnight, and no one in their right mind would be baking. But I didn’t care. I needed answers. I knocked on his door, and it creaked open. There he was, standing in his filthy overalls, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. His eyes were wide and wild, like he’d been expecting me.

"Can I help you?" he asked, a smile flickering across his lips. It was then that I noticed something. His hands—they were shaking. But not in the way you’d expect from an old man. No, it was like he was hiding something.

I asked him about the digging, tried to keep my voice casual. But he just chuckled, like I was a child asking where the monsters under the bed went during the day. He said it was none of my concern and closed the door before I could push further. But I knew what I saw.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I was too wound up, too sure of what I’d uncovered. Around 3 a.m., I couldn’t take it anymore. I crept out of my house and over to his garden. The moon was full, casting everything in an eerie glow. And then I saw it—fresh dirt, piled high, like something had just been buried.

My heart pounded in my chest as I grabbed a shovel from his shed and started digging. The soil was loose, easy to move. And then, after what felt like hours, I hit something solid. A box. No, not a box. A coffin. My fingers trembled as I pried it open. And inside… nothing.

That’s when I heard his voice behind me.

"You shouldn’t have done that."

I turned, but there was no one there. Just the wind and the trees swaying gently under the moonlight. I tried to catch my breath, my pulse racing in my ears. I must have imagined it, I thought. But when I looked down again, the coffin was gone. There was no hole, no dirt on my hands, nothing to prove what I’d seen.

I know what you’re thinking. You probably think I’m making this up, that I’m some paranoid neighbor with an overactive imagination. But I swear to you, it was real. I saw the coffin. I know Mr. Langley’s hiding something, and I won’t stop until I find out what.

People have started whispering about me, though. They say I’m the one who’s changed, that I’m the one acting strange. But they don’t see what I see. They don’t hear the digging in the middle of the night or notice the way his garden keeps shifting, like something underneath is moving.

I’m not crazy. I’m not.

I’ll prove it.