The Quiet House on Forrest Way

Renee tucked one knee under herself on the couch, the phone warm against her cheek. The living room was still half-lit with dusk, all soft corners and long shadows, the kind of light that made everything feel gentle.

“—and then Mason’s stick broke mid-pass, so he had to kick the puck. It was so sick, Mom.”

Benji’s voice buzzed with joy, high and bright and full of breathless detail. Renee smiled into her wine glass, swirling the last of it while he rattled on. His excitement was its own kind of music.

“Sounds like the game of the century,” she said. “Did you scream your little lungs out?”

“Uh, yeah. Dad says I owe him hearing aids now.”

She laughed, picturing Jay mock-wincing at the hotel room desk, probably still wearing his team hoodie and trying not to smile while Benji recapped every second.

Benji kept talking, his words tumbling like a boulder gaining speed. “We’re getting waffles tomorrow. That place Dad found—the one with the hockey mugs? And after, we’re hitting that shop with the goalie masks. I’m gonna get a mini one for my shelf if it’s under twenty bucks.”

“Budget-conscious and stylish,” Renee teased. “You’ll make an excellent adult someday.”

Benji groaned. “Gross. Don’t jinx me.”

She leaned back against the cushion, her gaze drifting toward the sliding glass door. Outside, the sky had gone slate-blue, and the fence beyond the yard had already faded into shadow.

“How’s Pickles?” he asked.

“She’s currently curled up like a croissant. And Roscoe’s keeping guard like usual. You know—man of the hour.”

“Tell him I said he’s a very good boy.”

“I’ll pass it along. He takes compliments seriously.”

There was a pause, and then, softly, “I miss you, Mom.”

Her throat caught for a moment. “Miss you more, bud. Go get some rest, okay?”

The call ended. The room went quiet.

Renee sat there for a moment longer, cradling the phone against her chest. She’d been looking forward to this weekend alone, but the stillness had weight now that it had arrived.

Renee pushed the patio door open with her hip, careful not to spill her second glass of wine. The screen door whispered shut behind her as she stepped barefoot onto the sun-warmed deck.

Pickles was already out there, sprawled like a retired throw pillow by the potted herbs. She gave a half-hearted tail thump when Renee passed. Roscoe followed close behind, nose twitching, ever on patrol.

The string lights overhead flicked on with a click, casting a honeyed glow across the small patio. Renee sank into her chair with a soft grunt, tucking her legs beneath her. Her romance novel waited, face-down on the table beside her wine, the corner of a dog-eared page fluttering in the breeze.

She took a sip, let the dry red linger on her tongue, and exhaled. This was the kind of peace she craved more often than she’d admit—no school lunches, no dishes in the sink, no one needing anything except maybe a belly rub. The yard was still, the neighborhood quiet, and the hum of distant traffic was barely noticeable.

And then—soft, almost imperceptible—a glow blinked on in the upstairs window of the house behind hers.

Renee stilled, wine glass hovering halfway to her mouth.

There it was again—that light.

Just like it had been last spring. And the time before that. Always the same window.

Always brief. Sometimes flickering, sometimes steady. Never predictable. Never explainable.

She waited, heart picking up just enough to notice.

It shut off again.

No movement. No silhouette. Just the blank, dark window staring back.

“Okay,” she murmured, setting her wine down. “Sure.”

She reached for her phone and snapped a picture out of habit—nothing but a blur of glass and shadow—and then thumbed open her messages.

Erin 👽: Guess what just blinked on again? 👀

Roscoe exhaled slowly and sat at her feet like a sentinel. His ears stayed pricked, but he didn’t growl. Didn’t bark. Just watched the fence.

Same as always.

Inside, the house was quiet. Renee flipped on the kitchen light, the overhead glow bouncing off clean countertops and the half-empty bottle of wine. She reached for her phone again.

Jay picked up on the second ring, his voice warm and casual. “Hey, babe. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Just checking in. How was the game?”

He launched into a brief recap—Benji shouting, nachos everywhere, some dad in the row behind them who screamed like it was the Stanley Cup. Renee leaned against the counter and smiled.

His voice, grounding. Steady. He always made everything feel... manageable.

When he paused for breath, she slid in the question. “Hey, do you remember that house behind ours? The one with the upstairs light that comes on sometimes?”

He made a thoughtful noise. “The one we’ve never seen anyone at? Yeah. Why?”

“It was on again. Just now.”

“Probably just one of those timer lights, you know? Makes it look like someone’s home.”

Renee ran her thumbnail along the edge of the counter. “I thought about that. But it’s not... consistent. It’s not patterned. It’s always different.”

Jay chuckled gently. “That might be the point. Random means random, right?”

“Sure. Right.”

She tried to match his ease, but the knot in her chest only pulled tighter. He wasn’t brushing her off—not really—but he was filing it into the mental drawer labeled “Unimportant.” And maybe that was the problem.

Jay’s voice came through again, softer. “You okay? You sound off.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just a weird vibe tonight. Probably the wine.”

“Don’t let Roscoe into your conspiracy theories,” he teased. “He’ll never trust a porch light again.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Too late. He’s already building a case file.”

Jay laughed, and it almost felt normal again for a few moments. Safe.

They said their goodnights. Exchanged I-love-yous.

Renee sat on the edge of the couch, her legs tucked under a throw blanket, romance novel unopened in her lap. The TV was off. The wine glass was sweating on the coffee table. Roscoe lay sprawled nearby, head on his paws, tracking her with those quiet, amber eyes.

She stared at her phone screen.

Then she scrolled.

Old texts. Photos. Grocery lists. Benji had sent her a video last week of a goose honking at his shoes.

She kept scrolling.

And then paused—thumb hovering over a photo she barely remembered taking.

It was from six days ago, just after lunch. A snapshot from her kitchen window, zoomed in through a thin slice of blinds: a white van parked in front of the quiet house. The logo on the side read FrostPro Heating & Air.

She remembered thinking, Why would an empty house need working air conditioning?

Looking out the window, she saw the light was back on in the upstairs window. Without hesitation, she hit the call button.

Erin picked up on the second ring, no hello—just, “Is it on again?”

Of course, she knew. She always knew.

Renee almost laughed. “You're psychic! Something feels off this time.”

“Hold on.” There was a rustling sound, the creak of a couch. “Your True Crime Sixth Sense is tingling.”

Renee glanced toward the patio door. “It’s not just the light. It’s... all of it.”

She began ticking off her fingers, like laying breadcrumbs aloud to help her follow them.

“The lawn’s cut twice a week. Trash pickup every month, like clockwork. That HVAC repair. And now the light again. But no one—no one—has ever been seen going in or out of that house.”

“Sounds like my dream neighbor,” Erin muttered. “But yeah. That’s officially creepy.”

“I keep thinking maybe I’m reading into it. Jay says it’s probably just a timer light.”

Erin snorted. “Jay also thinks air fryers are a fad. I’m just saying—he’s not always the Oracle of Truth.”

Renee smiled, despite the tight knot in her chest. “You think I should go look?”

There was a pause. Then Erin’s voice dropped into that dry, serious register she only used when it really mattered.

“If you’re gonna check it out... You take Roscoe.”

Renee blinked. “You’re serious.”

“As a cold case. That dog’s half bloodhound. If something’s off, he’ll know.”

“Unless he’s in on it,” Renee deadpanned.

Erin gasped. “Plot twist—your own familiar turns on you.”

They both laughed, and the tension in Renee’s shoulders briefly eased. But it didn’t vanish.

“No, I mean it. You take him, you stay on the sidewalk, and if anything feels off, you get the hell back home.”

“Okay, okay,” Renee sighed, reaching for Roscoe’s leash from the hook by the door. “What are you, my handler now?”

“Damn right. I’m your long-distance ride-or-die with a badge in Google search tabs and a taser in her nightstand.”

Renee clipped the leash onto Roscoe’s collar. He gave a soft huff, tail wagging once. “Besides,” Erin continued, “I’m not letting anything happen to my side dog.”

“You really have to stop calling him that.”

“I really don’t.”

Renee laughed under her breath, then sobered as she looked through the glass at the fence. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Maybe,” Erin said. “But doesn’t it bug you? All the little things adding up? The way no one ever talks about that house like it exists?”

“Yeah,” Renee admitted. “It does.”

“Well,” Erin said, “tonight’s the night we scratch the itch. Just keep me posted, or I will call the cops and embarrass you in front of the entire neighborhood.”

“Noted.”

Renee stepped out into the cool evening with a phone in one hand and a leash in the other.

Porch lights glowed along the block, and the soft sound of a TV drifted from somewhere down the street. She headed left, circling the block. Something about going the long way made this feel more deliberate. More real.

Roscoe walked beside her in his usual slow, measured trot. He didn’t sniff or pull. Didn’t pause like he usually would at each mailbox. Just... walked.

She slowed as they reached the front walk. Gravel crunched beneath her shoes.

And then she saw it.

The front door—barely ajar. Just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness inside.

“Erin...” Renee whispered, lifting the phone.

“What? What is it?”

“The door’s open.”

“Get out of there. Seriously, Renee—”

But Roscoe pulled forward—not hard, not urgent. He just... walked. She nearly dropped her phone and accidentally ended the call as he pulled her straight towards the open door.

“Roscoe!” she hissed, following instinctively, leash tugging gently in her hand. Her feet crossed the threshold without her meaning to, and she stepped into the entryway.

The air inside was still.

Roscoe looked back at her, calm as ever, tail low but not tucked. Not scared or alert.

Just... comfortable.

And that made her skin crawl.

Not the silence.

Not the open door.

Not even the dark.

It was Roscoe.

Looking at her as if this were nothing new.

Renee stood in the narrow front hall, her eyes adjusting to the dark. A faint glow from the upstairs light filtered down the stairwell, just enough to cast soft shadows across the walls. The hardwood floor gleamed. There was no dust. No debris. No smell of age or mildew.

It was immaculate.

Roscoe trotted forward like he’d been here before. Not a single bark. No hesitation.

Her footsteps sounded too loud as she moved deeper into the house, the leash loose in her hand. “Roscoe,” she whispered. “Stay close.”

He paused at a doorway to the right—then slipped inside.

She followed.

The kitchen looked like a staged listing photo. It had stainless steel appliances. A mug was on the drying rack—one. A single spoon was beside it. The countertop was bare except for a neatly folded dish towel and a bottle of dish soap.

Renee opened a cabinet. Inside: three plates, two bowls, all identical.

The refrigerator clicked on, startling her. She walked towards it and opened it on impulse. There were a few items—milk, eggs, and bottled water. Nothing rotting. Nothing expired.

Not empty.

Not full.

Just… maintained.

She turned toward Roscoe, who had sat down beside the door, watching her like this was all perfectly ordinary.

“This is so not normal,” she muttered.

The bathroom was just as sparse. A toothbrush. One towel hanging perfectly centered on the rack. No stray hairs in the sink. No soap scum. Like a hotel room no one had checked into yet.

Her breath caught in her throat as she moved upstairs. The wood steps didn’t creak, but the silence deepened with every step. She reached the landing and turned into the first room.

A bedroom.

The bed was made. Crisp white sheets, corners tucked tight. A nightstand with a book on it—The Collected Essays of Emerson. A bookmark halfway through.

She opened the closet.

Men’s clothes were neatly arranged, and a single pair of shoes was aligned beneath them.

A belt. A watch. A faint scent of cedar and something medicinal.

There was no chaos here. No clutter. Not even personal flair. Just... presence.

Like someone had lived here—carefully, deliberately—without leaving fingerprints on the life they built.

Just... waiting.

And that, more than anything, made Renee’s skin prickle.

The hallway narrowed near the second bedroom, a sliver of warm light spilling across the floor from beneath the closed door.

Roscoe reached it first, his nails clicking softly. He gave no sign of distress—just sat beside it, patient, like a dog waiting outside the room of someone he knew.

Her hand hovered over the doorknob a moment too long before she turned it.

The door creaked open.

The room was small—square, windowed, and sterile—but its function was unmistakable.

Roscoe lay down, unbothered, as if this were a familiar place.

A single chair—an armchair, worn but comfortable-looking—was positioned directly in front of the window. It faced outward, perfectly aligned with the view of her own back patio, her string lights, her wine table, and the spot where she always sat with a book in one hand and Roscoe curled at her feet.

Directly beside the chair, a black tripod stood planted, steady and deliberate. A camera mounted on top, its lens aimed squarely at her home.

Renee stepped forward, slowly, like her limbs didn’t quite belong to her.

A small desk hugged the side wall. A laptop sat open, humming softly. The glow from the screen cast eerie shadows across the otherwise empty room.

She approached.

The screen displayed a live feed.

Of her patio.

Her string lights were glowing softly. Her empty chair sat waiting in the frame. The wine glass shimmered faintly beside the book she’d left behind.

The feed was live.

Her throat tightened, pulse roaring in her ears. Her fingers hovered above the touchpad, trembling.

She clicked open a folder on the desktop.

VIDEOS > PATIO > YEAR > MONTH

Dozens of files.

renee_reading.mov

renee_call_erin.mov

renee_patiosunset.mov

renee_laughs_w_glass.mov

renee_sleeping_roscoe.mov

Each one was labeled.

Each one was hers.

She opened one at random. The screen flickered, then showed a grainy clip of her, from behind, brushing her hair out of her face while she read. Roscoe lifted his head. She smiled at something on the page.

The footage cut to black.

Bile rose as she backed away. Her hands curled into fists before she even noticed.

A floorboard creaked.

Not under her.

Somewhere else in the house.

She froze.

Roscoe turned his head—not startled. Just listening.

“Roscoe,” she whispered, and her voice sounded like it didn’t belong to her. “Come.”

He rose and followed without hesitation.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t pause. She walked, one step ahead of panic, until the night air hit her skin again.

The porch light flicked on as Renee stepped onto her porch, leash limp in her fingers, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out.

Roscoe padded beside her, unbothered.

She hurried home and locked the door with shaking fingers. Then she checked the deadbolt again, just to be sure.

Inside, the house felt unfamiliar.

She moved on instinct—past the kitchen, down the hall, toward the patio door. Her phone buzzed as she passed the couch. Erin, probably. She ignored it.

Her eyes caught movement.

A blinking red light.

She froze.

It came from the small camera perched on the pergola, pointing towards the patio door—part of the system Jay had installed last year.

She pulled out her phone and opened the security app. Her hands trembled as the feed loaded. The usual recordings appeared: time-stamped clips of the front walk, driveway, and backyard.

And then—

A notification she hadn’t seen before.

VIDEO ACCESS: REMOTE EXPORT COMPLETE

Files copied.

Destination unknown.

“What the hell,” she whispered.

She tapped into the storage log. Files had been duplicated—copied, not deleted. Every clip from the past month. Every view of her reading on the patio. Of her coming and going. Of her and Benji playing in the yard.

All accessed. All exported.

From inside her own system.

The nausea hit her in a wave, cold and crushing.

She hadn’t just been watched from the house behind the fence.

She’d been watched from here.

From home.

Her phone buzzed again—it was Erin. She answered this time, her voice low and tight.

“I need to tell you everything,” she said.

And she did—eyes locked on the quiet house on Forrest Way as the upstairs light went out.