Never Spy on Your Neighbor

Did you know that sometimes, curiosity can be deadly?

In 2019, Dylan learned that lesson in the worst possible way.

It all started with a man across the street.

Every night at exactly 3:00 AM, Dylan would peek from his bedroom window and watch the shadowy figure lurking in the house opposite his. The man never turned on a light, never drove a car, never made a sound. But every night, without fail, he dragged large black bags into his basement.

The house was strange. Its windows were nailed shut from the inside, as if no one wanted to see what was inside. No one ever saw the man during the day. The neighbors whispered about him but no one dared get close.

Something about the house felt wrong.

And then the disappearances started.

Kids in the neighborhood kept vanishing. One by one, they would be gone — no warnings, no notes, no clues.

Most people ignored it. They told themselves it was just kids running away or moving out. But Dylan wasn’t convinced. Because the latest missing kid was his best friend, Ethan.

That broke something inside him.

Dylan couldn’t sit back and wait for the police, for the rumors, for nothing. He had to know what was happening.

One night, when the man finally left his house, Dylan made a decision.

He waited, heart pounding, until the street was silent. Then, with trembling hands, he slipped out of his own house and crossed the road. The door to the mysterious house was cracked open, as if inviting him inside.

As soon as he stepped through the threshold, a wave of rotten, sickening stench hit him like a punch. It smelled like meat left out in the sun for days—a smell so vile it made his stomach churn.

Inside, everything was eerily clean. The floors gleamed beneath plastic sheets that stretched from wall to wall. There were no pictures on the walls, no furniture to sit on, not even a rug. It was sterile, cold, and unnatural.

Dylan’s footsteps echoed unnervingly as he crept through the hall. His eyes darted nervously around the empty rooms.

He found himself in the kitchen.

There, standing like a silent sentinel, was an old fridge.

When Dylan opened it, his blood ran cold.

The fridge was full of jars—glass jars with tight lids, each carefully labeled in a neat, black handwriting.

Names.

Some jars held fingers, others teeth, some had strange organic pieces Dylan couldn’t even identify.

One label made him freeze:

“Ethan — Teeth.”

His best friend.

Panic surged through Dylan’s veins. He wanted to run, to scream, to tear everything apart—but he knew that would only bring attention.

Then, from somewhere upstairs, came the sound of footsteps.

Slow.

Heavy.

Methodical.

The front door — which Dylan had left open — suddenly slammed shut with a loud bang.

He had been careless.

Desperately, Dylan dove into the closest closet, pulling the door closed just enough to leave a small crack for him to peer through.

His breath came in shallow gasps.

Through the crack, he saw the man pass by.

The man was wearing something familiar.

Ethan’s missing hoodie.

His heart pounded against his ribs as the man stopped, glanced directly at the closet door.

Then, in a voice so cold and chilling it felt like ice sliding down Dylan’s spine, the man whispered:

“Fresh one.”

Dylan’s muscles tightened. The closet door creaked open slowly.

Then — everything went black.

Dylan doesn’t know what happened next.

No one ever saw him again.

The house across the street? It’s still there, windows still nailed shut, silence still reigning in the night.

Kids continue to disappear.

And the man? No one knows who he is, where he came from, or what he truly is.

But one thing is clear: some things are better left unseen.

Some doors are better left closed.

And sometimes, spying on your neighbor isn’t just dangerous—it’s deadly.