The Man Across the Street

Dylan always believed he lived in a quiet neighborhood. The kind with trimmed lawns, porch lights, and friendly nods from neighbors on garbage day. But that changed in 2019.

It started with a man.

A man who lived across the street in a faded gray house no one ever talked about. The house itself was strange—windows boarded up from the inside, a cracked chimney, a dead lawn that hadn’t seen a hose in years. It gave off a smell like wet cement and old wood.

No one knew the man’s name.

No one ever saw him during the day.

But every night at exactly 3:00 AM, Dylan would sit at his bedroom window and watch him.

Always the same ritual.

The man would step out from the shadows of his home, dressed in black from head to toe, wearing gloves—always gloves—and dragging large, black garbage bags from the side alley into his basement. He never turned on lights. He never used a vehicle. There was no sound. Just him, the bags, and that awful silence.

Dylan might’ve ignored it—chalked it up to weird behavior—if not for something else happening in the neighborhood.

Kids were going missing.

One by one.

Jonah from a few blocks away vanished after soccer practice. Camila disappeared walking her dog. And then… Ethan.

Ethan was Dylan’s best friend. The kind of friend you grow up with, the one who knows your secrets and your laugh and your favorite pizza topping. Ethan left Dylan’s house one night after watching movies, said he’d text when he got home.

He never did.

A week later, the town moved on. “Random abductions,” the police said. “Could be trafficking, maybe a drifter.”

But Dylan couldn’t stop thinking about the man across the street.

So, one cold November night, he decided to do something stupid.

He followed the man.

At 3:05 AM, after watching him pull another black bag inside, Dylan crossed the street, glancing over his shoulder every second. The front door of the gray house was unlocked.

Inside, it was silent.

Not the kind of silence where the air is still.

It was dead silence—like the walls had swallowed sound itself.

And then came the smell.

It was stronger inside—thick and nauseating, like rotting meat drowned in bleach. Dylan covered his nose with his sleeve and stepped forward.

The hallway floor was covered in plastic sheeting. So were the walls. No photos, no decorations. No couch. No TV. No life.

Just plastic, glowing faintly under the flickering ceiling light.

He crept into the kitchen.

There was no food. No dishes. No microwave. Just one thing.

A fridge.

And inside it—glass jars. Rows and rows of them.

Each jar had something inside. Some had fingers. Others had hair. Some looked like… teeth.

Each jar was neatly labeled in black marker.

“Jonah – Eye”

“Camila – Nails”

And then…

“Ethan – Teeth”

Dylan’s heart dropped. The cold sweat running down his back turned to ice. He stumbled back from the fridge, gagging.

Then—footsteps.

Upstairs.

Slow, heavy, creaking down the steps.

And that’s when Dylan realized:

The front door had never shut.

He bolted from the kitchen and slid into a hallway closet, pulling the door closed just enough to see through the crack.

His breath was shallow. His whole body shook.

The man walked past—taller than Dylan remembered, face pale and sunken, eyes hollow. He was wearing something over his arm.

A hoodie.

Red, torn at the sleeve.

It was Ethan’s hoodie.

Dylan’s stomach flipped. The man stopped right in front of the closet.

He tilted his head.

Sniffed the air.

And then, in a voice that didn’t sound human, he whispered:

“Fresh one.”

Dylan clenched his eyes shut. His lungs screamed for air.

The doorknob creaked. The closet door opened.

And everything went black.