The Unsettling Neighbor

They told me the house was empty—foreclosed, condemned, a festering pit of vermin and decay. Yet on my first night in the damned neighborhood, an overwhelming sense of malice clawed at my mind. At 121 Ash Lane, a solitary light shuddered in the window, its weak, quivering glow barely repelling the creeping darkness. A lone bulb, swinging like a vengeful pendulum in the attic, threw jittery, distorted shapes that simultaneously summoned and repelled me.

Then there was Mr. Kennedy.

He didn’t knock; he simply emerged from nowhere. At exactly 3:03 AM, I found him in my hallway—soaked by the relentless downpour, his face smeared with dirt, lips contorted into a twisted, eerie smile.

“I was just making sure you found your walls,” he murmured, his tone dripping with a sickening mix of derision and menace. In a heartbeat, he evaporated into the night.

I tried to convince myself it was nothing more than a nightmare—a delusion—until I discovered the irrefutable proof. Black, viscous footprints smeared from my front door right to my bedroom. Was it all a trick of my mind, or had he truly invaded my sanctuary?

Slowly, I began to see him everywhere: in the fractured reflections of every mirror that mimicked my every move, in the icy gusts of air that whispered directly into my ear when I was utterly alone, and even on the phone—a distorted echo repeating my own name in reverse: “NosaJ, NosaJ, NosaJ.” One harrowing night, in the suffocating silence, I witnessed him dangling upside down from a streetlight, naked and devoid of eyes, his grin revealing teeth fashioned from writhing beetles. A stray cat hissed in terror at his presence, and in that grotesque tableau, I couldn’t decide whether to recoil in horror or weep for his pitiful state.

My nightmares grew ever more tormenting. One night, I awoke in the claustrophobic crawlspace beneath my house, my hands stained and pierced by jagged nails, and a grotesque, malformed maw stitched onto my chest. I was caught in a paralyzing limbo between screaming in agony and weeping in dread at the monstrous transformation. A guttural voice echoed from the depths of my being, “He is making you.”

Driven to the brink of madness, I delved into the town’s sinister past. There was no modern record of any Mr. Kennedy—only a faded, grim microfilm article from 1931 that prophesied:

“Local Man Claims Next-Door Neighbor Hasn’t Aged Since 1887. Says House Grows When He’s Not Looking. Declared Insane. Hung Himself With His Own Intestines.”

The accompanying photograph was undeniable: Mr. Kennedy, with eyes as black as void and lips drenched in a viscous, molasses-like substance.

Haunted by an irresistible compulsion to understand—or perhaps to escape—I boarded up my windows and left my lights blazing, yet solace was a cruel illusion. For soon, I realized with mounting terror, he wasn’t prowling outside any longer.

My walls began to weep blood. The wood pulsed with a demonic rhythm, as if it possessed a living, malevolent heartbeat, and something churned behind the insulation—an abomination of bone and sinew. One harrowing evening, I stripped away the drywall and uncovered a macabre sight: teeth sprouting grotesquely from the beams, whispering a bone-chilling prophecy, “He’s burrowing inside you next.”

Last night, in a surreal, unholy inversion, I dreamt I was him. I awoke trapped within his rotting, form—a detached observer watching myself, immobilized on a chair, my mouth silenced by that revolting molasses, my scream imprisoned within stitched lips. And through my voice, filtered by Mr. Kennedy, came the final, soul-crushing decree:

“It’s your turn to be the neighbor.”

If you’re reading this, I beg you—do not set foot in Hartfield Hollow. Do not, under any circumstance, approach 121 Ash Lane. And if you ever hear a relentless tapping upon your mirror, do not answer. For in that vulnerable moment, you will invite him in. Once he is inside, he will never truly leave. He merely swaps faces and then he waits.

Thump. Drag. Whisper.

Your Next!

Authors Note:

They say inspiration strikes like lightning. This one felt more like a cold hand reaching through the drywall and dragging me in.

“The Unsettling Neighbor” was born during a stretch of sleepless nights, when the walls of my own home began to creak a little too often, and I found myself staring into mirrors longer than I should have. I joked once that I was haunted by a thought I couldn't finish. Now I wonder if it was the other way around.

This story is my love letter to dread—the slow, creeping kind. The kind that doesn't jump out screaming, but waits... just past the edge of your sight. It’s what happens when the monster doesn’t live in the basement, but right next door—and knows your name better than you do.

To those who’ve ever felt like something was watching them from the quiet of an empty room...

To those who’ve heard a tap on the glass when no one was home...

This one’s for you.

Don’t look too long.

And for God’s sake, don’t open the door.

—Jason Benskin