Through the Cracks

I’m not crazy. You think I’m crazy, don’t you? They do too. But I’m not. I can prove it. If you just listen, I’ll explain everything. You’ll see it makes perfect sense.

It all started with the man across the street. Mr. Hargrove, they call him, but I know better. He moved into the house opposite mine six months ago—right around the time when the strange things began. The lights would flicker at odd times, the temperature in my apartment would drop even though it was the middle of summer. And the noises! Late at night, just as I’m drifting to sleep, there’s this low hum, like a distant engine, coming from his place. You don’t hear it? Of course, you wouldn’t. He’s careful about that. Very clever, that one.

You see, Mr. Hargrove isn’t just some retired widower like everyone says. Oh no, he’s watching us—watching me. I caught him once, looking through his window with binoculars. When I called out to him, he ducked down so fast I almost laughed. But I didn’t laugh. It wasn’t funny. It was terrifying.

And that’s when I knew. He’s not alone. There are others. The mailman, for instance—always lingering just a little too long by his door. The woman who walks her dog every morning and stops to tie her shoe, right in front of his house. I saw them, whispering once, heads bent together like they were planning something. When I confronted her, she just smiled and told me to “mind my own business.” But this is my business.

I’ve been keeping notes, you know. Detailed notes. Every suspicious movement, every strange sound, every inexplicable moment—it’s all in my journal. But they found it. I don’t know how. I had it hidden under the floorboard beneath my bed, but when I went to check, it was gone. You have to believe me, I didn’t misplace it. They took it because it had the proof. Proof that they’re trying to drive me insane.

But I’m not crazy. I’m careful. That’s why I set up the cameras. It wasn’t easy. I had to do it at night, when no one was watching. Well, except for Mr. Hargrove. I’m sure he knew what I was doing, but I didn’t care. Let him watch! I have my own way of watching now.

I’ve got hours of footage. Do you want to see? It’s all there—Mr. Hargrove leaving his house at 3 a.m., carrying something large and wrapped in plastic. The mailman delivering packages that don’t fit in the mailbox—secret messages, I’m sure of it. And the hum… It’s constant. You have to turn the volume way up, but it’s there, like a heartbeat under the surface of everything. You can’t ignore it once you know it’s real.

The others don’t understand. My neighbors, and my family say I’m “paranoid,” that I’m “seeing things that aren’t there.” But they don’t live across the street from Mr. Hargrove. They haven’t heard the hum.

The worst was when my sister came over. She had that look in her eyes—the one she gets when she’s about to lecture me. “You need help,” she said, voice dripping with condescension. “You’re not well.” I told her to leave. I don’t need her help. I don’t need anyone’s help. I’m fine. I’m the only one who sees the truth.

But then last night… something happened. Something that even I can’t explain. I was watching the cameras, as usual, and I saw Mr. Hargrove leaving his house. Same time as always. But then… I saw myself. Yes, me! Walking across the street, heading straight for his door. I froze, watching in disbelief. I’ve never been to his house, never even crossed the street. But there I was, plain as day, creeping toward his front steps. The door opened before I even knocked. He was waiting for me.

I don’t remember what happened after that. When I woke up this morning, I was back in my bed. Everything was just as I’d left it. No sign that I’d been anywhere else. I checked the footage again, but it’s gone. That part of the tape is blank.

You don’t believe me, do you? I can see it in your eyes. You think I’m making this up, or worse, that I’m imagining things. But I’m not. I know what I saw. I know what’s happening.

They’re getting closer. I can feel it. The hum is louder now, almost deafening at night. I’ve sealed the windows and doors, but it doesn’t help. They’ve found a way in. They’re everywhere—whispering, watching, waiting for the right moment.

You have to trust me. I’m not crazy. I’m not. It’s them. They’re trying to make me doubt myself, trying to break me down. But I won’t let them. I’ll fight back. I’ll figure out what Mr. Hargrove is planning, and when I do, I’ll stop him.

Just listen. Can you hear that? The hum. It’s starting again. You hear it, don’t you?