The House on Willow Lane

I’m not crazy. I need you to understand that first. People like to throw that word around whenever they hear something they don’t understand, but I’m not one of those people. I’ve got everything figured out, and I know exactly what’s happening. I’m going to tell you about it, and you’re going to see that I’m not crazy. Okay? Great.

It all started when I moved into the house on Willow Lane. The neighborhood seemed perfect—rows of quaint, old houses, towering oak trees that whispered with the wind, and the kind of silence that makes you feel like the world is holding its breath. It was exactly the kind of place I’d been searching for. Quiet. Secluded. Safe.

But then I met my neighbor, Mrs. Carmichael. She’s this old woman who lives alone next door. At first, she seemed nice enough, the kind of person who bakes cookies for new neighbors and keeps an eye on everyone’s kids. She came over the day I moved in, smiling with this weird look in her eyes like she knew something I didn’t. She handed me a pie—a pecan one, I think—and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood. I hope you like it here.”

There was nothing wrong with her words, but it was the way she said them, like a warning wrapped in politeness. I shrugged it off, though. People are strange, right? I mean, who gives out pies these days?

It wasn’t long before things started to get... odd. First, there were the noises. They began late at night, just as I was falling asleep. It sounded like scratching, like something was trying to claw its way out from inside the walls. I’d get up, check every room, but there was never anything there.

And then there were the lights. I’d turn them off before bed, but when I woke up in the middle of the night, they’d be on again. Every light in the house, blazing like it was the middle of the day. I thought maybe I was sleepwalking, but I’d never done that before, and besides, I didn’t feel tired. I felt alert, alive, like I was seeing things more clearly than ever.

I told Mrs. Carmichael about it one day when I ran into her outside. She was trimming her rose bushes, and she just looked at me with this sad little smile, like I was a child telling her about a nightmare. “It’s just an old house,” she said. “Old houses make noises. And lights, well, sometimes the wiring gets funny. You should get an electrician to check it out.”

I nodded and smiled back, but something about her tone put me on edge. She was too calm, too dismissive. It was like she knew something but wasn’t saying it. So, I started watching her. You know, just in case.

I’m not a stalker or anything, don’t get me wrong. I just kept an eye on her. And it turns out, she’s not as sweet and harmless as she looks. I’ve seen her sneaking out at night, going into her garden with a flashlight. I followed her once, staying hidden behind the hedge that separates our yards. She was digging, deep into the ground, and when she pulled up something that looked like a small box, she glanced around like she was making sure no one was watching before she buried it again.

I couldn’t sleep that night. What was she hiding? The next day, when she left to run her errands, I snuck over and dug up the box. Inside were these little jars filled with strange things—hair, nails, teeth. Human teeth. There was a piece of paper too, with my name on it and some weird symbols that I didn’t understand.

I put everything back and ran home. My heart was pounding, and I was sweating like I’d just run a marathon. I mean, what was I supposed to think? The old lady next door was doing some kind of witchcraft or voodoo or something, and it was aimed at me. That explained everything—the noises, the lights, the feeling that someone was always watching.

I tried to confront her about it the next day, but she just looked at me with this blank expression and said she didn’t know what I was talking about. She even invited me inside for tea, like I was the one who was being weird. I almost accepted, just to see what she’d do, but something told me it was a bad idea. So, I just stood there on her porch, feeling like an idiot, while she smiled at me with that same infuriating calm.

I stopped sleeping after that. Every night, I sat by the window, watching her house, waiting for her to make a move. And then, one night, I saw her in my backyard. She was standing there, staring up at my bedroom window, holding one of those jars in her hand. My heart stopped. I grabbed the baseball bat I keep by the door and ran outside, but by the time I got there, she was gone.

I knew then that I had to do something. I went to the police, but they didn’t believe me. They said she was a “pillar of the community,” and that I was probably just tired from moving and settling in. Tired. That’s what they said.

So, I decided to handle it myself. I waited until she left one afternoon and broke into her house. It was the first time I’d been inside, and it was even weirder than I’d imagined. There were pictures everywhere, but not of her family or friends. They were pictures of me. Dozens of them, taken from all different angles, some from inside my house. And there were more jars, all labeled with names I didn’t recognize, but I knew they meant something, something terrible.

I found a journal in her bedroom, and when I read it, everything made sense. She wasn’t just some old lady. She was a watcher, a guardian of sorts, keeping track of people like me, people who don’t belong. She was keeping me here, trapped, feeding off my fear and confusion. That’s what the jars were for, to trap pieces of me, to keep me from leaving.

I had to stop her. I knew that if I didn’t, I’d never get out of that house, out of this town. I grabbed one of the jars and smashed it on the floor, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something lift, like a weight had been taken off my shoulders.

I left her house, shaking but determined. I knew what I had to do. I went home, packed my things, and drove until I couldn’t drive anymore. I don’t know where I am now, somewhere far from Willow Lane, somewhere safe. I haven’t seen her since, but I know she’s still out there, watching, waiting for me to slip up.

But I won’t. I’m not crazy. I know what’s real. I know she’s out there, and I know she’s not going to stop. But I’m ready for her this time. I’ve got my own jars now, my own protection. I’m going to keep moving, keep watching, keep fighting.

You believe me, don’t you? You have to. I’m not crazy.

Right?