It was like an episode of The Twilight Zone were the man is running through the streets screaming: “Where is everybody?”

I was home from work at five. 

I pulled into the driveway. My wife’s car was parked in its usual spot. My daughter’s Barbie Dream Car was parked on our brick patio walkway like normal. My son had pulled half of the things in our storage shed out onto the lawn, trying to find something to sell on Facebook Marketplace. He did this almost everyday.

I parked my truck. Got the groceries out and went to the front door. It was locked. That was strange – the door would not have been locked if they were home. 

Inside, you could hear a pin drop. I didn’t see anyone. I set the grocery bag down on the counter and walked around the dining room table.

“Hello?” I said.

I checked the spare bathroom.

Empty. 

My daughter’s room. 

Empty.

The stairway. 

No one. 

“Hello?” I called out.

Where were they?

I checked my phone. Maybe someone sent me a text.

Nothing.

I looked out the kitchen’s front window onto the driveway. There was my wife’s cream-colored Toyota Highlander, but something was not quite right.

No one was home.

And then a blood curdling stab of fear shot through my entire body. My eyes slowly moved off my wife’s car, across the driveway, to the neighbor’s house. Our neighbors just moved in last week and from that first day I have been concerned.

I have only seen them once. But I know they are home because whenever I walk near their house, or park my truck in the driveway, a curtain opens near their doorway. It’s dark inside so I can never see who is looking out at me.

But someone is watching me, I am quite sure. There was a murder down the street and, privately, my wife and I had a theory: we thought the neighbors were involved. 

It’s scary, I know. But that is what we thought.

The case was never solved, and my fear has never gone away. It started with a growing unease last week when I first saw them and has steadily increased to where I am standing here now in an empty house wondering where my wife and daughter have gone.

I opened the window curtain and looked out at the neighbor’s house. 

Six Days Ago  

The house next door sold. The realtor was over there last night, dressed to the nines, pulling up the “For Sale” stakes on their lawn.

I never saw the buyers when they came to look at the house.

I saw the realtor today and asked about them. She said they have been inside remodeling – doing carpentry, painting and some other things.

They were over there today. They pulled in an old Ford pick-up truck. I never saw them unload a suitcase or any personal belongings. They are husband and wife, I think. And, I will be truthful, I was frightened when I saw them. Their face, and complexion, were white like a ghost’s.

My wife and I went over tonight to introduce ourselves. My wife baked an apple pie. I brought over some painting supplies that I no longer needed. 

After a knock or two a woman came to the door. She looked frightened. Like she had just peered into the utter reaches of hell and, by answering the door, we had just pulled her away from a horrible, frightful scene (although she didn’t appear to be thankful that we did that).

At first, I thought we had just walked onto a crime scene. Something was not right. But she smiled and, if there was a problem, she didn’t want us to know. 

My wife introduced herself and handed her the apple pie. 

She stood still, like a statue. Her hands were behind her back. She looked down at the pie indifferently.

“We just…” My wife hesitated for a moment. “We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” 

I set down the painting supplies on the porch. “And I brought this in case you can use it.”

She smiled.

It was frightening. It didn’t seem real. Like she was forced to smile. It was like she knew I expected her to smile, so she manufactured one for me.

She stepped forward and reached for the pie and, when she did, I saw something move over her shoulder. 

Was that her husband? 

I don’t know. Whoever it was, it slinked back into the darkness when it saw me.

And then, oddly, she said, “Thank” and slowly closed the door. It was like did not know the proper way to say, “Thank you.”

“Goodbye,” my wife started to say before the door closed shut.

I remember thinking that would be the last time I saw the inside of their house. 

It wasn’t.

* * *

It was the last time I saw them during the daylight hours. After that the curtains were drawn whenever I came near their house. 

But we did see them at night.

I never saw them leave, but my son said he did. One night my son heard them start-up that old, beat-up pickup truck in their barn. He saw the headlights flash across his bedroom wall as they turned to leave. He went back to sleep, and never heard them come back. 

The next day missing persons reports were filed for two people that lived down our street. They were an older couple, in their sixties. There were no signs of forced entry, and their vehicles were still parked in the garage. 

They were found, later in the day, out in the snow, frozen stiff. The woman was lying face down on the edge of her lawn near the tree line. The man was found a hundred yards away in the woods. Neither were injured, but one of the first responders on the scene said they looked like they had been dragged to their final resting place. There were scratch marks on the woman’s back and her face. There were no scratches on the man except for a small bite mark on the back of his neck.

* * *

As a species we no longer fear what to our ancestors must have been an all-encompassing dread – something coming from away; something coming out of the woods; someone hiding in the dark.

That was two weeks ago. There have been no other reports of misconduct, but strange things continue to happen. 

One night I saw a man step off our front porch when I looked out our bedroom window. It was dark, so I didn’t see where he went. Later in the night my wife said she heard voices out in our driveway. 

There was another report from our neighbors, Carl and Patsy Lawler, that still bothers me. 

Patsy was hearing footsteps out in their yard two nights in a row. On the third night her husband, Carl, went outside with a shotgun. She didn’t hear a peep – and then she heard two gun shots. A moment later Carl stumbled into the front entryway of their house with a shotgun in hand and a white streak down his hair line, his sideburns and down onto his beard. His brown hair and beard had a streak of white. It was like someone outside had a bucket of white paint and a brush and painted his brown hair white. 

Carl denied that he saw anything or shot his gun. Later, he said that part of his hair and beard were already beginning to turn white. I asked him about the gunshots. He said that was old Elmer Woodmen’s car backfiring “as it went up the hill passing our house.” 

I didn’t believe that and I don’t think Patsy did either. 

It was troubling.

He saw someone or something out there that gave him the most horrible fright. It was frightful enough to turn parts of his brown hair and beard white. 

Before that I would often see Carl out on his lawn landscaping or working on his sculpting projects, but I have not seen him since parts of his hair turned white.

Present Day 

I think I know where they are. Of course, if they are in the neighbor’s house, that is not good. They would not have gone there under their own free will, I am quite sure of that.

I opened the front door and made my way across the driveway. I walked across my lawn and through the thicket of small trees and brush that forms a boundary line between my house and theirs. 

The house is old. The porch is falling apart. The curtains are drawn. It looks abandoned, but I feel strongly someone is home. 

Five Days Ago

In February, a single mother was attacked by something in her house. The authorities thought it was a stray dog because of the bite marks, but I didn’t believe that. She was killed in her bed. Presumably, while she was still asleep.

I talked to my wife about the neighbors tonight. I wondered if she had seen them at all. She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about. 

“Neighbors?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” I said emphatically pointing toward the neighbor’s house. “Next door.”

She gave me a blank look and shook her head slowly. “Honey, we don’t have neighbors.” 

Either she was losing her mind, or I was losing mine.

Present Day

I walked up onto their front porch and knocked on the door. All the curtains were drawn. Otherwise it was a normal day. The birds were chirping, the cicadas were clicking. But as I crossed the property line and stepped onto the neighbor’s lawn everything became silent, just like the inside of my house.

I knocked again. 

Crickets. 

I turned the doorknob. The door slowly opened. They had old wooden floors, there was a hardback chair up against the hallway wall and, in the dim light, I could see a wooden stairway going up to a second floor. 

I leaned my head inside the doorway. “Hello?” I said. 

You could hear a pin drop. I stepped into the house. The musty odor overwhelmed me. “Is anybody here?” I asked. 

No reply.

At this point, I had two choices. I could leave because no one was home. That is customarily what I would do. Or I could turn on my phone’s flashlight and look around. 

I felt like if I chose the latter, I was putting my life in danger because I was acknowledging that something was not right about this house or my neighbors. Why else would I be trespassing? 

I thought about this for a minute. How confident was I that they were here? And if they were, why? Did they come here under their own free will? If they didn’t then my wife and daughter were in trouble. 

And so was I. 

Standing in the dark, with that thick musty smell all around, I thought this through carefully. I reached into my pocket for my phone, swiped down on the touch display, and tapped the flashlight icon. 

I shone the light into the kitchen and swung the beam over kitchen cabinets, a farmer’s sink, refrigerator, and kitchen table.

No one.

“Anyone home?” I asked. 

Nothing. I could hear a pin drop. 

I swung the flashlight over the kitchen’s walls. There was an open door that went to a half bathroom and two closed doors. Where might they go?  Maybe one was a pantry. Maybe the other was a cellar. 

“Hello?” I said again.

I walked over to the kitchen sink and opened the curtains because I wanted more light and, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to know when the neighbors came home. 

It was late in the afternoon, and it was already getting dark. I stepped back into the foyer and closed the front door. I’m not sure why I did that. Was I afraid that someone would know I was inside? Did I think the neighbors were holding my wife and daughter captive and I didn’t want them to know I was walking around inside their house? These were conflicting thoughts.

Still, I had to be certain. 

I walked through the hallway, past the stairway on my right. The hallway opened onto an old, ornate living room that reminded me of my grandmother’s house when I was young.

“Megan?” I called out. “Lauryn?” 

No answer. 

It was absurd. My voice was almost conversational. If my wife or daughter were in this living room something would be WRONG, and I would not be acting like everything was as it should be.

I carefully walked through the living room. There was an old, ornate sofa and a wingback chair next to a large wooden bookcase. I walked over to the couch, got down on my hands and knees, and flashed my light underneath. 

Just cobwebs, pillow covers and a wool blanket. No one tied up with masking tape over their mouth looking for me to help. 

I had been inside for only about a minute and I was sweating. My heart was hammering in my chest. What was wrong? Why was I scared? 

Well, I had an idea but I did not want to acknowledge the reason why.

I began to walk up the wooden stairway. I was clenching my flashlight, directing it to the top of the stairs. There was a small, wood table with a vase on the landing. Just before I reached the top step a green bubble pop up on my phone’s screen.

A text message.

It said:

We’re here

Megan. 

I almost dropped my phone out of fright. 

But then I saw a flood of light on the upstairs hallway that slowly moved across the wall.

Headlights. From a truck. In the driveway. 

My heart dropped.

I turned around and ran down the stairs. The headlights lit up the entire kitchen. I peeked my head out the kitchen window. Things were about to get interesting. 

The neighbors were home. 

* * *

I almost went over and locked the front door. But I couldn’t do that because it was unlocked when I arrived. I ran into the living room and crawled underneath the couch. The truck’s lights went out. It was dark.  

I heard footsteps in the driveway. Then steps on the porch. The front door opened slowly. Did they know I was inside? 

The “husband” and “wife” walked in. She was wearing white sneakers. He was wearing brown steel toe boots. They walked into the kitchen and opened one of the closed doors. 

She whispered, “Do you need help?” 

“I’m all set,” he said. 

He came back into the hallway and went outside. I had a minute to check my phone. There were no new messages from Megan. 

I replied back to her:

Where are you?

The message was delivered. I was laying on my side under the couch. Underneath my message it said, “Read.” 

I heard the truck door open outside and then something flopped down onto the ground like a sack of potatoes. 

She replied: 

I am in the basement. Where are you?

I began to type, but then stopped. I didn’t want to tell her. What if someone else had her phone, and was pretending to be her? I thought about this for a moment and then typed: 

I am in the den, next to the living room.

I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t like how she asked where I was. Why did that matter? I wanted to know where was she? 

I heard the man walking up the steps. He was dragging something. 

The door creaked halfway open.

I saw the man’s steel toed boots and behind him, wrapped in a blue blanket, was a heavy object. He pulled it inside. It was a human body. An arm and an open hand flopped out. On the finger was a ring. 

Megan’s ring. 

A bolt of fear shot through my body. I looked down at my phone. Underneath my last message to Megan it said, “Read.”

Someone had her phone.

The man dragged her into the kitchen and then began to walk down the basement stairs. I heard him stepping, and the body flopping, down the wooden stairs.

I heard muffled voices down there and then he came back upstairs.

I slid out from underneath the couch. I wanted to get out of the house, but I didn’t have time. I slipped into the den instead. The man stepped into the living room. I heard him move a piece of furniture. Was he moving the couch? And then I realized I told him (or her) in the text that I was in the den. I thought he would come to see me next. But he did not. He moved the furniture back and left the room. He then walked into a small storage room next to the living room. I thought: maybe that is the den. I peaked my head around the corner. He was inside that room looking for me. 

All the lights were out. He was walking around in the dark. His back was to me and I noticed a large wooden bookshelf against the wall and another ornate sofa.

I stepped out of the room.

I was no longer going to hide. Why should I feel guilty? My wife and daughter were missing. My neighbors were acting strange, and seemed to be responding to text messages sent to my wife’s phone. I stepped out into the living room. He was still in the den.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He turned around and looked back at me startled. “Hi?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was looking for my wife and daughter. I’m sorry to…to disturb you.”

He looked completely befuddled. “You’re here to look for your wife and daughter?” He looked out the den’s window toward our house.

I shook my head. “I didn’t know,” I said trying to be contrite. “The door was not locked, and you were not home.”

He didn’t believe a word I said.

When he turned to face me his parch, white complexion looked like all the blood had been drained from his face. He glanced toward the open doorway in the kitchen that went to the basement. 

“I have no idea where they are, Steve.” His eyes flickered back to me. “I promise.” 

“Well, I’m sorry to disturb you.” 

I started to make my way to the door and felt the ping from my phone. Another text message. I put my hand on the doorknob and stopped. I turned to face him. I had to ask the obvious question. “What was in the blanket you dragged in here?” 

His pale, white face was haggard like he had just aged twenty years.

“That was my dog,” he said. “He died this morning and we brought him to the basement.” He glanced out the window. “We’ll bury him in the morning.”

A chill went down my spine.

That wasn’t a dog.

“Okay,” I said. I stood there a moment longer, expecting a response or further explanation. 

He had nothing more to say.

“Okay, I’m sorry for disturbing you. I glanced toward the basement door. “Let me know if you see them.” 

“I will,” he said. I didn’t like the way he said that. His voice was flat, lifeless.

I stepped outside and closed the door. As I walked down the porch steps I heard the door latch click.

He locked the door. 

Part II

Four Days Ago

I was exasperated with Teresa. “You don’t remember the neighbors moving in next door?” I motioned my hand toward the kitchen oven. “You made them an apple pie.”

She shook her head. “Steve,” she said confidently. “I didn’t. When do you think this happened?” 

“We went over last week, when they first moved in.” I changed my tone like I was retelling the story a second time. “We both went over. You baked an apple pie. I brought over some painting supplies. Don’t you remember? The realtor said they were remodeling their basement.” 

“Steve, the house has been empty since they moved in. Look at it,” she said. “No one lives there. It’s falling apart.” 

For the first time I began to doubt myself. Did I really see them? I’ve noticed as I have gotten older my memory is not what it once was. Maybe she was right. Maybe I did imagine it.

A chill went down my spine. 

Either I was losing my mind, or she was losing hers. Either way, this was a problem. I looked out our kitchen window onto the neighbors house. 

The curtains were open. 

They were closed a minute ago. 

Present Day

I stepped off their porch and quickly walked across their lawn. I turned to look back and saw his pale, haggard face looking back at me through the window. When he saw me looking at him he backed away slowly and closed the curtain.

Not a good sign.

I made my way through the thickets and bramble and back onto my lawn and went into my house. What now? And then I remembered the text message.

I reached into my pocket. There was a new message from Teresa. It said: 

He’s lying. We’re in the basement. 

And then:

Come down the stairs.

It was like a cold spike went through my heart. What now? Do I go back over, confront him and say: 

Sorry sir, but I am receiving text messages from my wife. I think she’s in your basement. Would it be okay if I come in, go down into the basement and look around?

No, I wasn’t going to do that. Instead, I typed: 

Who are you?

It was about 9 o’clock at night. Should I call the police and open a missing persons report? Or do I sit tight for an hour or two and go back over there? Maybe look for a basement window that I can pry open? I saw what was wrapped in that blanket. It was not a dog. It was human, I know that. And I saw a ring that looked just like Megan’s.

My phone pinged. A new message. I took a look and a new cold stab of fear shot through my entire body. It said: 

The Neighbors

I typed “Hampden Police Maine” into my phone and tapped the phone number on the screen. 

I spoke to a dispatcher and told the story again. He said they would be right over. 

Ten minutes later an officer arrived at my door. I told him what I saw. He looked at me suspiciously the entire time. His eyes slowly wandered around the house like he thought there was a little more to this story. He acted like I was the suspect. His hand was on his pistol the entire time. He heard my story and said he would go over and ask them some questions. I asked if he could check the basement. He said, “Not without consent.”

I held up my phone. “She sent me a text message and said she was in the basement. Isn’t that enough to…” 

He grimaced and shook his head. “I am afraid not. I would need a warrant.” 

He said I should call the police station and file a missing persons report. 

I was afraid of that.

I called them and filed the report. They said another officer would be over in an hour or two.

I hung up the phone and looked down at the ominous message again. 

It said: 

The Neighbors

The neighbors house was pitch dark and the curtains were drawn.

* * *

The officer pulled in my driveway about 45 minutes later. He asked the same questions as the previous officer and then went next door. I watched it all out my kitchen window. He had his flashlight on and moved it across the front of the porch and the window next to the doorway. He knocked on the door and waited a moment. No one answered. He walked around the perimeter of the house, shining his flashlight across the lawn and side of their house.

It was like he was looking for signs for life in an abandoned house. Neither his body language or actions indicated any kind of urgency. Everything was routine. He went back up onto the porch and knocked again. And then he opened the door. He paused for a moment like he saw something he didn’t like. After a beat he stepped inside.  

I gave him twenty minutes. 

His patrol car was still parked in my driveway. I put on my coat went and walked back over to the neighbor’s house. 

I didn’t knock this time. I just walked in. “Hello?” I called out.

“I’m down here,” I heard the officer say. He was in the basement. 

“Can I come down?” I hollered. 

“Yes,” he said curtly.

I took a right and went through the kitchen to the basement door. I quickly walked down the steps to the dank basement. It was the kind of root cellar I remember as a child. Cool and dank with dirt floors and exposed rock walls. It was like an underground cave. 

It was pitch dark. 

Again, I was in a strange place in the dark.

“Where are you?” I whispered. 

No answer. 

I turned on my cell phone’s light and panned it across the room. It was a large room, but with a lot of debris and many hiding places.

“Sir? Are you here?” 

“I am over here,” he whispered. His voice sounded off. It was not normal. 

I turned around and the officer was right behind me – just inches away. The officer looked different. He looked sort of like the neighbors

“We’ve been waiting for you,” it hissed. He took a step closer to me.

In my phone’s light I could make out his beady black eyes, and his pearl white teeth that looked…

That looked sharp. 

“What are you doing?” I asked. 

He stopped where he was. 

I directed my flashlight right at him. He looked normal again.

“Sir, I don’t want you down here…”

“You asked me to come down.” 

“No, I didn’t. I had no idea you were in your house. You can’t come down here.”

I was stunned. Someone said to come down. Either he was lying, or I was losing my mind.

“You asked me to come down.”

“I had no idea you were in the house, Mr. Taylor. But I do have to ask you to leave.”

I nodded my head and turned around. I scanned my flashlight over the debris and overflow of storage and underneath a tipped over bookcase I saw a blanket.

It was the blanket that Megan was wrapped in.

I turned around to look at the officer. “Have you checked that blanket?” I asked.

“No, I have not.” 

“Do you think you should?” 

“Mr. Taylor please – “

I raised my hands, palms facing outward. “Okay, I’ll leave,” I said. 

I walked back up the basement steps. 

Something primal inside of me was triggered when I saw him. I am not sure where that came from but I hope I never feel it again.

I went back to the house and waited. 

I would hear the news 20 minutes later. 

Three Days Ago

I had my first sleep walking incident. At least, that is what I thought it was. It was before dawn – probably two or three in the morning and I found myself deep in the woods. I had no idea where I was or how long I had been there. But my shirt was torn, one of my boots was off and I had blood on my arm. I wiped it off and I didn’t see a cut or wound.

I made my way through the underbrush and ramble and saw a street light about a hundred yards away through the trees. I walked over there. 

I came out onto a paved road. I looked up the hill and noticed this was my street. For some reason I had wandered out of the bedroom, went outdoors and walked through the forest for about a quarter of a mile.

The night was cool, but oddly I still had that primal feeling like I “wanted” to be out there. Or perhaps, even, belonged out here. What did I want to do? 

Or, perhaps, the scarier question: What had I done? 

Present Day

I went back into my house and waited patiently. There were no new text messages. 

At about 10 pm I heard sirens down the street and I saw a pulsing white and red light. It was an ambulance and it pulled into the neighbor’s driveway. I stood at the window watching. Two paramedics with a stretcher went into the house. 

A few minutes later they came back out with a body wrapped in the same blue blanket. I ran back outside toward the ambulance. The officer in the house came out and hurried down the porch steps toward me. 

“Mr. Taylor,” he said motioning toward the body on the stretcher. “Can I have you come over here to identify this person?” He looked worried. 

I didn’t like that. 

“Is it – “ I started to say. I walked over to the stretcher. There was a nurse over the body. 

“Kyle, we have another body in the basement,” one of the paramedics said, standing by the front door.

“Shit,” the paramedic standing next to me said under his breath.

I went over to the stretcher and saw that it was Megan. It looked like she was sleeping peacefully, but I knew that she was dead.

“Sir,” he said. “Can you identify the women?”