Fear made flesh

“Neighbor”

I’ve always loved observing since childhood. Absolutely everything: I was fascinated by studying little details in toys, intrigued by how complex mechanisms of various devices worked, and enjoyed gazing at the stars, searching for constellations. But my favorite activity, my true passion, was always observing the windows of the houses opposite mine. I’d ponder and imagine who lived there, why they stayed up at night, what went on in their heads. Each window held its own private life, and I relished being a sort of invisible observer of that life, the story behind that window, knowing the object—or even objects—of my observation had no idea I existed. And recently, I paid a price for my excessive curiosity..

You see, I had always dreamed of living in my own house, having a big guard dog to protect me, being able to grill some kebabs whenever I wanted, or blast music at full volume whenever I want it. Want to walk around naked in your own home? Sure! Scream? Go for it! Do whatever I please. Complete freedom of action. This idea always enticed me! Besides, I work remotely, so moving to the countryside wouldn’t change much for me as long as there was reliable internet and phone service. Of course, I knew every medal has two sides, and the downside of owning a house and land was the immense responsibility. Each season demands its own kind of maintenance: raking leaves into a compost pit in autumn, clearing snow off parking spaces and pathways in winter, battling weeds that relentlessly try to destroy your beautifully laid tiles in spring and summer—even pulling them out from between the tiles! Some might say it’s easier to live in an apartment and avoid all that hassle, but I’d say I don’t care what you think. I desperately wanted to live in my little house, and I was ready to accept any difficulties. But… I couldn’t last even a week in the home I had dreamed of all my life.

By now, you’ve probably guessed from my introduction that I finally saved up enough money to buy a house after years of hard work. The paperwork, the house tour, the small plot of land that also came with it, the keys, the parting advice of the former owners (a married couple with kids)—all of that was behind me. Finally, I was alone. Alone in what seemed like a giant space to me after my tiny apartment: 150 square meters. I sat on the sofa—the only thing the previous owners left behind—and just smiled like a little kid who finally got the gaming console he’d been begging his parents for. I was overwhelmed with euphoria. I’ve always loved moving, especially to places I wanted to go, places with good energy where I felt comfortable. To me, moving symbolized starting a new chapter in life, even if I wasn’t moving to a different country or city but just to a small suburb of thirty people. It was a chance to reorganize my destiny and improve my life. I couldn’t miss such an opportunity.

Driven by this excitement, I jumped up from the sofa and headed to my car to bring in my belongings. Sure, I didn’t have much, but what I did have was enough for me. Of course, I wanted things like a giant plasma TV or a massage chair, but I figured if I could buy a house, I’d scrape together the money for those luxuries later. After all, where could I have kept those things in my dingy one-bedroom apartment with its pre-war renovations? They wouldn’t have even fit in my car. “I’ll move in, and then I’ll get those things,” I thought while browsing houses online. But fate had other plans.

Even as I started unpacking my modest belongings and placing them in their new spots, I still couldn’t believe I’d done this all on my own—no help from anyone. Not from friends (of which I had only two) or my parents (whom I hadn’t spoken to in years). I had always been the sole master of my life, and I couldn’t help but feel proud.

Lost in my thoughts about getting to know the neighbors, inviting Michael and Ethan (my two friends), and going shopping for the week, I almost didn’t notice the knock at the door. Tearing myself away from a box of books, I ran to the massive front door and looked through the peephole. A man in his thirties or older stood there, definitely older than me, wearing a black cap and entirely dressed in black. What immediately caught my eye was the gold police badge on his right shoulder. “Maybe he’s my new neighbor? Or more likely, the local patrol officer? He saw some activity here and came over to introduce himself? Must be it!” I thought, excitedly, and opened the door without hesitation.

“Good day. Police. Patrol. Sergeant Nolan,” he said, extending his hand. “I noticed some activity and thought I’d stop by to introduce myself. How are you settling in?”

“Good day! I’m Matthew. Everything’s fine, I think.”

“Henry.”

“Come in, don’t just stand there. I just moved in today, unpacking now—don’t mind the mess,” I said with a friendly smile. “Would you like some tea? Sorry, no coffee—I don’t drink it.”

“No, nothing for me, don’t worry about it. I just wanted to check in and see if you needed any help. I won’t keep you; here’s my card with my number. If anything happens, give me a call.”

“Thank you. Goodbye. You’re welcome to drop by too if you ever need anything.”

Closing the door behind him, I went back to unpacking, placing the card on the nightstand beside the bed—or rather, the mattress. I’ve always been polite to people older than me—it’s just how I was raised, especially to those in uniform. Though I’d never had trouble with the law, I always felt wary of men like him and tried to avoid any conflict.

Time flew by quickly. By the time I got back from the store with groceries, it was already quite dark. The only thing that remained unchanged was the patrol car parked a few houses down from mine.

“Well, maybe Sergeant Nolan lives there or something. Who knows what could be going on,” I thought, unlocking my front door with my key. For some reason, the door seemed jammed.