“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.

It struck me as odd because everything was fine when I left and locked it earlier. Now, it wouldn't budge. And then I had what seemed like a genius idea at the time: to call Henry over to help. After all, his car was there, and he must have been inside it.

Leaving the grocery bags by the door with the thought: "No one needs them anyway, and I'll be quick," I jogged over to the patrol car and knocked on the driver's window. The glass rolled down, and I heard:

"Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Sergeant Nolan, I've got a bit of a problem."

"What kind of problem?" the officer asked, sounding more interested.

"My lock's jammed—won't turn left or right. Do you happen to know about these kinds of things?" I asked, holding onto a small glimmer of hope.

"You're in luck, kid. I can help with that," Henry said with a reassuring squint, stepping out of the car.

Within a couple of minutes, after pulling some special tools out of his pocket, the officer stood up, groaning slightly. With a smooth, almost magician-like motion, he inserted the keys into the lock and opened the door. I practically jumped for joy.

"God, what would I have done without you? Thank you so much!"

"Don't mention it. You need to replace this lock, though. Let me know when you decide, and I'll recommend a good one for you."

His comment struck me as strange, but my paranoid thoughts were quickly silenced by a more reasonable one: "Well, he knows about locks. He probably just wants to suggest a better one—something that won't jam or be easy to break into."

Finally, inside my home, I unpacked the groceries, put them in the fridge, and, exhausted by the day's events, went straight to bed.

For a couple of days, everything seemed normal. The patrol car was still parked near my house, though it moved to different spots—sometimes closer, sometimes farther. But I didn't think much of it. "Let it be," I thought.

Then, about two days later, something weird happened. I was half-asleep at the time, so it didn't immediately register. I heard scratching at my door—like someone trying to open it. Instinctively, I went to the door and looked through the peephole. It was pitch-black outside, but I managed to make out something shiny on the figure's right shoulder. They quickly disappeared around the corner, probably hearing me wake up.

I thought to myself that I really needed to replace that lock and let Nolan know someone had tried to break in. But the thought slipped my mind later.

Another day passed, then another, and everything seemed quiet during the day. But that night—two days after the attempted break-in—I woke up a couple of times to noises. It sounded like something falling or banging. Groggy, I dismissed it as a dream and didn't give it much thought. I looked out the window and saw a familiar figure wearing a cap near my house. Another silhouette was by the house across the street, probably the owner. Feeling reassured, I went back to bed.

Later, I woke up again to louder noises but was so tired I didn't even bother opening my eyes.

In the morning, I woke up feeling surprisingly energetic despite the disturbances. I always sleep well in new places and don't struggle with insomnia. As usual, I did some stretches, washed up, and set the kettle to boil.

Scrolling through Instagram and zoning out, something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I looked up from my phone toward the house across the street. The same house where the officer had gone the night before.

In one of the windows stood a young woman, probably in her early twenties. She was staring at me through a barely open curtain. It looked like she was peeking out. I waved at her with a friendly smile, but she didn't react. She stood there, motionless. I thought she might not even be blinking.

I remember thinking: "I'm not the only one who likes watching people through windows. I should introduce myself—she's a neighbor, after all." Then I turned my attention back to the kettle, which had just started boiling.

Later, while working (it was a weekday), I forgot about the woman. But when I looked out the window again, there she was—in the same pose, in the same window, with the same expression on her face. Shock—or perhaps horror—would be a better word for it.

"I should check if she's okay," I thought.

By evening, I grabbed a box of cookies, got dressed, and headed to the house. I don't drink alcohol—I've had an aversion to it since a bad experience at a party during my teens—so I only brought the cookies..soo-o

"Stick to the main story. If we need details, we'll ask," the investigator interrupted.

"Oh, uh, alright…"

I approached the door, ready to knock, but noticed it was slightly ajar. I stepped inside, and... oh God…

There she was, hanging from a noose. Her head was turned toward the window, and the curtain was partially drawn, creating the illusion she was peeking out. But what caught my attention was the blood on her clothes and the torn wounds on her body.

It looked to me like she'd been killed first, then staged to look like a suicide. The house was in complete disarray—drawers pulled out, everything scattered around, like someone had been desperately searching for something.

The cookies slipped from my hands. I wanted to call Nolan, but his business card was on my nightstand, and I didn't remember his number. So I immediately called the police. You guys showed up, and, well, you know the rest…

"We know," said a voice from the dark corner of the small interrogation room.

"Can I ask something? Why am I here? Why did you arrest me? Why aren't you looking for the killer? It's obviously Nolan — he was the one who went into her house that night, and I heard strange noises!"

"Because," the detective replied: "There's no patrol officer named Henry Nolan in that area, kid."