**MY NEIGHBOR LEFT A NOTE IN MY MAILBOX SAYING HE KNOWS MY SECRET**
I was sorting through the junk mail when my fingers brushed against the envelope—no stamp, no return address, just my name scrawled in messy handwriting. I opened it, and my stomach dropped as I read, *“I know what you did last summer.”* My hands trembled, and the metallic taste of panic filled my mouth. I hadn’t told anyone about that night, not even my closest friend. His words echoed in my mind over and over as I stared at the paper, crumpling it in my fist.
I spun around when I heard the creak of my front gate. My neighbor, Richard, stood there, leaning casually against the fence. His smirk made my pulse quicken. “Got my note?” he asked, his voice low. I froze, my mind racing. “What do you want?” I choked out, trying to sound calm. He tilted his head, his eyes glinting in the afternoon sun. “Just a little chat. Maybe over coffee tomorrow?”
My heart was hammering now, and my nails dug into my palms. I slammed the mailbox shut, the metallic clang echoing down the street. He chuckled softly as he turned to leave, but then paused. “Oh, and bring the photos. I’d hate for things to get messy.”
Then the door to his house creaked open, and I swear I saw movement in the window. Someone was watching us.
*Full story continued in the comments…*The next morning was a torture of anticipation and dread. I barely slept, replaying Richard’s words and the unsettling movement in his window over and over. The thought of coffee with him made me want to vomit, but the alternative – whatever “messy” things he alluded to – was far worse. I decided to go, hoping to appease him, to buy myself some time.
I made a pot of coffee, my hands shaking so badly I spilled grounds everywhere. As I waited for the brew to finish, I pulled out the old shoebox from under my bed. Inside, nestled amongst faded photographs, were the pictures. They were old, the edges yellowed, depicting a group of friends at a bonfire. And in one, a blurry figure in the background, a figure I’d tried so hard to forget. A figure that confirmed my secret.
I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and then walked across the street, the shoebox clutched tightly in my arms. Richard’s house was deceptively ordinary, a neat two-story with a well-manicured lawn. He greeted me at the door with that same unnerving smirk. The inside was sterile and cold, the only decor a few framed landscapes on the walls. He led me to the kitchen, a stark white space with a single, small window.
“Coffee’s ready,” he said, gesturing to a minimalist coffee maker. He poured two mugs and sat at the table, waiting. The silence was suffocating.
Finally, he spoke, his voice soft, almost conversational. “So, you’re probably wondering what I want.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. “Let’s just say I have an interest in… unusual things.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “I know about the accident. I know it was you. I saw you.”
My breath hitched. I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words died in my throat. He *had* seen me. I knew, in that moment, that it was over.
“The photos, please.” He held out his hand, his eyes gleaming. I felt a cold wave of despair wash over me. I set the shoebox on the table and slowly opened it, revealing the evidence of my guilt.
He picked up a photo, examining it with a disturbing intensity. “I’ve been watching you, you know.” He traced a finger over the blurred figure in the background. “The fear in your eyes has been quite entertaining, and now, let’s begin the real fun.”
Suddenly, the window shattered inward, showering the kitchen with glass. A figure, clad in black, dropped to the floor, wielding a crowbar.
Richard didn’t flinch. Instead, a chilling smile spread across his face. “Finally,” he whispered, his eyes locked on the intruder. “Took you long enough.”
The figure lunged at Richard, the crowbar whistling through the air. But Richard moved with a speed that defied his casual demeanor, dodging the blow. A struggle began, a brutal dance of violence. I scrambled backward, my heart pounding.
Then, in a blur of movement, Richard disarmed the attacker. He brought the crowbar down, the sound of the impact echoing through the small kitchen. He was a monster, in control.
But then I realized the figure on the floor was not who I thought. It was a young woman, and now I recognized her. The same girl from the party, the same girl who had seemed to be watching me for weeks now. And more importantly, it was the same face from the pictures.
Richard, now dripping in blood, turned to me, his face contorted with rage. “You knew, didn’t you?” he hissed. “You always knew.”
In that moment, I understood. The note, the photos, the pursuit… it wasn’t about revenge. It was about control, about the thrill of the chase. Richard wanted to relive his “game”. He wanted to watch me crack. And the girl was his partner, his prey. I was caught in their twisted game, and the endgame was now inevitable.
Without a word, he advanced and brought the crowbar up high to strike me. I closed my eyes, expecting the pain, the end. But it never came. Instead, I heard the distinct click of a safety being released.
I opened my eyes. The girl was standing behind Richard, a pistol trained on his head.
“You’ve had your fun,” she said, her voice steady. “It’s over, Richard.”
He froze, his eyes wide with surprise and… disappointment? The girl pulled the trigger, and a shot pierced the silence. Richard fell, the crowbar clattering to the floor. The girl walked over to the shattered window and looked at me. “Get out of here,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “And don’t ever look back.”
I didn’t hesitate. I ran. I didn’t look back, not even once. I never saw her again, but sometimes, late at night, I can’t shake the feeling I wasn’t a pawn in a game, but rather a witness to its bloody conclusion. And the secret? It’s buried, finally, with its rightful owner.