The Neighbor

I saw his light on late, the glow of boxes and shadows moving behind the curtains. Everyone does the same thing at first—tries to make it a home. They don’t last.

I still remember the last family: a mother, father, two kids. The father used to laugh on his porch every evening, beer in hand. Then the laughter stopped. One day the blinds stayed shut, the car grew cobwebs in the driveway. When the sheriff finally went inside… the place was empty. No furniture, no bodies, no trace they ever existed.