I shouldn’t have spied on my neighbor

I need to get this off my chest.

I live in your standard “middle class” neighborhood. One where all the lawns are neat, green, and tidy, and there’s virtually no crime.

The neighbor to the left of me, a kind older woman, is one of the sweetest women I’ve ever met. She has never been a problem.

The neighbor to my right, however, is a different story. In all my years of living here, I’ve never caught his name. From rumors around the neighborhood, he’s a divorcee with his longtime wife of thirty years.

Apparently, he lost custody of both kids due to his “tendencies,” and since then he’s stuck to himself.

The issues arise, however, when the sun goes down. From my window at the dead of night, I’ve only ever seen one room lit in his house. His upstairs bedroom. From this room, I hear constant, awful mechanical whirring. To me, it sounds as if he’s crushing something. Something hard. Something thick, layered, and bony. It makes me sick thinking of what he could be doing in there.

The worst part? My wife has never heard the sounds herself. Like clockwork I jostle her awake, and by the time she’s by the window the sounds have ceased completely. It’s as if he’s toying with me. Taunting me.

I’ve devolved into tucking my daughter into bed and standing by my bedroom window, in the total darkness of my house, until the sun once again rises and the light in that room shuts off.

It has been months and I had enough. I had to get a closer look.

I know how you’re going to judge my next actions.

I know you’ll probably think I should have called the police or tried something “safer.”

But you don’t understand the unbearable, morbid curiosity that’s been gnawing at me like a disease.

I had to know what was in that room. I was going to find out.

I called in sick for work that morning and I staked the neighbor’s house out. Patiently, I waited by the dining room window, kissing my wife goodbye and sending my daughter off to school. Patiently, I counted the seconds, minutes, hours it took, until finally I saw the neighbor’s car exiting the driveway.

After waiting five minutes ensuring he wouldn’t return. I hurriedly exited my house and hopped his fence, tiptoeing to his backdoor.

I gently tested the back doorknob, praying for an easy entry. To my surprise, the door gave way and opened. It had been unlocked.

Immediately upon entry, I was thrashed by a putrid, rotten smell. This smell enveloped my head and made me instantly doubt my decisions to come in.

Despite the smell, however, my curiosity got the best of me, and like a hook in my chest, I was drawn to the staircase leading to the second-floor bedroom.

Slowly, calculated, I took a step one by one, making my way to the top.

With each creak of the old, weathered, cracked staircase, my brain screamed at me to turn around.

Something deep inside me was telling me to leave. I was in danger.

But something deeper in me told me to push forward. The sounds, the sleepless nights, the sheer, unparalleled desire to see what was up these stairs ultimately propelled me to take my final steps and make it to the top of the staircase.

Upon reaching the top, however, I instantly heard something. A dampened, weak groan. It belonged to a woman.

I slowly made my way to the source of the sound: the bedroom. I stood there for a second. The door was closed.

As I stood there, I felt the doorknob staring at me. Egging me on to open the door and get to the bottom of what’s been eating at me for so long.

Before I could even think otherwise, my hand started moving slowly to the doorknob, mere inches away from contact.

Then, a voice. It was the woman. “Please. No. Don’t do this. You’re not a monster. You can take the kids back. Just let me free with my leg. You’ve already taken everything else.”

My eyes widened as my brain connected the dots. Was she…was she the ex-wife? Did this mean…

Before I could grasp the doorknob and see this horror for myself, my phone rang, startling me, making me jump back with an audible gasp.

The woman, realizing I was not her husband, broke out into a desperate, panicked yell. At once, she begged me to release her, that if I didn’t, I was complicit and I was responsible for her torture.

In the midst of all this however, was my ringing phone.

“No caller ID” flashed across the screen.

Already knowing who it was, I clicked “accept call,” and slowly raised the phone to my ear.

A low, gruff, freakishly calm voice spoke.

“I know where you are. I know what you’ve seen. You think you broke in? I let you in. I played you like a fiddle.”

I meekly responded, “I…I’m calling the police.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” The voice responded. “I’m sitting in the parking lot outside your daughter’s school. For her sake, you should turn around and leave.”

“You’re bluffing. You can’t escape your actions,” I weakly stated, trying to convince myself more than anyone.

“6602 Workshire Lane, 1241 Forest Road.”

As my wife and daughters’ current locations rang through my ears, he continued.

“Your wife gets off work at 3 and picks your daughter up at 3:30. Your daughter has ballet lessons from 5 to 6pm and you pick her up five minutes late every single time. I’ve been watching you. You are not in control. If you know what’s best for you…for your family, you’re going to back away from the door, leave the house, and never speak of this to anyone. Understand?”

Before I could respond, the line cut and I was left standing there, with the woman on the other side pleading with me.

Stone-faced and without another word, I slowly turned around and made my way down the stairs. I exited the house and without looking back, made my way to my own front door.

It’s been three weeks since that incident and the metallic crunching sounds have continued. I feel stuck. I want to help the woman. But sitting here, on my bed, typing this next to my wife and my daughter in my arms, I need to prioritize my own family.

No matter the cost.