MY ELDERLY NEIGHBOR VISITED AN OLD CABIN EVERY DAY AT THE SAME TIME — I NEARLY FAINTED WHEN I CHECKED INSIDE ONE DAY.
I just moved into a new neighborhood, and my closest neighbor is a 65-year-old woman. She lives in an old house with a shabby shack about 20 feet away. She’s super secretive and totally brushes me off when I try to chat.
But here’s the weird part: every day at 9 a.m.
and 9 p.m., she heads to that shack with some bags, spends about 20 minutes there, and then heads back. One time I tried to approach the shack, but she came running out, screaming, “STAY AWAY! I’LL CALL THE COPS!” Alright, I backed off.
Curiosity got the best of me, so I decided to check it out at night.
When I got to the shack, I found a big lock on the door. But then I spotted a small gap in the wooden door. I peered through it and almost passed out.
With my flashlight, I saw that on the floor was lying a ⬇️
**Maya decides to move away from the city, settling in a quiet neighborhood just outside the hustle and bustle. When she arrives, she plans to embrace a peaceful life, but soon that tranquility is disrupted when she notices that the woman across the road is up to something.**
When I relocated to the outskirts of the city, I was seeking peace.
After 32 years of city noise, suffocating crowds, and the endless chase for more, I was done. I craved quiet and serenity—a place where I could breathe and just sit down to write all the stories waiting to burst forth from me.
So, I found a charming little house on the edge of a small neighborhood. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and time seemed to slow down.
But what I got was something entirely different. “Well, you’re in it now, Maya,” I told myself, making a cup of tea.
My closest neighbor was a woman in her 60s named Mrs.
Harrington, who lived in an old house that had seen better days. The paint was peeling, the shutters hung askew, and the lawn was overgrown with weeds. “Maybe she’s just old and doesn’t have the energy to maintain the house?” my mother suggested over the phone.
“Yeah, maybe,” I replied. “Her house just looks a bit out of place.” But that wasn’t what caught my attention. What really intrigued me was the little shack about 20 feet away from Mrs.
Harrington’s house. It was small, barely more than a shed, with a rusty tin roof and walls that looked anything but stable. “Why would anyone have that?” I muttered as I sat on my couch, gazing out the window.
The more I wanted to sit down and write my collection of stories, the more I found myself obsessed with Mrs.
Harrington. Because it wasn’t the shack that was a mystery; it was the woman herself. From the moment I moved in, she had been distant, almost to the point of rudeness.
“I’m Maya,” I introduced myself on the first day while inspecting my new backyard. I expected her to at least say hello and introduce herself, but she avoided eye contact, dismissed any attempts at conversation, and made it clear that she wasn’t interested in neighborly chats. I only learned her name when I overheard one of the neighborhood kids calling her during his newspaper round.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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