The Neighbours Next Door
1167 Words
Maya stood at the kitchen sink the next morning, sipping coffee as the sun filtered through the frosted glass window above the sink. The air was crisp again—unusually so for October. She watched as a gust of wind blew a pile of dead leaves across her lawn. The street was quiet, still bathed in the sleepy stillness of early morning.
The rumble of an engine broke the silence. She turned her head just in time to see Helen’s garage door open. Greg, her husband, emerged in their dented black SUV and backed out of the driveway. The car made a clunking sound—likely from years of neglect. Greg gave a half-wave toward the house as he drove off. Helen didn’t come out to see him off.
Maya narrowed her eyes slightly. It wasn’t strange for neighbors to have their own lives. But something about the way Helen always knew what was going on in everyone else’s home—yet never offered a window into her own—had always put Maya on edge.
As if summoned by thought alone, Helen appeared on her front porch, robe wrapped tightly around her thin frame, a steaming mug in her hand. She spotted Maya in the window and lifted the mug with a smile that felt too wide for so early in the morning.
Maya forced herself to smile back and offered a quick wave before stepping away from the window. Her heart ticked a little faster. She didn’t know why she always had this reaction—it wasn’t like Helen had ever done anything wrong, per se. But the woman had a way of inserting herself into everything that made Maya feel like she was always being watched.
Ethan came into the kitchen, still drying his hair with a towel. “You’re up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Maya said, sliding onto a stool. “I kept hearing the wind.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing out the window. “Pretty wild for this time of year.”
“Greg just left. I think he works mornings.”
“Mm-hmm. Helen still staring you down from the porch like the queen of the neighborhood?”
Maya smirked. “Pretty much.”
Ethan poured himself coffee. “I honestly don’t get what she wants. One day she wants playdates, the next day she acts like we’re beneath her. She’s…strange.”
“That’s putting it politely.”
Maya remembered the first time Helen had introduced herself. They had just moved in, boxes still stacked high in every room. Helen had appeared with a tray of brownies and an endless list of personal questions. How many bedrooms? Where did Ethan work? Were Maya’s parents wealthy? Did they have family nearby? At the time, it seemed like nosy small talk. But over the years, the pattern had grown more disturbing.
Helen was always watching. She knew when Maya had grocery deliveries, when the plumber came, even when the kids were home sick from school. And her kids—Michael and Sarah—were as strange as their mother. Sarah was quiet and withdrawn, often staring blankly at Lily without speaking. Michael had a mean streak, once pushing Caleb off a swing during a barbecue and laughing when he cried.
After the incident, Maya had gently distanced the families. It was easier to say no to playdates, easier to avoid conversations. But Helen never let it go. She always lingered on the edge of things, like a cat watching from the shadows, waiting to pounce.
Later that afternoon, Maya was outside stacking firewood on the side of the house when she heard the familiar creak of the fence gate.
“Maya!” Helen’s voice rang out.
Maya stifled a sigh and turned around. Helen walked over, still in the same fuzzy robe, her face untouched by makeup, but her eyes—those sharp, pale blue eyes—seemed fully alert.
“Hi,” Maya said, dusting her hands.
Helen smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Maya replied.
“I saw your car was out this morning. Big plans?”
“Just errands and lunch with the in-laws.”
“Oh, how nice.” Helen’s gaze drifted to the wood pile. “Prepping for a cold winter?”
Maya hesitated. “Something like that.”
“I’ve been telling Greg we need to be better about stocking up. You never know these days. People laugh, but I say better paranoid than frozen.”
Maya forced a chuckle. “Exactly.”
Helen stepped a little closer. “You ever wonder about this street? All these cookie-cutter homes, but every family’s hiding something. I mean, take Mr. Collins three houses down. He hasn’t left his house in weeks. Weeks! And Mrs. Landry? I swear I saw her bury something in her garden at night.”
Maya shifted her weight uncomfortably. “I guess everyone’s got their quirks.”
Helen tilted her head. “You ever explore your basement?”
Maya blinked. “Uh…what?”
“I read that some of these houses—built in the ‘50s—have weird foundations. Trapdoors, secret storage. Fallout shelter style. You’d be amazed what people used to hide underground.”
Maya’s stomach turned. “We haven’t looked much. Just boxes and old paint cans down there.”
Helen’s gaze lingered on her a moment too long. Then she smiled again. “Well, if you ever want help cleaning it out, let me know. I’m good with old spaces.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Maya said coolly.
With a nod, Helen turned and strolled back to her house. Maya watched her go, goosebumps rising on her arms despite the mild afternoon air.
That night, after the kids were asleep, Maya sat on the couch with Ethan, curled under a blanket.
“Do you think Helen’s dangerous?” she asked suddenly.
Ethan paused. “Dangerous how?”
“I don’t know. Just…something about her is off. She came over earlier talking about trapdoors and fallout shelters. It creeped me out.”
Ethan ran a hand over his face. “You’ve been watching too many true crime documentaries.”
“I’m serious, Ethan.”
He looked at her, then softened. “Okay. Maybe she is strange. But that doesn’t mean she’s dangerous. Maybe just lonely. Or bored.”
Maya wanted to believe that. But something deep in her gut warned otherwise. Helen wasn’t just bored. She was calculating. Watching. Waiting.
And Maya had no idea what she was waiting for.
As she lay in bed that night, a gust of wind rattled the windows. A faint creak echoed from somewhere beneath the floor. Maya’s eyes shot open.
She didn’t know it yet, but the house—her house—was keeping secrets. Secrets that Helen might already know.
And the storm, both inside and outside their walls, was only just beginning.
- Writer
