A Killer Among Us

I never thought I would have to fear for my life in this quiet suburban neighborhood. I moved here two years ago, after a messy divorce, looking for a fresh start. I liked the friendly faces, the manicured lawns, the sense of community. I felt safe and welcomed.

But everything changed when the new neighbor moved in next door. His name was Mark, and he seemed like a nice guy at first. He was polite, charming, and always had a smile on his face. He helped me carry my groceries once, and invited me over for a barbecue another time. He said he was a freelance writer, working on his first novel. He said he had moved here from the city, looking for some peace and quiet.

I didn't think much of him until I started noticing some strange things. He always kept his curtains closed, even during the day. He rarely left his house, except to get his mail or take out his trash. He never had any visitors, except for a delivery guy who brought him pizza every Friday night. He always wore sunglasses, even when it was cloudy. And he had a weird habit of humming to himself, a tuneless melody that made my skin crawl.

But the worst thing was the smell. A foul odor wafted from his house every now and then, like something rotting. I tried to ignore it, thinking it was just his garbage or something. But one night, I couldn't take it anymore. I decided to confront him about it.

I knocked on his door, holding my nose. He opened it after a few seconds, wearing his sunglasses and his fake smile.

"Hi there, neighbor," he said cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"

"Hi Mark," I said nervously. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I have to ask you something."

"Sure, anything," he said.

"Well, it's about the smell," I said.

He frowned slightly. "The smell?"

"Yes, the smell," I repeated. "It's coming from your house, and it's really bad. It's like something died in there."

He laughed nervously. "Oh, that smell," he said. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. It's just some old books I have in the basement. They're moldy and musty, you know how it is."

He smiled again, but I could see he was lying. His eyes darted around nervously behind his sunglasses.

"Old books?" I asked skeptically.

"Yes, old books," he confirmed.

"Can I see them?" I asked.

He hesitated. "See them?"

"Yes, see them," I insisted. "If they're just old books, you shouldn't mind showing them to me."

He looked uncomfortable. "Well, actually," he said slowly. "I can't show them to you right now."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because they're... they're locked up," he said.

"Locked up?" I asked.

"Yes, locked up," he repeated.

"Why are they locked up?" I asked.

He sighed. "Look, neighbor," he said impatiently. "It's none of your business what I have in my basement. It's my private property, and you have no right to invade my privacy."

He tried to close the door on me, but I stopped him with my foot.

"Wait a minute," I said angrily. "You can't just brush me off like that. There's something fishy going on here, and I want to know what it is."

He pushed against the door harder, but I held my ground.

"Get out of here," he snapped. "Or I'll call the police."

"Go ahead," I challenged him. "Call them. Maybe they'll find out what you're hiding in there."

He stopped pushing and stared at me with a cold glare.

"You don't want to mess with me," he warned me.

"Oh yeah?" I said defiantly. "Why not? What are you afraid of?"

He leaned closer to me and whispered in my ear.

"I'm afraid of nothing," he said softly.

And then he clamped his teeth on my earlobe and tore it off with a savage jerk.