Every night, I walked through the house with the lights off. It was a ritual I started when I turned eighteen and was living alone for the first time. Too many movies and podcasts about true crime and murder to not make sure I was locking all the doors and windows before I went to sleep. It quickly became a habit and I couldn’t stop walking through the house.
The years had gone by and I soon found myself walking the house all hours of the night when I couldn’t sleep. I soon realized I knew all the sleeping habits of all my neighbors – I knew what time they went to sleep, what time they woke up, who got newspapers and who didn’t. After a few weeks of watching my neighbors, I realized I was becoming obsessed. I wanted to know everything about them. Every single detail.
As my insomnia increased so did my obsessive watching of the neighbors. The nights went by and my boredom increased as everything on our quiet street stayed the same. All until the last night of April. It was the first night the van drove down the street. It continued for the next three nights until I finally picked up the phone to call the police. When the van parked in front of my house, I paused. The doors slowly opened and I choked back a scream. Then men all had guns and the leader looked a lot like my estranged father.