This happened in the fall of 2021 when I was living alone in a rented townhouse in southern Illinois.

It was my first time ever living by myself, and even though I was technically in adults,

27, with a full-time job and a stable routine, I still had a lot of nerves about the idea.

I'd just gone through a rough breakup, and I thought the silence and solitude might help me process everything.

The townhouse was part of a small row of identical units, kind of plain but clean and quiet,

tucked away in a sleepy cul-de-sac just off a rural highway.

The neighborhood had that sterile suburban vibe.

Lots of beige vinyl siding, trimmed hedges, wind chimes, and mailboxes with family names

stenciled on them.

Mostly older folk, but a few young families.

I didn't know any of my neighbors well, but I liked it that way. I kept to myself. But almost

right away, I noticed one person who stood out from the rest. He lived three doors down, a tall,

heavy-set man, probably in his mid-forties, with a scruffy beard

and a weird habit of standing outside his house at night, sometimes just pacing or smoking,

sometimes doing nothing at all, just staring. I'd pull into my driveway after work around

nine or ten p.m. And there he'd be, leaning against his porch rail or just standing at the edge

of his driveway, facing the street. He never waved, never smiled. He just stared, even if I looked

directly at him. I tried to ignore it. A couple of times I mentioned it to friends or my mom,

and they said maybe he was just a night owl or had insomnia,

but there was something unsettling about him, like he was always watching but never participating.

It wasn't just that he was there, it was the stillness.

He didn't fidget or check his phone or shift his weight.

...