Neighbors’ Whispers and the Bunker’s Shadow
Rose knew she needed to talk to the neighbors. This time, she left the cake at home, bringing only her notebook and blurry screenshots from the camera. She knocked on Mia and Jake’s door.
Mia opened it, eyes wide, then relaxed when she saw Rose, stepping aside to let her in. The living room was cozy—pillows piled on the couch, an unfinished puzzle on the coffee table. Jake looked up from fixing the coffee maker, frowning when he saw the photos. “This from last night?”
“3:07 a.m.,” Rose said, her voice dry as sandpaper. “I saw something move. I can’t tell what it is.”
Mia handed her a glass of warm water, her fingers brushing Rose’s cold hand. “You look exhausted.”
Rose spilled everything—the milk carton, the spoon, the handprint, the cold spots—her voice cracking like a broken vase by the end. Mia and Jake exchanged a look, and Jake leaned forward, his voice low. “Rose, the guy who lived here before—Glenn Matthews—he was… different.”
For two hours, Rose listened, stunned. Glenn had been a recluse, always in faded overalls, never at block parties, never answering his door. But at night, the neighborhood heard hammering, drilling—“like he was building a prison in his basement.” Once, the neighbors had confronted him. He’d thrown open the door, eyes red-rimmed, screaming, “The world’s ending! You’re all gonna die! Leave me alone!”