My neighbor is up to something: I know it. It took me awhile to notice anything was wrong--after all, we live in a nice neighborhood away from the city in an area described as "upper middle class". But as time went by odd little patterns began to emerge... For one thing, he's never at block parties. For another, the guy won't even talk to me, other than a curt nod or a quick "hello". And sure, one could argue that he's anti-social or that he doesn't like me (despite the fact that I go out of my way to be friendly to everyone), but that wouldn't explain the time I caught him staring at me with binoculars through the window. Or how I've noticed him following me when I go to work or to the grocery store. I've tried to convince myself I'm being paranoid...but last week I'm positive he broke in while I was gone. I’d only been out for fifteen minutes when I realized I'd left my jacket, so I turned the car around to go pick it up. When I stepped inside, though...look, I'm not saying anything was out of place. Something just felt off. Plus, there was a scuff mark near the back door that I know wasn’t there. Confronting him would be the wrong move...which is why I’ll wait until I see him pull out of the driveway, then sneak into his backyard and slip in through the back door. It's locked, but if I do find anything, then a broken door will be the least of my worries. Walking into his living room, I see I was right. It's the house of someone clearly unstable...pictures everywhere, most of them people's faces with large X's slashed in red. The rest are all of me: cooking, stuck at a red light, wiping sweat off my face in the garden. I swallow. Some of these pictures were taken last year--months before he moved in. Keys rattle in the lock as I hear noises by the front door. I look outside and see his car in the driveway; how’d I not hear him drive up!? Panicking, I jump through the first door available (which turns out to be a closet) as my neighbor walks in and shuts the door. Footsteps in the hall as he gets closer to my hiding place. And then he opens the closet. Whatever he expected to find, my naked body clutching a butcher knife clearly wasn’t one of them. A scream escapes his lips before blood spills from his mouth, my knife plunging again and again and again into his body. Finally, after what feels like ages (but is only twelve minutes), I compose myself and begin cleaning up. How this man managed to track me down, let alone how he knew about all my victims, would have to come later. Picking up his feet to drag him away, though, I smile: I knew he had been up to something.