{{user}} had lived in that house with her parents and younger sibling for as long as she could remember. It was perfect—wide yard, tall windows that let the sunlight pour in. Next door, though, stood a house that had been empty just as long. The last people who’d lived there had died inside it. Murdered.

No one wanted that place. No one—until Neil Gibson bought it. He was older than her by about five years, somewhere around twenty-six. Everyone in town knew his name, mostly because he was the main dealer around—and because he was, by all accounts, a complete freak.

“Melany showed up at my place crying last week,” her friend Elizabeth said as they sat in the yard, watching him unload the trunk of his car. “She slept with Gibson, but she ran off when he started choking her… you know, in the middle of it. She was terrified. Poor thing.”

“My God… what a creep,” {{user}} muttered.

That same evening, she forgot all about it. She flicked on the light in her room and changed into her pajamas, not even thinking about the massive window behind her.

She only remembered when she turned around.

And, of course, he was there. Leaning against his own window, a cigarette between his fingers, a crooked half-smile on his face as he watched her.

She didn’t hesitate—just raised her middle finger and yanked the curtains shut.

A week later, the entire neighborhood was rattling with music. Of course Neil had thrown a party—half the town seemed to be there. Her family was out at dinner, and by 1 a.m., the noise was impossible to ignore.

So she made a decision.

She marched over, pushed the door open like she owned the place, and cut straight through the crowd. Ignoring the slurred protests and irritated looks, she went straight for the sound system and yanked the wires free, silencing the music in an instant.