The kids next door had always been unusually quiet—until they started building a treehouse. At first, it seemed like harmless fun. But then, strange noises filled the night, sparking my curiosity. When I finally decided to investigate, what I found left me deeply unsettled.
After living in the same peaceful neighborhood for 55 years, I’ve grown accustomed to keeping an eye on things. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but with the routine of crosswords and soap operas, a little curiosity isn’t the worst thing. When the Fogg family moved in two years ago, I was hopeful they’d bring a bit of excitement to my otherwise uneventful days.
Mr. and Mrs. Fogg were remarkably ordinary, bordering on dull. But their children, Lucas, 12, and Mia, 9, were anything but typical. These kids were oddly silent. I never heard laughter, arguments, or even casual conversation. It was as if they were ghosts, quietly moving through their days.
One afternoon, I decided to break the ice. Strolling to the fence with a smile, I cheerfully said, “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Lucas and Mia froze, staring at me with wide eyes before running back into their house without saying a word.
“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” I muttered. I had no idea how much stranger things were about to get.
A few weeks later, I saw Lucas and Mia dragging wooden planks across the backyard. “Frank,” I called to my husband, “come look! The Fogg kids are building something.”
Frank wandered over, glancing out the window. “Looks like a treehouse. Maybe it’ll help them open up a bit.”
I agreed, but something about it seemed odd. For two years, these kids had barely left the house, and now they were constructing a treehouse, seemingly without any help? It didn’t sit right with me.
The treehouse went up faster than two kids alone should have been able to manage, and I never once saw their parents involved. One evening, I tried making conversation again as Lucas was hammering away.
“That’s quite the project you’ve got there!” I called out.
Lucas stopped, turned to look at me with a cold stare, then went back to work without a word. I felt a shiver despite the warm summer air.
“Frank, don’t you think there’s something off about those kids?” I asked that night.
Frank barely looked up from his paper. “Annette, they’re just quiet. Not every kid’s a chatterbox.”
But I couldn’t shake the feeling. That’s when the noises started. It began with late-night hammering, then came strange scraping sounds, dragging, and faint whispers too low to understand but too eerie to ignore.
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