I want to say this all started a few nights ago, but it really started about this time last year.
There’s a dirt trail that runs down behind a line of row homes in my housing complex that I like taking when I walk my dog, Jack, at night. He’s a bit nervous around strangers, and since it isn’t very well lit I don’t typically run into anyone. This time of year it’s perpetually damp, and smells like the dead leaves that line it.
The fences that separate the trail from the yards of each home are hardly higher than my waist at their lowest, and maybe shoulder height at their highest. Mine’s about half-way between each extreme. I hate it. I prefer more privacy, but I guess the folks that have lived here for a while don’t mind, or at the very least haven’t cared enough to replace them.
When I first took the route I felt pretty nosy, but between the low fences and the lack of light you really can’t help but sneak a peek through the lit windows and glass patio doors. I wouldn’t say peering into the lives of my neighbors is something I am proud of, even if my curiosity was purely innocent. It’s not like I was some perverted voyeur trying to catch some skin, but being labeled the neighborhood’s peeping tom if someone ever caught me would’ve been tough to come back from.
Truthfully, the worry of being seen far outweighed my guilt for looking, but even so, the more I walked the trail at night, the more I forgot about all that, and the more I watched. Over time, each window became a silent vignette. Sometimes I’d linger a bit longer, as though waiting for Jack to finish his business, if something or someone piqued my interest.
For example, there’s a single mother that would build these fun little pillow forts with her two kids from time to time. It reminded me of home, made me feel a bit nostalgic. Then there’s this one young couple that seemed to constantly get into pretty heated arguments, which always dissolved into tears, followed by making out and disappearing further into their home, presumably to “work out their issues”. Their record is twenty-seven seconds from argument to embrace. I counted.
Most of the time it’s just folks following their typical routines. It’s true what they say about people being creatures of habit. The same neighbors would clean up their kitchens, settle on their couch, or head to bed around the same time night after night.
The last house that backed onto the trail belonged to an old widower. He’d almost never leave the place. During the day, a man, presumably his son or some other relative, came by with groceries and other things pretty frequently. The old man would always fall asleep in his worn down lazy-boy recliner with the lights off and the tv on, wearing the same old housecoat. Never doing anything interesting, just there, jaw slack and snoring away.
A few nights ago when I reached the end of the trail and looked into the old man’s window he was there again. Same old housecoat, same blue light from the tv. But he wasn’t in his old recliner. He stood stiff in the window, staring right back at me. Startled by Jack barking, I dropped my gaze. When I looked back the old man was still there.
Feeling uncomfortable, and convinced he’d probably just woken up and saw me moving along his fence, I tried to wave to make it less awkward. He didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t even blink. I took Jack home and tried to forget about it.
The next night, as I neared the entrance to the path, I thought about the old man and his eyes, wide open in the window. So what if he caught me out back? I hadn’t done anything wrong; I was just walking my dog. I felt ridiculous. Thinking I was clearly making a mountain out of a molehill, I pressed on.
Even so, I didn’t check in on any of the regular windows, still uneasy about the encounter with our friend at the end of the trail. Not one, that is, until the house of the couple. Their lights were on, but they weren’t fighting.
They were in the window. Watching.
Fuck that.
If this was some elaborate prank my neighbors were pulling, I wanted nothing to do with it.
Jack lagged behind at first, but at a yank of his leash he kept up with my pace. When we neared the end of the trail he whined, and I looked down to see him with his tail tucked under his ass. The old man was there again. Same old housecoat. Same tv lit windows. Watching.
And he wasn’t alone.
There they were, on the dirt trail and among the trees. The young couple, the single mom, her kids, and at least half a dozen of my neighbors. Not in their living rooms, or kitchens. Not in their windows. There, right in front of me. Watching. My heart leapt to my throat and thumped hard as I ran, pulling Jack along with me.
I hardly slept a wink. I couldn’t help but pace around and look out my windows to see if they had followed me. In the early hours, I gave up on the chance of getting any meaningful shut eye. I put on a pot of coffee, took a shower, and tried to get ready for work. No more skulking about the trail, I thought, lesson learned.
As I left to catch the bus I saw the old man’s maybe-son standing in the road in front of the house, and another man I recognized by the bus stop. Both still. Both facing me. I gave up on work and came home.
I don’t know what to think anymore. Maybe I’m losing it. I spent most of the day peeking out the windows and caught the couple on their porch, staring at my house. A few hours later, the woman next door stood at the end of my driveway. I stepped out.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She said nothing at all. I told her to get away from my house. She just stood there.
I let Jack out an hour ago.
He always comes running when I call, tail wagging, eager to be back inside.
But now, “Here Jack!” I’ll say, “C’mon boy!”. He won’t budge. He’s standing in the yard staring back at me, and I can’t bear to go fetch him.
I keep closing my blinds just to find them open again.
I’ve tried calling the police, my friends, my parents… I hear them pick up and get nothing but silence on the other end.
The neighbors are all out there, just beyond my windows, faces lit by the moon and skewed by shadows.
Motionless. Silent. Watching.