Chapter 03: “It’s us, your neighbors!”

Jeff spent most of the morning driving aimlessly through the city, the El Camino devouring gas as if it had something to prove. It wasn’t about the destination—there wasn’t one. He just needed to put distance between himself and the eerie stillness of Cornice Place. The silence clung to him like damp clothing, refusing to let go, no matter how fast he drove or how loud the engine roared.

By mid-afternoon, Jeff found himself back at the apartment complex. The parking lot was as lifeless as it had been earlier. The same weather-beaten sedans and rust-riddled pickups were parked in their identical positions, like props on an abandoned stage. The El Camino’s glossy black paint stood out even more against the backdrop of faded metal and cracked asphalt.

As he stepped out, a faint metallic scent tickled his nose, mingled with the chemical sharpness of industrial cleaning supplies. It was the kind of smell that lingered in hospitals or after violent crimes—sterile but unsettling. Jeff paused, frowning, before shaking it off and making his way toward the gate.

The iron gate screeched shut behind him, the sound ringing in the unnatural quiet. Jeff scanned the courtyard, half-expecting something to be out of place. The crooked birdbath, the rusting benches, the patchy grass—all still there. But it felt different, like a photo that had been retouched so subtly you couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong, only that something was.

He climbed the stairs, boots echoing off the stucco walls, and unlocked his door. The apartment was as he’d left it—silent, cold, and immaculate to the point of being unnatural. Jeff lingered in the doorway, scanning the room like a detective surveying a crime scene. The furniture sat in perfect alignment, the sailboat print hung straight, and the air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner.

Yet, something was wrong.

The knock at the door came so suddenly that Jeff flinched, his heart skipping a beat. Swearing under his breath, he set his keys on the counter and opened the door.

Standing on the walkway were two people—a man and a woman, both smiling with an enthusiasm that felt just shy of sincere. The man was tall and gangly, with glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose and hair that looked like it had been styled by a strong gust of wind. The woman was petite, her dark, cropped hair framing a nervous smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hey there!” the man said, his voice unnervingly cheerful. He extended a hand. “I’m Martin. This is Zoe. We’re your neighbors.”

Jeff hesitated before shaking Martin’s hand, his grip firm and brief. “Jeff,” he said, his tone guarded. “Nice to meet you.”

Zoe offered a small wave, her fingers twitching slightly. “We just wanted to stop by and introduce ourselves,” she said, her voice softer, almost timid. “You know, be neighborly.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jeff replied, scratching the back of his neck. His social instincts, rusty as they were, told him something about this encounter wasn’t quite right.

“So,” Martin began, leaning casually against the doorframe, “how are you liking Cornice Place so far?”

Jeff shrugged, his eyes narrowing. “It’s quiet.”

Martin chuckled, the sound a little too loud for the moment. “Yeah, it’s definitely that. Some folks find it a little too quiet, if you know what I mean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeff asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

Zoe shifted uncomfortably, her eyes darting to Martin before returning to Jeff. “Oh, nothing,” she said quickly. “Just that it takes some getting used to. The quiet, I mean.”

“Right,” Jeff said, his skepticism growing.

Martin clapped his hands together. “Anyway, if you ever need anything, we’re just down the hall in 213. Don’t be a stranger.”

Jeff watched as they walked away, their cheerful chatter fading as they turned the corner. He closed the door, leaning against it with a sigh. Something about Martin’s easy demeanor and Zoe’s jittery energy didn’t sit right with him. They were too friendly. Too… rehearsed.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of restless boredom. Jeff tried to drown his unease in imports and daytime television, but the apartment’s suffocating quiet seemed to seep into his bones. Even the TV’s blaring laugh track felt hollow, as if it couldn’t quite fill the void.

By evening, Jeff couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed a jacket and headed out, determined to walk off the oppressive tension.

The hallway was dimly lit, the flickering bulbs casting erratic shadows on the beige walls. Jeff’s boots thudded against the concrete, the sound oddly muffled, as if the building itself were absorbing the noise. Every few feet, he passed one of the signs bolted to the wall:

REMEMBER TO BE NICE.

The words seemed to loom larger in the dim light, their black lettering almost accusatory. Jeff stopped in front of one, running his fingers over the cold metal surface. His touch lingered, searching for the faint scratches he’d seen earlier. But this sign was flawless, unmarked.

Jeff moved on, his unease growing with every step. The farther he walked, the more the silence pressed against him, like an invisible weight bearing down on his shoulders. When he reached the courtyard, he spotted Martin and Zoe sitting on one of the benches. Their heads were close together, their voices low and conspiratorial.

Jeff considered joining them but decided against it. He wasn’t in the mood for more forced cheerfulness. Instead, he wandered over to the birdbath. Up close, it looked worse than he’d realized. The basin was cracked, the water inside dark and stagnant. A few dead leaves floated on the surface, their edges curling like withered fingers.

Jeff’s gaze drifted to the building, his eyes tracing the rows of identical windows and balconies. Something about the symmetry was unnerving, too precise, too perfect. It reminded him of a crime scene staged to look natural but failing in subtle, telltale ways.

“You’re losing it,” Jeff muttered, taking a long swig of beer.

But even as he said it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

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