For three years, my neighbor lived behind closed doors, her reclusive behavior piquing curiosity and suspicion. She had a child no one had ever seen, and the day I glimpsed through her window, the truth unraveled my world.
Something about Nelly had always felt off. Since moving in heavily pregnant, she’d barely been outside except for short trips to check the mail or grab groceries. Strangely, despite three years passing, no one had seen her baby—not once.
I tried to shake my unease. “You’re overthinking it, Martha,” I muttered, rinsing the dishes. Yet, the uneasiness lingered.
Later that evening, sitting on the porch with my husband Evan, I watched our boys play soccer in the yard. The sunset bathed everything in warm hues, but the nagging sense of something amiss with Nelly persisted.
“Evan,” I began hesitantly, “have you noticed anything unusual about our neighbor?”
He looked up from his drink. “Nelly? What about her?”
“She’s so withdrawn. I tried chatting with her at the store last week, and she nearly ran off.”
He chuckled. “Not everyone’s a social butterfly, hon. Maybe she’s just private.”
“But her child—no one’s seen the baby in three years. Isn’t that odd?”
Evan shrugged, brushing it off. “Some parents are protective. Let it go.”
I nodded, trying to convince myself he was right. Yet, that night, as I glanced at Nelly’s curtained windows, a flicker of movement caught my eye. A child’s face appeared, then vanished before I could react.
The next day, I spotted Nelly in her garden and decided to reach out. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” I called cheerfully. She froze, eyes wide with alarm, before bolting inside and slamming the door. My friendly attempt had clearly rattled her.
Later, I shared my unease with Mrs. Freddie, the nosy yet kind older neighbor who lived nearby. She was intrigued, dismissing Nelly’s reaction as a challenge to her Southern hospitality. Determined to uncover the truth, Mrs. Freddie baked a pie and marched to Nelly’s door.
From my window, I watched as Nelly barely cracked the door open before snapping, “Go away!” and slamming it shut. Mrs. Freddie stormed back, pie in hand and frustration written all over her face.
“Something’s not right,” she fumed. “Mark my words, Martha. That woman is hiding something.”
