Chilling tales for the restless night

Mr. steele

Every day, either before or after school, I find myself drawn to the window, peeking through the blinds to watch Mr. Steele.

There's an eerie pull about him, something that tugs at your attention but not in the way you'd expect. Mr. Steele is my neighbor, and while the rest of the town seems captivated by him, I find him unsettling. Not fascinating, but dark-ominous in a way that makes you shiver when his shadow passes by.

He's a striking man, no doubt about that. Tall, fit, and always with a self-assured stride that turns heads wherever he goes. He's in his forties, single, and perpetually the helpful neighbor. Broken fences? He's there. A lost dog? He'll find it. And with just a flash of that charming smile, he's won over the entire neighborhood. The men respect him, the women fall under his spell-whether married or not-and even the kids follow him around as if he's some local legend.

But I can't see it. I can't understand what everyone finds so admirable, so trustworthy.

Shelby, my best friend and next-door neighbor, is completely obsessed. She's always going on about how she's going to "seduce him." And she's only seventeen. I'm one year younger, and while I love Shelby, I like to think I know better than to fall for his act.

I remember one day, coming home from school, and there he was-Mr. Steele, in his usual spot. He was tending to his rose garden like clockwork, carefully pruning the blooms, his hands almost tender as they worked through the thorns. It was a ritual of his-he'd always tend his garden after hosting guests. But the strangest part? Those guests would never be seen again.

He'd have them over, sometimes for a dinner or an evening drink, but one or two weeks later... gone. No one seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn't care. My mom would brush it off as a coincidence, the way people move in and out of each other's lives. But it felt wrong.

It wasn't just the disappearing guests that haunted me. Ever since Mr. Steele moved into the neighborhood three years ago, a shadow had fallen over our town. People began disappearing-children, men, women. One by one, they vanished without a trace, like whispers carried away by the wind. The police would search, but there was never a clue, never a lead to follow.

No one connected the dots. Except for me.

My mother always told me to stop spying on Mr. Steele, that I had an overactive imagination. But I couldn't help it. Something about him-something hidden beneath that perfect smile and charming demeanor-compelled me to keep watching. I had to know who he really was, what he was hiding behind those cold, dark eyes.

Because in my gut, I knew Mr. Steele wasn't just any neighbor. He was something else. Something far more dangerous than anyone could imagine.

One very late night, sleep evaded me.
Restless, I picked up a book, hoping the words would lull me into a drowsy state.
The quiet of the house settled around me, broken only by the rustling of pages, until-a scream.
I froze.
It wasn't distant or muffled by the walls of other homes. No, it was sharp, raw, and close. I hurried to my window, heart pounding, and heard it again-this time unmistakably coming from Mr. Steele's house.
My instincts screamed at me to leave it alone, but curiosity pulled harder. I had to investigate.

In the dead of night, with only the moonlight to guide me, I slipped out of my house, careful not to make a sound.

The air was cold against my skin, the silence around me almost unbearable, heightening every rustle of leaves and creak of floorboards. Slowly, I crept towards his house, my breath hitching in my throat as I reached his window.
Peeking through the small gap in his curtains, I saw him.

There was Mr. Steele, standing in his kitchen, but something was terribly wrong. His face-his hands, his clothes
-were all stained with blood. I had to stifle a gasp, my body frozen in fear. I crouched lower, not daring to move, afraid he might notice me lurking just outside his window.