This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Obvious-Secretary151 on 2024-11-23 15:19:11+00:00.
It started with the newcomers.
A family—a mother, father, and two children—moved into the old house at the end of Maple Street a month ago. It was the kind of house that everyone avoided. People whispered about the strange disappearances that had occurred there over the years, the odd lights seen flickering in the windows long after the place had been abandoned. But when the family moved in, the rumors stopped. The house was suddenly normal again, and the neighborhood sighed in relief.
At least, that’s how it seemed.
The family—Robert, Claire, and their children, Sarah and Lucas—seemed perfect. Robert was tall, athletic, and friendly, always willing to chat with the neighbors. Claire was quiet but kind, with a way of making you feel at ease. The children were well-behaved, polite, and always on their best manners. They didn’t act like normal kids. They didn’t play loudly or run around. They were always together, and always a little too quiet.
I first noticed it when I walked past their house one evening. Sarah, the older girl, was standing by the fence, staring into the street. Her eyes were wide open, unblinking, as if she was watching something far in the distance. I waved, but she didn’t react. I felt a shiver run down my spine, but I brushed it off. It was just the oddness of a new neighbor.
But over the next few weeks, the unease didn’t go away. It grew.
The family was always together. Robert and Claire never seemed to go anywhere without their kids. They were always in the yard, always walking to the park, always... perfect. But something was wrong. Robert never seemed to sleep. I’d often see him sitting outside, staring at the stars for hours, his eyes unblinking, his posture rigid. It was unsettling.
And Claire—she never seemed to make eye contact in a normal way. Her smile always felt a little too wide, her expression a little too calm. I remember seeing her in the grocery store once, walking down the aisle, and for a moment, I could have sworn she wasn’t even looking at the shelves. Her gaze was fixed on something far beyond what was right in front of her.
The kids, too, were strange. They never laughed or argued like typical children. They played, but it was always in perfect synchronization—swinging on the swings together, pacing around the yard, but never a sound. It was almost like they were doing it out of habit, like puppets pulling at invisible strings.
One evening, I walked by their house again, and this time, I saw Sarah standing in the same spot by the fence, staring at me. But she wasn’t just looking at me. She was watching me. Her eyes seemed to follow my every movement, and I felt a chill crawl up my back.
When I turned to look away, I heard her voice, soft, barely a whisper, "You don't get it, do you?”
I froze, heart racing. I turned back quickly, but she was gone. There was no one in the yard.
It was then I realized that something wasn’t right. Something had always been wrong with them. But I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
The days dragged on. I tried to talk to Sophie, my wife, about the family, but she just shrugged it off. “You’re overthinking it, honey,” she said. “They’re just new neighbors.”
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly off. Every time I saw them, I felt watched—like something was waiting for me to notice. The longer they stayed, the more unnerving it became.
Then, one night, I had a visit.
It was late, past midnight, when I heard the knock at my door. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and Sophie was still working late. I hesitated for a moment, but curiosity won out. I opened the door, and there stood Claire, holding a basket of freshly baked bread.
“I thought you might like some,” she said, her voice too smooth, too soft. “It’s homemade.”
I smiled, trying to hide my unease. “Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”
She handed me the basket, and I noticed her eyes—too calm, too intense. I looked down at the bread in my hands, feeling a strange pressure in the air.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, almost without thinking.
Claire tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving mine. “Yes,” she said softly, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Everything is perfect.”
There was an awkward silence, and I forced myself to look away. “Thanks again. I’ll let you get back inside,” I said quickly, trying to close the door.
But she didn’t move. Her smile didn’t falter. “We’ve been watching you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
I froze. My heart hammered in my chest. Watching me?
Before I could say anything else, she stepped back into the shadows, disappearing into the darkness. I closed the door and locked it immediately. My hands were shaking as I stood there, the basket still in my hands.
What the hell did she mean, “we’ve been watching you”?
The next day, I went over to the house to confront Claire. I needed answers. But when I knocked on the door, there was no answer. I tried again, but the house remained silent. I peeked through the window, but the blinds were drawn.
That was when I noticed something strange: the windows weren’t just dark. They were empty. No furniture, no signs of life—nothing.
I stepped back, confused, my pulse racing. Where had they gone?
I tried to shake off the creeping dread that was crawling up my spine. But when I turned to leave, I heard it—the sound of someone whispering, just behind me. I spun around, but there was no one there. Only the empty house staring back at me.
The next morning, I woke up to find a message on my phone. No caller ID, just a text:
“You’re part of the game now. Come and find us.”
My blood ran cold.
I tried to call Sophie, but she didn’t pick up. I ran outside, panicked, and looked toward the house at the end of the street. It was still empty. But something was wrong. The air felt heavy, and I could feel it—they were watching me.
Just then, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, expecting to see Sophie or a neighbor, but instead, there was nothing. Just the stillness of the street.
Then, the whisper came again, but this time it was louder, clearer:
“You should have never asked.”
I spun around, heart pounding in my chest. But the street was empty. The house was empty. And yet, I knew—they were still out there. Watching, waiting.
And I was part of their game now.