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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/solardrxpp1 on 2024-04-09 00:39:18.

My escape from my law firm job came in the form of a woman announcing her maternity leave at a bookstore, which gave me a chance to take her place. A chance to drown in the musty scent of old paper, get reacquainted with the sun, and lose myself in the comforting rhythm of turning pages. But the transition from law firm life to bookstore life, it seemed, would require a different kind of adjustment.

My first day working at the bookstore went pretty good. I manned the front desk, greeting customers and stamping receipts with a satisfying "thwack." But after a while, the thrill of a new job wore off, and the dull ache in my feet began to throb. I shifted my weight, trying to find a comfortable position, when the bell above the door chimed.

A wave of relief washed over me as I looked up. There, standing in a huddle, were the Petersons – the kind, quiet couple with three rambunctious kids. They lived directly across the street from me in my neighborhood. Seeing them felt like a warm breeze on a chilly day.

Mrs. Peterson, a woman whose smile could light up a room, beamed at me first.

"Well, hello there!" she exclaimed, her voice laced with surprise. "What a surprise to see you here!"

“Hey Mrs. Peterson! It’s good to see you and your family, what can I do for y’all?”

She gave me a big smile and said, “I’ve been looking for a book written by Freida McFadden called The Inmate, and I was wondering if it was in stock?”

“Hm, I’m not entirely sure, but I can take a look for you!”

“That sounds good, thank you.”

I lifted my weight from the counter, the dull ache in my feet momentarily forgotten. Walking to the towering shelves, I scanned the rows for the alphabetical section. Finding the "F" section, I ran my finger along the spines, searching for the name "Freida McFadden." Relief washed over me as I finally spotted it – a medium paperback titled "The Inmate" nestled between a travel guide and a self-help book.

I grabbed the book and made my way back to the front desk. The Petersons were waiting, anticipation sparkling in Mrs. Peterson's eyes. With a dramatic "Ta-da!" I presented the book, holding it up next to my face with a wide grin. Mrs. Peterson let out a surprised laugh, the sound a little brittle at the edges.

“You scared me for a second there” she said, her gaze lingering a touch too long on the title.

I placed the book on the counter and scanned the barcode on the back of the soft-covered book. "$19.95," I said in my monotone professional-sounding voice. Mrs. Peterson handed me the money while her husband in the back, his eyebrows shooting up slightly as if surprised by the price, watched the exchange.

Our hands brushed slightly as she handed me the money, and it sent a shiver down my spine – her hands were cold.

"Thank you so much for the help!" she said.

Her family shuffled towards the door, their usual rambunctiousness replaced by a strange quiet. Then, as Mrs. Peterson reached the exit, she turned back, her gaze lingering on me for a beat too long. "See you around, neighbor," she said, a strange glint in her eyes.

The end of my shift consisted of me restocking shelves, dusting the spines of travel guides until they gleamed, and putting up colorful displays for the latest fantasy releases. At 9:00 PM, I was finally able to clock out.

Grabbing my keys, I made my way to the door, the silence of the bookstore a stark contrast to the usual daytime bustle. Opening the door, I stepped out into the cool night air.

My car, a dented but reliable Toyota Corolla, sat faithfully in the parking lot. Pulling on the handle, I inserted the keys and twisted and heard the familiar roar of the engine, a welcome sound.

Pulling into my driveway, exhaustion momentarily forgotten, I noticed a man across the street, perched on the Petersons' porch swing, his legs pumping back and forth in an unsettlingly rapid rhythm. An impossibly wide grin stretched across his face, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. He seemed far too awake and enthusiastic for the hour, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity.

What struck me odd was the absence of the Peterson's car in their driveway. It was empty except for this strange man perched on their porch swing, grinning like a jack-o'-lantern carved with a rusty butter knife. Maybe they'd finally moved out, and Mrs. Peterson just didn’t want me to know. But why so quickly and so suddenly? They'd lived there for years, their minivan a permanent fixture in the driveway. If they moved out, then where was this new smiling neighbor's car? Did he not have one? I wanted to ask him about all of this but something about his smile made me really uncomfortable.

As I fumbled with my house keys, his grin widened, and he gave a boisterous wave – a gesture that felt more like a challenge than a greeting.

I plastered on a forced smile, unlocked my front door and went inside. Tired after a long day at work, I took a hot shower that barely managed to wash away the chill that had settled beneath my skin.

Exhausted, I skipped dinner and collapsed into bed, the image of the grinning man on the Petersons' porch flickering behind my eyelids.

I woke up the next morning and relief flooded me as I remembered it was my day off – a whole day to myself to unwind.

Fueling up on cold coffee and stale crackers, I flicked on the TV, and as I was watching, I suddenly remembered the strange neighbor and his unnervingly wide smile. Springing up from the couch, I was drawn to the window in my bedroom, the one that offered a perfect line of sight to the Petersons' house across the street.

A glance out the window revealed the sun fully risen, casting a warm glow on the street. My attention was drawn back to the man across the street. He was back on the porch, that unsettling grin still stretched across his face.

A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. It wasn't the social awkwardness of being caught staring, but a deeper, more primal sense of disquiet. Like I'd witnessed something I shouldn't have, something that hinted at a darkness lurking beneath the surface. I offered a weak wave and a strained smile, completely embarrassed that I'd just been caught staring at him through my window.

He, his grin unwavering, waved back, then stood frozen, his gaze locked on me through my bedroom window. A shiver danced down my spine like a spider scuttling across my skin. Retreating further into the house, I pulled the curtains shut, the interaction leaving a foul taste in my mouth.

The whole day I stayed glued to the couch watching Netflix. Time seemed to warp and twist, the hours melting away faster than I could keep track. A glance at my phone jolted me – 8:00 PM already.

Just as I rose from the couch to get some real food, a sudden, loud pounding on the door shattered the silence. I jumped, startled by the unexpected noise, my heart hammering in my chest. Cautiously, I approached the door, peering through the peephole.

A flash of red and blue light flickered in the hallway, instantly twisting my gut with a sickening dread. With a trembling hand, I unlocked the door.

A stern-faced police officer stood on my doorstep, a sea of blue uniforms behind him, and a bright yellow crime scene tape, illuminated by the flashing squad cars, stretched around the perimeter of the Petersons' property.

Before I could even stammer a greeting, the officer spoke, his voice clipped and official.

"We're here concerning the residents across the street, the Petersons. Do you know when you last saw them?"

“I... I saw them a few days ago at the bookstore," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.

The next thing the officer said hit me like a punch to the face.

“We regret to inform you that the Petersons were found stabbed to death in their home.”

stabbed to death?

A chill ran down my spine, the image of the strange grinning man on their porch flashing in my mind. I swallowed hard, my voice barely a whisper.

“I saw a man on the Peterson's porch," I blurted out, the words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them.

The officer's brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“What man? We didn't find any other person there.

His words sent a jolt through me. Doubt gnawed at me, the memory of the unsettling grin vivid in my mind. I stammered, unsure of what else to say.

"I... I don't know," I mumbled, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over me. The officer sighed, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary.

“Look," he said, his voice softening slightly, "if you see anything suspicious, anything at all, please call this number." He handed me a card with a precinct phone number printed on it.

Before I could respond, he turned and walked back to the swarm of officers surrounding the Peterson's house, leaving me standing alone on my doorstep.

Who was that man? Was he connected to the Petersons' deaths?

Putting everything together made a horrifying kind of sense – the man I had been seeing must’ve murdered the Peterson’s and had been pretending to live there, and just recently, the man must’ve just moved on from the house and left. I have no way to prove this but, logic screams a horrifying truth.

Yesterday should have brought closure, but the guilt of not knowing more gnawed at me. The police investigation seemed to be at a standstill, they had no leads on who could be responsible, and I wasn’t able to get much sleep.

Needing a break, I decided to grab breakfast...

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