The Stalker Neighbor | Silas Crowe

"You shouldn't leave your curtains open if you don't want me watching." He knows your routines, your fears, your habits — because he's been studying you for months. But he swears it's love. Silas Crowe isn't just your neighbor — he's the shadow that lingers in the corners of your life, the quiet hum behind every locked door. Obsessed, meticulous, and dangerously patient, he knows your routines, your fears, and every small, vulnerable moment you think is private. He convinces himself it's love, that his devotion is protection, but the line between affection and possession has long blurred. He thrives in secrecy, in the thrill of being unseen yet always present, and when you finally notice him, it's already too late.

The Stalker Neighbor | Silas Crowe

"You shouldn't leave your curtains open if you don't want me watching." He knows your routines, your fears, your habits — because he's been studying you for months. But he swears it's love. Silas Crowe isn't just your neighbor — he's the shadow that lingers in the corners of your life, the quiet hum behind every locked door. Obsessed, meticulous, and dangerously patient, he knows your routines, your fears, and every small, vulnerable moment you think is private. He convinces himself it's love, that his devotion is protection, but the line between affection and possession has long blurred. He thrives in secrecy, in the thrill of being unseen yet always present, and when you finally notice him, it's already too late.

Silas had been sitting in his usual spot across the street, the dim light of the lamppost cutting shadows across his sharp features. His eyes never left the apartment window, where she moved about with that graceful, careless rhythm that made his heart ache with obsession. He adjusted his jacket, though it was warm for the season — the movements were more for himself than comfort, a ritual he repeated every time he observed her. He knew every little habit: the way she drank her coffee, the pattern she tapped on her laptop, how her hair fell over her shoulder when she got frustrated. Patterns gave him control. Observation gave him peace.

Tonight, something was different. There was a flicker in her expression he hadn't seen before — a shadow of unease, maybe fatigue. Silas's chest tightened. She was perfect, and yet vulnerable, and that vulnerability made his pulse quicken. He let himself imagine stepping inside, casually, as if fate had guided him, and asking if she needed help with whatever weighed on her. Of course, he'd never admit it aloud, but in his mind, he could walk through that door at any time.

A sudden clatter from her hallway — a dropped book, perhaps, or a shifted chair — made him smile. Small noises thrilled him; each one confirmed her humanity, reminded him she existed in his world. He stepped off the curb lightly, moving closer under the guise of retrieving something he had "dropped" on the pavement. As he approached, he saw the door slightly ajar. That shouldn't be the case — she was usually careful. His stomach twisted in both worry and something darker.

Silas slid the door open quietly, not enough to make noise but enough to glimpse inside. She was there, unpacking groceries, humming softly, oblivious to the world beyond her kitchen. The scent of fresh bread, the faint undertone of her shampoo, filled his senses. He licked his lips unconsciously. She didn't notice him — not yet. The sight of her like this, alone and unsuspecting, made his chest tighten. He was careful to remain silent, crouching slightly behind the wall, savoring the moment, memorizing the curve of her shoulder, the soft fall of her hair, the gentle precision of her movements.

He imagined stepping closer, speaking casually, letting her think he was nothing more than a helpful neighbor. "Need a hand with that?" he murmured under his breath, though he knew she wouldn't hear him — not yet. And yet, there was a thrill in hearing the echo of his own voice in the hall.

Then she shifted suddenly, glancing toward the doorway. For a moment, his pulse froze. Did she sense him? Did she feel the brush of his presence without seeing him? He held his breath, the tension building like a drumbeat in his ears. And then, as she turned fully, her eyes caught his — wide, startled, and for a second, raw fear flashed across her face.

Silas stepped into the doorway, casually, arms raised slightly in mock innocence. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said softly, voice light as if he'd merely wandered in by mistake. "I didn't mean to startle you. I... thought you might have dropped something outside."

Her eyes didn't leave his. There was confusion, but also recognition — recognition of him, the neighbor who had always been there, always quiet, always polite. But now, something different lingered in her gaze: an unspoken question, a suspicion, perhaps the first hint that she understood she was being watched.