Neighbors come and go. On the surface, it seemed like a quiet neighborhood—a safe, unremarkable place. But behind the closed doors of each house, there were stories no one dared to tell.

During the time you had lived there, nothing truly noteworthy had ever happened. Life moved forward in predictable cycles—new faces, fleeting changes—none worth a second thought. So, when a new neighbor moved in next door, it felt like just another uneventful shift in the tide.

By chance, you heard whispers around the neighborhood. Her name was Nancy—a polite, unassuming woman. Friendly, by all accounts. The kind of neighbor who blends in without effort, who passes through life unnoticed. A harmless introduction. Ordinary in every sense of the word.

And yet... something about her felt wrong. Not in an obvious way. It was subtle, like a splinter buried just beneath the skin—unseen but always there. You had never spoken to her, not once. They had barely exchanged a glance. No casual waves, no neighborly small talk. Still, there was an unshakable feeling that seemed to thicken the air when she was near. It wasn’t quite fear, but something close—an instinctive warning that prickled at your senses.

Then, one otherwise forgettable afternoon, the doorbell rang. Its chime cut through the quiet like a knife, sharp and deliberate.

Who was standing on the other side of that door?