MY ELDERLY NEIGHBOR VISITED AN OLD CABIN EVERY DAY AT THE SAME TIME — I NEARLY FAINTED WHEN I CHECKED INSIDE ONE DAY.
I just moved into a new neighborhood, and my closest neighbor is a 65-year-old woman. She lives in an old house with a shabby shack about 20 feet away. She’s super secretive and totally brushes me off when I try to chat.
But here’s the weird part: every day at 9 a.m.
and 9 p.m., she heads to that shack with some bags, spends about 20 minutes there, and then heads back. One time I tried to approach the shack, but she came running out, screaming, “STAY AWAY! I’LL CALL THE COPS!” Alright, I backed off.
Curiosity got the best of me, so I decided to check it out at night.
When I got to the shack, I found a big lock on the door. But then I spotted a small gap in the wooden door. I peered through it and almost passed out.
With my flashlight, I saw that on the floor was lying a ⬇️
**Maya decides to move away from the city, settling in a quiet neighborhood just outside the hustle and bustle. When she arrives, she plans to embrace a peaceful life, but soon that tranquility is disrupted when she notices that the woman across the road is up to something.**
When I relocated to the outskirts of the city, I was seeking peace.
After 32 years of city noise, suffocating crowds, and the endless chase for more, I was done. I craved quiet and serenity—a place where I could breathe and just sit down to write all the stories waiting to burst forth from me.
So, I found a charming little house on the edge of a small neighborhood. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and time seemed to slow down.
But what I got was something entirely different. “Well, you’re in it now, Maya,” I told myself, making a cup of tea.
My closest neighbor was a woman in her 60s named Mrs.
Harrington, who lived in an old house that had seen better days. The paint was peeling, the shutters hung askew, and the lawn was overgrown with weeds. “Maybe she’s just old and doesn’t have the energy to maintain the house?” my mother suggested over the phone.
“Yeah, maybe,” I replied. “Her house just looks a bit out of place.” But that wasn’t what caught my attention. What really intrigued me was the little shack about 20 feet away from Mrs.
Harrington’s house. It was small, barely more than a shed, with a rusty tin roof and walls that looked anything but stable. “Why would anyone have that?” I muttered as I sat on my couch, gazing out the window.
The more I wanted to sit down and write my collection of stories, the more I found myself obsessed with Mrs.
Harrington. Because it wasn’t the shack that was a mystery; it was the woman herself. From the moment I moved in, she had been distant, almost to the point of rudeness.
“I’m Maya,” I introduced myself on the first day while inspecting my new backyard. I expected her to at least say hello and introduce herself, but she avoided eye contact, dismissed any attempts at conversation, and made it clear that she wasn’t interested in neighborly chats. I only learned her name when I overheard one of the neighborhood kids calling her during his newspaper round.
Yet, the strangest thing about her was her routine.
Every day, like clockwork, the old woman would head to that shack at 9 a.m. and again at 9 p.m. She always carried two shopping bags and would disappear into the shack for about 20 minutes before returning to her house.
“What are you doing in there, Mrs. Harrington?” I asked myself from the living room. “What’s in there?
Who’s in there?” Suddenly, I became a detective trying to uncover the secrets of the woman next door. I couldn’t figure out what she was doing in there. Was she storing something?
Hiding something?
For three days, I watched her from my window, my curiosity only intensifying. What could be so important? One afternoon, I decided to find out for myself.
I waited until I saw her step outside with her bags, then casually strolled over, pretending to be out for a walk. But the moment old Mrs. Harrington saw me approaching the shack, she bolted out the door, her eyes wide with fury.
“Stay away!
I’ll call the cops!” she screamed, her voice high-pitched and frantic. I stopped dead in my tracks. Despite my wild imagination, I hadn’t anticipated that kind of reaction.
“I’m sorry!” I stammered.
“I just—”
“Just what? Stay away from here! Mind your own business, girl!” she yelled.
“Okay, I’m going!” I replied.
“I didn’t mean to intrude, ma’am.” She glared at me until I turned around and walked back to my house, feeling her eyes boring into my back the whole way. What was in that shack that she was so desperate to keep secret?
“I’m not giving up,” I declared as I stepped inside my home. “I will find out what’s in there.” I tried to brush it off, telling myself it was none of my business.
But over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about the shack. I tossed and turned at night, trying to understand what could possibly be inside. The way Mrs.
Harrington screamed at me, the panic in her eyes, just didn’t sit right.
I needed to know what she was hiding. One night, after I saw her make her usual 9 p.m. trip to the shack, I decided it was time to investigate again.
I waited until I was sure she was back inside her house and all the lights were off before slipping out of my front door.
“Why are you being so stupid, Maya?” I scolded myself as I walked down the driveway. “You could have just let it go.” When I reached the shack, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before—a large padlock on the door. Whatever was inside, Mrs.
Harrington was determined to keep it secure. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a small gap in the wooden door, just big enough to peek through. I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat.
“Come on, Maya, it’s not too late to run away,” I muttered.
But of course, I was too stubborn to back down. At first, I couldn’t quite make out what I was seeing. The interior was dark, but as my eyes adjusted, I nearly fainted at the sight before me.
Inside the shack were dogs—about a dozen of them. Some were lying down, others curled up in corners, and a few were pacing restlessly.
“Oh, you poor babies,” I said, horrified. They were all different breeds, shapes, and sizes, but they all looked weary and thin.
“What the hell?” I exclaimed. What was going on here? Was she hoarding these animals?
Were they being mistreated? I didn’t think—I just acted.
I started pulling at the lock, trying to force it open. “Hang on, I’ll get you all out!” I said.
But the lock wouldn’t budge, so I began banging on the door with my fists, hoping to break it down.
Suddenly, a light flicked on inside Mrs. Harrington’s house. I froze, realizing too late that I’d woken her up.
Seconds later, I heard her front door slam open, and her footsteps hurried across the lawn.
“What are you doing?” she shouted, her voice piercing through the night. “Get away!”
“What am I doing? What are you doing keeping all these dogs here?
Locked up like this? This is cruelty! I’m calling the police!”
Mrs.
Harrington reached me, her breath hot against my face. But instead of the anger I expected, I saw something else in her eyes—desperation. “No, please,” she pleaded, grabbing my arm.
“You don’t understand. Calm down, and I’ll tell you.”
“Calm down? You’re keeping animals locked up in there!
How can I calm down?”
“It’s not what you think, Maya,” she insisted. “Please, just listen.”
“You have two minutes,” I said. “And then I’m calling the police.”
“I’m not hurting them,” she said.
“I’m saving them. I’m feeding them.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“I take in strays,” she explained. “These dogs are here because I’ve found them abandoned or mistreated.
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