The Neighbor who never came out in daylight

 ‎I never believed in ghost stories.

‎Whenever people talked about haunted houses or cursed neighborhoods, I laughed. There was always a logical explanation for strange noises or unusual people.

‎At least, that's what I believed before I met my neighbor.

‎This happened three years ago after I moved into a small rental house on the edge of town. It was quiet, peaceful, and exactly what I needed after leaving the busy city.

‎The landlord gave me only one warning.

‎"Don't bother the man next door."

‎I smiled.

‎"Is he unfriendly?"

‎The landlord looked away before answering.

‎"He just... keeps to himself."

‎I didn't think much of it.

‎For the first few days, I unpacked boxes and settled into my new home. Every evening, around 8:00 p.m., I noticed the front door of the neighboring house slowly opening.

‎An elderly man dressed entirely in black would step outside.

‎He never looked around.

‎He never greeted anyone.

‎He simply stood on his porch for a few minutes before walking silently down the street.

‎Every single night.

‎At first, I thought he worked night shifts.

‎But then something strange caught my attention.

‎I had never seen him during the day.

‎Not once.

‎His curtains stayed closed.

‎His front yard remained untouched.

‎No visitors.

‎No deliveries.

‎No lights visible from the windows.

‎Only silence.

‎The other neighbors refused to talk about him.

‎Whenever I asked, they quickly changed the subject.

‎One woman even whispered, "Leave him alone if you value your sleep."

‎I laughed.

‎I wish I hadn't.

One Saturday morning, I decided to mow my lawn.

‎While working, my ball accidentally rolled into his yard.

‎It stopped right in front of his porch.

‎I walked over, picked it up, and noticed something odd.

‎The dust on the porch was thick.

‎No footprints.

‎Not even his.

‎Yet I watched him walk out every night.

‎I told myself I was imagining things.

‎That evening, curiosity got the better of me.

‎Instead of sleeping, I watched from my bedroom window.

‎At exactly 8:00 p.m., the front door opened.

‎The old man walked outside.

‎But this time, I noticed something impossible.

The porch lights were off.

‎The moon was hidden behind clouds.

‎Yet I could see him perfectly.

‎Almost as if he was glowing faintly in the darkness.

‎He slowly turned his head toward my window.

‎Our eyes met.

‎He smiled.

‎I closed the curtains immediately.

‎The next morning, there was a knock on my door.

‎No one was there.

Only a folded piece of paper.

‎It read:

‎**"Please stop watching me."**

‎I froze.

‎There was no way he could have known.

‎I hadn't told anyone.

‎From that day on, strange things started happening.

‎Every morning, I found muddy footprints leading to my front door.

‎They stopped at the entrance.

‎Never leaving.

‎Never returning.

‎At night, I heard footsteps circling my house.

‎Slow.

Heavy.

‎Patient.

‎Whenever I looked outside...

‎Nothing.

‎Weeks passed.

I stopped sleeping.

‎Dark circles formed under my eyes.

‎Friends told me I looked sick.

‎One evening, I gathered enough courage to knock on his door.

‎No answer.

‎The door wasn't locked.

I pushed it open.

‎The smell inside was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

‎Not rotten.

‎Not mold.

‎Just... old.

The furniture was covered in dust.

‎Spider webs hung from the ceiling.

‎Everything looked abandoned for years.

‎Then I found the calendar.

‎It was still open to **October 1998**.

‎The kitchen cupboards were empty.

No food.

No dishes.

‎No signs that anyone had lived there.

‎Only one photograph stood on a small table.

It showed the old man standing outside the same house.

‎Behind him were several neighbors smiling.

‎On the back of the photo, someone had written:

‎*"Farewell, Mr. Dlamini."*

‎The date underneath made my blood run cold.

**October 18, 1998.**

‎I heard footsteps behind me.

Very slow footsteps.

‎I turned around.

‎No one.

‎Then the front door slammed shut.

‎The house became completely silent.

I ran outside without looking back.

‎The next morning, I went to the local library and searched old newspaper archives.

There it was.

A small article.

‎**"Local Resident Found Dead in His Home After Living Alone."**

‎The photograph was unmistakable.

‎It was him.

‎The article was dated **1998**.

‎I couldn't breathe.

‎That night, I packed everything I owned.

‎Before leaving, I looked one last time toward the neighboring house.

At exactly 8:00 p.m., the front door opened.

‎The old man stepped outside.

He looked directly at me.

‎Then he raised one hand.

‎Not to wave goodbye.

‎To invite me closer.

‎I drove away and never returned.

‎Months later, curiosity made me search the property online.

‎The house was still standing.

‎Still empty.

‎But something caught my attention.

‎Every recent photograph showed the same figure standing behind the front window.

‎A man dressed entirely in black.

‎Watching.

‎Waiting.

‎The real question isn't whether ghosts exist.

‎It's whether some people ever truly leave the places they loved.

‎And if you ever move into a quiet neighborhood where everyone tells you not to bother the house next door...

‎Take their advice.

‎Some neighbors don't come out in daylight...

‎Because daylight no longer belongs to them.