Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The neighbor you'd like to kill

Episode Date: April 20, 2022

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Fan of soccer, you could assist a moment historic. You could get any of the final of the Cup of the World of the FIFA 2006 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Inscribe you at BMO.com bar-oblique concourse. The reglements of the concourse is a little too hard. I look over at him, but he's not paying attention to me. He's looking across the street at Mrs. Courtney, who stands next to one of the flower beds in front of her house.

I'd really like to kill that bitch, Tom says through a smile. He's looking right at Mrs. Courtney, who looks back and waves. Tom and I each raise our free hand, waving back. I bring my beer up and take a swig as Mrs. Courtney goes back to talking loudly to the Hispanic man, working in her flower bed. She's one of those people who thinks talking loudly will make a little. those who don't speak English suddenly understand what she's saying. The best part is, I know the Hispanic man. He's a born American, and he speaks English as well as anyone. She is pretty annoying,

I say, disinterested. Tom turns to look at me. Well, what about it? You want to help me kill her this purge? I laugh half-heartedly, avoiding Tom's gaze. I'm just kidding, man. He's says, slapping me on the back so hard I spill my beer. I don't have it in me to purge. I'm too lazy. Tom laughs and then sips at his beer. Tom lives next door to me, and I somehow let myself get sucked into this daily habit of having beers with him in the yard. The first time he came over, Tom brought the beers. Maybe the second time, if I remember correctly. But since then, I've been the one supplying the bruise. Even if I don't really like standing on my front lawn and people watching, even if I don't really enjoy Tom's company,

even if I have better things to do. A couple of times I tried to avoid the little drinking session, Tom got defensive and made me feel guilty about skipping out on him. He's good at that. But there are other things too, like the little jab about killing Mrs. Courtney. I think there's a nugget of truth in everything he says. I finished my beer and crushed the can. hoping this sound will make Tom realize I'm done, and it's time to go home. It doesn't. He still stands there, looking around at our neighbors, thinking about God knows what. Well, I say, then clear my throat.

That's it for me. I'll see you, Tom. You're done already? He says, a whiny tone in his voice. Yeah, dinner will be ready soon. Time flies, huh? Tom says. Sure.

I turn, heading over to my open garage to throw my can in the recycling bin, before heading inside to close the door. Hey, Dennis? Tom says from behind me. I can tell by his tone that he's about to ask me for something. What's up, Tom? I ask, turning around. You mind if I borrow your edger?

The edges of my lawn are looking pretty hairy. Don't you still have my power saw, Tom? I ask. thinking that it always takes him several weeks to get borrowed tools back to me. Do I? I don't think so. I think you do, Tom. I've been putting projects off because I don't have it. All right, well, I'll tell you what.

Let me borrow the edger, and I'll get them both back to you by the end of the day tomorrow. I don't know, Tom. I'd feel better if you brought back the power saw. I don't like to loan out more than one tool at a time. I say. Oh, come on, Dennis, Tom says, stepping closer to me. Remember that the purge is coming up. You wouldn't want to make your neighbors mad, would you?

Who knows what they'd do? I look into Tom's fleshy, middle-aged face, waiting for him to laugh and tell me he's joking. But his gray-green eyes hold on mine for a moment that stretches into two. There's certainly a humor in those eyes, and his crow's feet are bunched up as if he's smiling without his mouth. But it strikes me as a dark, dangerous type of humor. Finally, Tom bursts out laughing.

He reaches out and grabs my shoulder shaking me. I had you going there, didn't I? You're just too damn gullible, Dennis. It's too easy. I smile. You got me, I say. I turn around and toss my beer can and the blue recycling bin next to the garage.

I feel a ripple of anger at his behavior. But there's also an intense fear there, under the surface. Tom hasn't even been living in the neighborhood for a full year. He moved in about a month after last year's purge. For all I know, he's one of the sickos that takes pride in murdering people one night a year. I'm about halfway into my garage when I hear footsteps behind me. Turning, I see Tom lifting the edger off the rack on the wall where I keep my landscaping equipment. He looks over at me and smiles, lifting the tool up in one hand.

Thanks, buddy, he says. I'll get this back to you in a couple of days. I open my mouth to object, to point out that he said he'd return it tomorrow, but he's already walking away. What a prick, I say, hitting the button to close the garage door. Sandy, my wife, is in the kitchen, eating up leftovers from the night before. I grab a glass and fill it with water to wash down the beer. How was that?

She asks, as she usually does after my little sessions with Tom. I roll my eyes. That guy is something else. You want to switch? Sandy says. I'll deal with Tom. You deal with Kathleen. I think about that for a moment, smiling.

I don't know. She seems just like as much of a handful as her husband. She caught me as I was getting home today, Sandy says. Stopped me in the street in front of their house. and kept me there for a good five minutes with her in-name talk. They're perfect for each other, I say. Oh, and I'm starting to think that they're purgers. I perk up at this, curious.

What makes you say that? Just some things she was talking about, Sandy says. Nothing concrete, but little things about how the purge saved our country. You know, that line of crap. Yeah, I say. Tom's the same way. Only he makes these terrible jokes about it. Like he's threatening me, but he plays it off as a joke.

Sandy stops stirring the reheated rice and looks at me. Is he really joking? She asks, dead serious. Honestly, I don't know, I say. It wouldn't surprise me if they were perjures. It really wouldn't, Sandy says. Please tell me you're joking. You said this year would be different.

You promised me. Hey, hey, it's okay. I say, stepping over to embrace my wife. It's okay. It will be different. We'll be safe and secure, okay? I promise. But what if they attack us?

What if they attack our daughter? How do you know they won't? How do you know, Dennis? Sandy, listen to me. It's okay. We're going to be okay. I've never let anything happen to us during any other purge, have I? No.

No, you haven't. Right. It's going to be fun. What's going to be fine? Melissa, our 13-year-old daughter, says as she comes in from the living room. What's wrong with mom? Nothing, baby, I say. I'm okay, honey, Sandy says, wiping her eyes. I'm okay. You guys are worried about the purge again? Melissa asks. No, Melissa, we're not worried, I say. Everything will be fine. I keep an eye on Tom as the next few days pass, and March 21st approaches. Instead of trying to avoid our little beer sessions, I use them to try and feel out Tom.

Having no luck, I decide to ask him straight up as we drink our beers on the evening of March 20th. So, do you purge Tom? I ask, as nonchalantly as possible. Tom looks over at me, but I keep my eyes on the street, like I asked him who he liked better for a college basketball game. Don't you know, Dennis? he says. You're not supposed to ask that. It's like asking how much money I make, or how often I have sex with Kathleen, which is a lot, by the way. He chuckles and elbows me.

I have to clench my jaw to keep from exploding on him, telling him to stop touching me with his goddamn elbow. It's a typical Tom non-answer, and it only makes things clearer to me. I bet the guy moves once every year after the purge. I bet he picks a new neighborhood where everyone feels safe and gets close to one neighbor, and I bet he studies the house and finds the best way to break in come seven o'clock on purge night. I bet he kills that neighbor and his family and kills any other neighbors he can. I bet he steals their stuff and picks up and moves after that. He's going around, making a career out of the purge, and no one can touch him,

because it's illegal for 12 hours, starting on March 21st at 7 p.m. Our conversation turns to other things, but my thoughts are only on the next day. It seems so clear to me now what Tom is. The only thing left to think about is how I'll make sure he can't hurt my family. At 6.45 on March 21st, I ring Tom's doorbell. He was nowhere to be found for our evening beers, and it only solidified for me the fact that he was inside his house, repairing for the purge, planning on killing my family.

Who is it? A muffled voice calls from behind the door. I can tell it's Tom. Tom, it's me, Dennis. Sorry to bother you so close to seven, but I need that power saw back. I've got to board up some windows, so I need that saw to cut the wood. Sorry, Dennis, but we don't let anyone into the house on Purge Night, he says. He doesn't want to let me in, because he's probably already all decked out in his purge gear,

ready to go in his murder spree. Tom, come on, you've had my saw for over a month now. I need it back. Besides, it's not even seven. It'll just take a minute, and I'll be out of your head. hair with plenty of time. There's silence from the other side of the door. Tom's thinking, this is about my family's safety, Tom, I say, please. Okay, he says, meet me at the garage. Thank you, Tom. I walk past Tom's boarded up front windows and around the side of his garage. I expect him to open up

the main door, but he doesn't. I hear him call out from the side of the building. Over here, he says. I walk around and see that he's using the little side door. He's standing there just inside the doorway, leaning out. He has the power saw in one hand. I can tell that he's dressed in normal clothes. Maybe he took his armor and other gear off as he went from the front door to the garage. Can't be too careful on Purge night, buddy, he says as I walk up to him. Sure, I say, reaching my left hand out to grab the saw. With my right hand, I pull a short knife out of my back pocket. Instead of grabbing the saw, I grab Tom's wrist and pull him toward me as I bring the blade up, jamming it under his chin. Tom's eyes go wide as he gags, coughing up blood through

his nostrils. I shove him back into the garage, pulling the knife out of his chin, and stabbing him in the chest several times. You don't threaten my family, son of a bitch, I say, sticking him again and again. His legs give way and he crumbles to the ground, staring up at me in surprise. Don't you look at me like that, you sick of. you were planning to do the same to me. A step away from him as his blood seeps out onto the concrete floor. I try the door from the garage to the house, but find it locked. A quick look around the garage yields me a sledgehammer.

My sledgehammer, in fact, loaned to Tom months ago and never returned. That anger ripples inside of me, and I can't help but smash Tom's facing with the hammer, reveling in the satisfaction it gives me. Then I head back to the door and, with two hits, of the sledgehammer, I busted open. Kathleen, who had apparently come to investigate the noise, spots me and turns to run, screaming.

I drop the sledgehammer and get my knife back out. I catch Kathleen on the stairs, stabbing her in the back of the leg. She's a fighter, and she knocks the knife out of my hand, which then falls down the stairs, so I have to use my hands, smashing her head into the banister until she stops moving. Once I'm sure she's dead,

I head back down the stairs and retrieve my knife. There's a clock hanging by the stairwell. It reads 655. The purge starts in five minutes. But no one will ever know that I jump the gun a little bit. They'll never be able to prove it. Tom and Kathleen will be just another couple of casualties from this year's purge. I call my wife and tell her that everything's going to be okay.

I tell her to keep the house buttoned up until I come back. Luckily, ours is a safe neighborhood. I don't expect much violence in the area. But in five minutes I'll start moving all the jewelry and anything expensive into one central area so I can take it across to my house. Then, if anyone sees me, they'll just assume it all happened after seven. I haven't seen any evidence that Tom was getting ready to purge, but that doesn't matter. Maybe his plan was to wait until the early hours of the morning.

Twelve hours is a long time. Not everyone goes out right at seven. Either way, I feel a tremendous weight lifted off my shirt. shoulders. No more beer sessions. No more borrowing my tools. No more threats failed as dark jokes. No more Tom. While I wait for seven, I remember last year's purge. I remember the neighbors that lived in this house before Tom and Kathleen. They'd been purgers too. They would have killed my family given the chance. But that family, the Grayson's, had a couple of kids. So Sandy and I had to take care of them together to protect us, to keep our daughter safe.

But poor Sandy, she doesn't have the stomach for this stuff. I promised her she would never have to do that again. Besides, it's a man's job to protect his family, even if it means jumping the gun on the purge by a few minutes. After all, they say a good defense is a strong offense. Lazzang sur-gely, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo.

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