Horror

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 0 views

Every morning at 7:15, the man in the yellow house across the street waved at Delia through his kitchen window, and every morning she waved back, the way you do with a neighbor you've never actually spoken to. It took her three months to realize the wave never varied — same hand, same height, same three-second hold — and another month to realize the yellow house had been condemned and empty since before she moved in, its windows boarded from the inside, not the outside, in a way she hadn't thought to question until she finally looked closely enough. She stopped waving back. The wave didn't stop. It simply moved, the following week, to the window of her own kitchen, reflected in the glass from somewhere behind her, at 7:15 exactly, the same three-second hold, in a house with no yellow house left across the street to have sent it from at all.