Plot Twists Imagination Short Stories & Neighbourhood Novels

I'm a cheapskate, so I decide to rent a haunted apartment at a low price. On the first night of moving into said apartment, the taps turn on by themselves. I yell angrily at the empty apartment, "You'd better pay the water bill, then!" The water stops flowing immediately. It has me thinking that this is the beginning of a long, arduous battle between humans and the supernatural… Unexpectedly, I see a piping hot meal on the dining table the next day.

My new next-door neighbour was a total hottie. He fixed my plumbing and brought over baked goods, basically the perfect gentleman. However, I could see a bright red stat hanging over his head. Malice Level: 1,111 It could only mean he was out to get me. One night, he snapped my stalker’s wrist, and red digits reset to zero. Somehow, his murder meter turned into a pink possessiveness score of 9,999+. He wiped the blood off his hand, his tone eerily gentle. “Who gave you the right to touch my prey?”

I am a real estate agent. For the past three years, I have been the top seller in the industry. It is not because I am a smooth talker; it is because I can hear houses speak. The houses will chatter about a hollow wall, a leaking pipe, or a window with a bad seal. During move-out inspections, I point out exactly what tenants try to hide. When showing a place to renters, I warn them about hidden red flags. I have been doing this so long that both sides treat me like family. Then, one Friday, a regular client, Eleanor Wilson, shows up. "Devan, the tenants at the Eastmere place are moving out." Eleanor is in her 60s. Her husband is long gone, and she lives off the rental income. She is a sweet soul. She charges 20% below market rate and even makes cookies for her tenants during the holidays. The couple moving out this time is Henry Johnson and his wife. They run a fruit stand at the local market and have a six-year-old daughter, Lea Johnson. "Lea is missing," Eleanor says, her eyes welling with tears. "She vanished outside the market last month. Just like that, in the blink of an eye. Henry and his wife have been searching for a month. They're worn out and broke. They just can't take it anymore." A heaviness settles in my chest at her words. I grab the keys and head out with her. Eleanor gasps for air with every flight of stairs we climb. I walk ahead of her. The moment I slide the key into the lock of Apartment 602, the doorknob vibrates violently against my palm. A second later, I dial 911. "I want to report a case of murder. There's a hidden body on the sixth floor of 18 Montclair Heights, Eastmere. The victim is their daughter."

The woman who just moved into our building has had her packages stolen seven times by the older women in our building. Instead of calling the police, she sets up a thank-you raffle box in the lobby and leaves a sweet little voice message in the residents' group chat. "Dear neighbors, put even a single scrap of paper in the box, and I guarantee one wish will come true!" At first, everyone thinks the thefts have pushed her over the edge. Then Mrs. Bell tosses in a handful of rotten vegetables and somehow gets a new condo. Mr. Porter spits into the box, and his bedridden wife miraculously gets up and walks. Suddenly, every resident is scrambling to stuff the box with junk. My mother refuses to be left out. She grabs a reeking bag of kitchen scraps and makes a run for the lobby. When I try to stop her, she points at me and screams, "You're trying to rob us of our future! I don't have a selfish daughter like you!" The neighbors turn on me, too. They accuse me of wanting to keep all the good fortune for myself, of being so spiteful I can't stand to see ordinary people get ahead. I look at the greed in my mother's eyes. And then I smile. I get up, hold the door open for her, and even add two old shirts to her bag. "Go on, Mom. Wish for a fortune big enough for your happy family of four."