Neighbourhood Plot Twists Short Stories & Novels

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?”

As soon as my neighbor, Shirley Lambert, walked past my house and peeked inside, her eyes lit up. "Mrs. Fisher, this place is huge. It has great lighting too. It'd make the perfect playroom for my son. "You live alone anyway. Just move into our living room. A two-bedroom apartment has more than enough space. "Since we're neighbors, I'll let you stay for free. No rent." I felt so irritated that I nearly gagged. She actually shoved past me into the house and started pointing around like she owned the place. "This crappy couch has to go. The living room would feel way bigger without it. "Oh, and the whole floor needs carpeting. That'd make it safe for my son when he runs around. "Also, why don't you have an air-conditioner? What if my precious boy gets a heat stroke? Could you even afford his medical bills?" She suddenly turned around and glared at me. "Mrs. Fisher, I'm talking to you. Are you deaf? Haven't you got any manners?" Anyone who didn't know better would've thought I was her servant and not her neighbor. I snorted. Clearly, she had no idea about my reputation as the neighborhood menace. "Well, I see you've got plenty of money, and I've got deep pockets. Why don't you hand all your cash over to me for keeping? "And if you like other people's houses so much, I'll write that for you in my letter to Santa this Christmas!"

My wife, Sonya Slade, had to travel to a nearby city for a business meeting. Her car was in the shop for maintenance, so she had to take a bus. I hated to see her go through all that trouble, so I gave her a few hundred extra dollars for travel expenses. That afternoon, my recently divorced neighbor, Simon Hunt, posted a selfie with a caption. It read, "Thanks to someone for letting me ride shotgun. That little drive was just what I needed." My breath caught. The charm in the corner of the photo was the one I had hung in Sonya's car myself. I called Sonya to confront her, but she sounded annoyed. "I happened to run into Simon while he was out taking care of something. I just gave him a ride for part of the way. He even paid for the gas." I paused, then decided I was reading too much into it. Then my phone buzzed with a traffic violation notice. At the time she claimed to be meeting a client, her car was parked outside a hotel for couples.

Throughout my seven years of living in this residential area, I've been helping my neighbors receive their parcels and babysit their children no matter how sudden the requests are. All sorts of delivered goods have gone through my hands, be it tiny regular parcels, special deliveries containing raw seafood, or furniture and electrical appliances. My motto is that close-knitted neighbors are more dependable rather than my family, who lives very far away from me. That's why I never hesitate to lend a helping hand as long as the circumstances permit me to do so. In fact, I often deliver everyone's parcels to their units. But one day, Carmen Webber, a young woman who has just moved into the apartment, brings this topic up during a casual chit-chat with the other neighbors. "Nowadays, the parcel lockers and the parcel pickup points are very convenient to use. There's absolutely no need to specifically get someone to sign your parcels for you. Could it be that Hilary is using the guise of doing things for everyone just to make some quick bucks under the table? "After all, those who accept parcels on behalf of others tend to get paid. You guys must have slipped her some money every time you drop by her place to pick up your stuff, right? Imagine how lucrative business must be for her!" Carmen then shoots me a glance, mockery dripping from her tone. The neighbors just swap looks with each other. Then, they turn their suspicious gazes to me. That's when Carmen adds, "Next time, you can seek me out when you need someone to accept parcels and babysit children for you. I have a lot of free time on my hands, and I promise that I won't earn a single cent from you guys!" My heart goes stone cold when I listen to everyone else agreeing with Carmen. Over the past seven years, I'm the one paying for everything, be it opening my door in the middle of the night to accept a delivery, babysitting children for others, or making up for the lost packages and the spoiled seafood. Not only do I not earn a single cent, but I've also lost quite a huge amount of money. On top of that, many of my plans get delayed or rescheduled, too. Since Carmen wants to be the good Samaritan this badly, I might as well let her take over all these troublesome and thankless matters from now on.

Someone @'d me on Nextdoor. "Hey, penthouse girl. You're single. What do you need a whole rooftop garden for? My husband's throwing a party. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow." "Don't worry, we'll give you two hundred bucks a month for upkeep. You'll make a couple hundred for doing jack shit. You should be thrilled." I stared at the screen. It was a joke. I was Don Ricci's heir, groomed to run the South Side. But I traded that life for a paintbrush. This apartment was my sanctuary, my quiet place. That rooftop garden wasn't some building perk. It was mine. I'd paid half a million cash for the deed when I bought the place. I turned it into my sunroom studio. And now someone thinks they can have it for two hundred bucks a month? I replied with two words: "Dream on." I didn't expect the building manager and two security guards at my door the next day. Someone had filed a complaint about me "misusing community resources." And now, for the sake of "neighborly harmony," they were demanding my keys. Fine. They wanted to throw civility out the window? They were about to learn what real power felt like.

I receive a random WhatsApp message from Charlotte Ellis, a neighbor living downstairs, at 11:00 pm. "Olivia, do you drive to the city center every morning?" I've just gotten to know Charlotte, so I just reply, "Yes." Originally, I thought this is just small talk. But Charlotte is quick to send me a long audio message. "That's wonderful news! My husband is on a business trip lately, so I'm worried that I don't have anyone to send me to work! "From now on, you have to wait for me in your car at 8:00 am. Then, you can drop me off at my company." I frown immediately. "That's really inconvenient for me." My phone screen begins flickering all of a sudden. It turns out that Charlotte has started a voice call with me. "C'mon, Olivia! We're all neighbors here! So what if you have to make a detour of a few miles or so? Since you're sending me to work, I can help pass the time by chatting with you and alleviating your boredom! Besides, it'll be a waste of your front passenger seat, seeing as it's left empty and all!"

Ever since a couple moved in next door, I've become addicted to the thrill of peeping on them. Megan Steele's an aloof doctor during the day, and when night falls, she transforms into a vixen. She wears lace and wields a leather whip. Their moans and groans seep through the wall, and I let their ebb and flow gradually calm the heat burning inside me. The next morning, she slips a note into my hand. "Peeping is no fun. It's much more exciting to experience it yourself." That night, she knocks on my door and invites me to spend the night with her. I foolishly think love has fallen into my lap, only to realize that it's a honey trap engineered to put me behind bars.

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."

I am the only student in the entire nation to achieve a perfect score for my SATs this year. My high school has only just posted the list of top scorers on their notice board when the neighborhood's HOA group chat explodes in awe. "Did someone from our neighborhood just get full marks for the SATs? We're already a prestigious neighborhood close to the best high schools in town, and this news will only drive our property values up even more! We might even be able to rent for 1,500 dollars per square foot soon!" "I bet it must be one of those kids from the huge mansions. They've been attending the most elite boarding school since they were young." The HOA vice president, Karen Myers, then posts an announcement in the Emerald Green neighborhood group chat. "Reporters will be coming to interview us tomorrow. Please be mindful of your appearance." Mom digs out her old, faded shirt and looks at herself in the mirror. She smiles so hard that her forehead creases in smiling wrinkles. She awkwardly taps at her phone screen and posts in the group chat, "Thank you for your well-wishes, everyone!" One of the homeowners, Marianne Barnett, replies at once, "Isn't this Mrs. Marshall from the burrito stall? What the hell are you thanking us for?" "Yeah. Don't you feel any shame posting that? Delete that at once." Then, Karen calls us up, her tone filled with disgust. "The chairman of Bloomberg Finance will be visiting our neighborhood tomorrow to personally congratulate the top scorer. It's going to be a huge event. "But since you don't own any proper clothes other than those tattered rags, you'd better keep your filthy stall out of sight so you don't ruin our neighborhood's upscale image!" Mom hesitates. Then, she places her phone face down on the table and says nothing. I then receive a text message from Jonathan Bloomberg, the real estate tycoon who sponsored all of my studies. My finger hovers over the screen as I read his message. "Congratulations, Cathy! I'm bringing the entire board of directors to congratulate you in person tomorrow!"

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."

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.

After passing my veterinary licensing exam, I posted the news online to celebrate. My elderly neighbor, Gloria Vance, immediately fired off a string of messages. [Miles, my grandson's sick. Could you treat him?] [I'm really worried about the boy. He's had a fever for days now.] I slowly typed out a single: [?] Another message came through. [We're neighbors, after all. Just show a little compassion and save the child.] Trying to be kind, I wrote back, [Mrs. Vance, if your grandson's sick, you need to get him to a hospital right away. I can't treat him.] To my surprise, she fired back a voice message. "Aren't you studying medicine? What's the harm in taking a look at my grandson? How can a person be so stingy? "If you won't help, I'll report you to your university and have them expel a student with character as rotten as yours!" I was floored. I study veterinary medicine. How am I supposed to treat a human child?

There's a little shop downstairs that sells organ soup. It's always packed with customers. People line up as if bewitched, eager for a bowl. I've often wondered what secret ingredient made their soup so irresistible. This afternoon, I finally found my answer. Floating in my bowl was a piece of human skin—inked with a tattoo I knew all too well. It was the one etched on my boyfriend's arm.

The day after I moved into my new place, I baked a batch of my best brownies and went to introduce myself to the neighbor downstairs. As soon as she opened the door, a middle-aged woman gave me a long look before shouting into the apartment. "Honey, come here! This is the girl who was tap-dancing upstairs at three in the morning!" I froze. "There must be a mistake. I worked late last night. I didn't even come home." She pulled out her phone and showed me the residents' group chat. "Everyone's talking about it. Someone said they saw you dancing around your living room in red high heels. Building management has already come upstairs three times!" I was so angry my hands were shaking. I was ready to call the police and ask them to check the security cameras. Before I could, my boyfriend caught my arm. "Just let it go," he said. "We just moved in. If we get on her bad side, it'll only make life harder. Just say you're sorry and move on." I looked at his face. He had that same scared, anything-to-keep-the-peace look. Perfect. We hadn't even had our housewarming party yet, and I already had the worst combination possible—a nightmare neighbor and a cowardly boyfriend.

One week after moving into my new home, my neighbor, Penny Halpern, suddenly knocks on my door and claims that my son, Benedict Geller, has been spying on her daughter, Monica Ritter, when the latter is bathing. "I saw everything with my own eyes! Every day, he'd cling to the windowsill and spy on me when I'm bathing! He even took pictures of me with a camera! "I'm so scared! Who knows what he's doing with those pictures? That boy really is disgusting!" Penny and Monica threaten me to call the police on Benedict if I don't pay them soon. Feeling rather puzzled, I just kick them out of my apartment. Unexpectedly, Penny summons all the neighbors in the residential area over to my place the next day. They all gather outside my door and begin insulting us at the top of their lungs. "Hey, pervert! Get out here and apologize to the victim!" "Take that perverted son of yours and leave this place! We want peace to be returned to our neighborhood!" When I tune the neighbors out, they begin smashing everything they can see at my front door. So, I can only call the police. When the police arrive, I bring Benedict out of the apartment before taking his sunglasses off. "Officer, I'd like to ask just how can my son spy on others, in this case?"

"Why is it always you? Where the hell is the owner of this place?" Sophie Miller, the woman who'd just moved in next door, saw me covered in dirt and assumed I was the hired help, paid to watch the house. She held a public fundraiser just to humiliate me and forced me into a maid's uniform to serve her guests. She even brought in a bulldozer to knock down the wall and flatten the rare flowers I'd spent four years growing. All so she could take over my yard for a private party. They thought the owner of this estate, worth more than a hundred million dollars, was far away in Europe. Her husband was desperate to impress the sole heir to a ten-billion-dollar empire. They had no idea who she was. She was standing right in front of them, wiping the dirt off her hands.

After I moved into my new apartment, my neighbor, Bianca Ferraro, started showing up at my door every evening for a free meal. I lived alone and always cooked more than I needed. For the sake of keeping the peace, I did not mind sharing. That changed one workday at 3:00 am, when someone pounded on my door and yelled, "Open up! My boyfriend's waiting at the bar downstairs. Make me a cheese platter and open a bottle of red wine. I need to bring it down." I opened the door, still half-asleep, and stared at Bianca standing in the hallway. "You're serious?" She rolled her eyes. "Don't act like it's such a big deal. It won't even take you that long." My temples throbbed. "I'm not your personal chef. Why would I make you food at 3:00 am?" Instead of apologizing, she crossed her arms and scoffed. "No wonder you're still single. You can't even do someone a small favor. What guy would put up with someone like you? “My boyfriend's the most powerful mafia boss around here. One phone call from me and you won't be living on this street anymore." Well. She clearly had no idea that I was the Principessa of this city's most powerful mafia family. Never mind the apartment, the entire street belonged to me.

A patient was dying in the ER when my neighbor offered to drive me to the hospital. But the second we hit the highway, she slammed on the brakes and slowed the car to ten miles an hour. I begged her to go faster. Every second could cost that patient their life. She sneered, “In such a hurry to see your lover? Don’t play dumb. I know you’ve been seducing my husband behind my back! “I called him twenty times, and he never picked up. His location is right beside your hospital! “Then I’ll drive as slowly as I want. I’ll make sure you two adulterers suffer every inch of the way.” But when we reached the hospital and she saw who the patient was, she dropped to her knees before me and smashed her forehead bloody.

To escape my father's constant matchmaking, I moved into Westbridge Towers in Ashford, Franklin, a building my family developed. After I agreed to pick up an elderly neighbor's grandson from preschool once, she began telling everyone that I was the child's father. "He abandoned my daughter after getting her pregnant, and now he regrets it. "Yesterday he even volunteered to pick up his son because he wants to make amends." Furious, I posted footage from the camera outside my door to expose the lie. "You begged me to pick up the boy. How did that become proof that I fathered him? "I've barely met your daughter. The child can't possibly be mine. Spread one more lie and I'll call the police." The old woman glared at me and knocked the phone from my hand with her cane. "Marrying my daughter would be the best thing that ever happened to you. The property manager is practically family. "Don't be ungrateful. One word from me, and you'll be thrown out of this building." The entire building belongs to my family, and she still thinks she can evict me?

The first day we moved into our new place, the girl next door, who lived alone, came over with red-rimmed eyes and begged my son to fix the broken water heater in her room. In my previous life, I felt sorry for her, so young and already without parents, so I sent my son over to help. That night her room caught fire. She stumbled out and sobbed to everyone who'd listen. "Her son tried to rape me, and when he couldn't, he set the fire to burn me alive and silence me!" The day the verdict came down, my son's bright future as a pilot was destroyed in an instant, and he became a murderer the whole internet spat on. In prison, my son couldn't take the torture and the bullying, and he ended his own life by throwing himself against a wall. To pay off the debts, I worked three jobs, until one night a heart attack dropped me dead on the street. She, meanwhile, played the fire survivor and launched a crowdfunding campaign, raised three hundred thousand dollars, and paid cash for an apartment downtown. Now, living this life all over again, the girl stood there with red eyes, her voice small and timid. "Ma'am, I'm scared of electricity. Could your son help me out?" I pulled my son back inside, my face blank. "There's a repair number on the wall. The service call is twenty-five dollars."