My quiet neighbor asked me to watch his cat, then he disappeared. Weeks later, when I found a key hidden inside the cat’s collar and a note instructing me to go to an apartment. What I found there made me call 911 — and accuse an innocent man of something unforgivable.
I lived in a quiet but friendly neighborhood. People didn’t just live here; they belonged here.
But Mr. White was different. He moved into the house across from mine three years ago. He looked to be about 50, maybe 10 years older than me.
On his first day, I decided to be the welcoming committee. I walked over with a loaf of banana bread and knocked on the door.
It creaked open just enough for him to stare at me like he’d just seen a ghost.
People didn’t just live here; they belonged here.
“Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Anna.”
He didn’t smile back. He mumbled a “thank you” so low I barely heard it, then he shut the door.
I knocked again. “Your banana bread!”
The door opened briefly enough for him to take the plate and smile awkwardly at me.
I never saw that plate again.
I figured he was just shy… extremely shy.
I never saw that plate again.
Still, I felt his presence. One day, soon after he moved in, I was planting white tulips when I felt like someone was watching me.
I looked up suddenly.
He was standing by his car, holding a grocery bag. His cat was weaving around his ankles.
When our eyes met, he lifted his hand in a stiff, awkward wave.
“Hi there! I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been meaning to ask your name.”
“My name? It’s… uh, tu-no… White!”
I felt like someone was watching me.
“White, or Tunowhite?”
“White.” He smiled awkwardly. “Just White.”
He turned on his heel then and hurried indoors.
That evening, as I dragged my empty trash bins up the driveway, a voice drifted across the street.
“Anna?”
I stopped. “Yes?”
A voice drifted across the street.
He walked to the very edge of his driveway. The cat followed him, sitting like a small sentry at his feet.
“You’re… Your garden. It looks nice.”
I let out a short laugh. “Thank you. It’s the only thing I can keep alive.”
A tiny smile touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. He scooped the cat up into his arms and hurried back inside.
Months turned into years, and Mr. White remained awkward and solitary.
A tiny smile touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared.
He was never rude to anyone, but he didn’t attend Fourth of July BBQs for longer than 15 minutes, and he just left a bowl of candy on his steps for Halloween.
Then came the day everything changed.
I was reading when a knock sounded at my door. When I opened it, Mr. White was standing there, looking more anxious than usual. A thin layer of sweat coated his forehead, and his skin was the color of old parchment.
Then came the day everything changed.
“I’m sorry to bother you this evening,” he said. “I have an urgent business trip. Would it be too much trouble for you to take care of my cat, Jasper, for a couple of days?”
I looked at his face. He seemed brittle. “Mr. White, is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes, everything’s fine. The trip is just… sudden.” He hung his head. “I’m worried no one will be able to look after Jasper.”
“Mr. White, is everything okay?”
“You don’t have family who can help?”
He took a slow breath. “No.”
My heart went out to him. I’d been adopted as a baby, and while I had family, they sometimes felt… distant. Besides, no matter how weird he was, nobody deserved to be that alone.
“Of course I’ll take him,” I said.
My heart went out to him.
The tension in his shoulders eased. “Thank you. Truly. This means a lot to me.”
A taxi pulled up to the curb behind him. He handed me a bag of cat food and Jasper’s carrier. Without another word, he climbed into the car.
I watched the taillights disappear around the corner, holding a confused cat, as a deep unease crept into my belly.
Three days passed. There was no sign of Mr. White.
A deep unease crept into my belly.
On the fourth day, I called the number he had given me for emergencies. It went straight to a generic voicemail.
“Hi, Mr. White. Just checking in,” I told the recording. “Jasper is doing great. Call me when you can.”
A week went by. Then two weeks.
Jasper wasn’t just a guest anymore; he was a roommate. He slept at the foot of my bed, but he wasn’t exactly settled. Every time I walked toward the front door, he would beat me there. He’d jump onto the windowsill and stare at the empty house across the street.
I called the number he had given me for emergencies.
“He wouldn’t leave you, Jasper,” I whispered one night while scratching his ears. “He’s coming back.”
But I didn’t believe it anymore. My gut was telling me something was wrong.
I called the police the next day. An officer came out, and I stood on the sidewalk while he walked through the house. He emerged a while later, looking troubled.