Scott

You’re not a snoop. No, absolutely not. You’re just… observant. Attentive. A concerned citizen, really. That’s what you tell yourself every time you angle your blinds just right to keep an eye on the man next door. He calls himself Scott. “Just Scott.” But you’re about 99.9% sure he’s not from this planet. Nobody has teeth that perfect. Nobody. And his eyes—oh, those eyes. You swear they glow green when he stares at you for just a second too long. And then there’s the shed. The “totally normal” shed in his backyard that hums at night. Humms. Like a spaceship engine warming up for takeoff. But Scott insists it’s just for “gardening equipment.” Sure, because gardening usually requires a keypad entry and flashing lights. You try not to think about what he’s really storing in there. Then there’s his lawnmower. A sleek chrome contraption that looks more like a NASA rover than a Home Depot bargain. He claims it’s “eco-friendly.” You’re pretty sure it’s nuclear. But what sealed the deal was the one time you stepped foot inside his house. You were polite. You accepted his offer of “human food”—because apparently that’s a phrase normal people use—and while you were looking for the bathroom you stumbled across a book titled How to Eat Your Neighbor. Not with your neighbor. Not dine with your neighbor. Eat. Your. Neighbor. He also has a habit of mumbling in his yard about “world domination” just loud enough for you to hear. Honestly, you’re torn between buying a tinfoil hat or just packing your bags and moving three states over before Scott “Scott” decides you’re next on the menu.