I thought it was weird, but I just tried to ignore it. So I went back to washing my dishes. When I finished about twenty minutes later, I checked again and the same man was still sitting there. It was creeping me out, but I had literally just moved into this home and I didn't want to overreact and freak out if it was nothing, so I just closed my curtain and went about my business.
A couple hours later, right before I went to bed, I checked again. The car was finally gone. But then the very next night, it happened again. And again the night after that. Every night the same man in the same car would park there and would just sit there for hours. Sometimes he would be writing something, but mostly he was just staring at my home.
I told myself not to be dramatic. People sit in cars for all kinds of reasons. Maybe he lived with someone that he was trying to avoid or who didn’t want him smoking inside. Or maybe it was just part of some weird routine and my house just happened to be in front of him.
One evening, I stepped outside under the pretense of taking out the trash. The man was older, late sixties maybe. He didn’t even look my way, just kept staring straight ahead.
I called out to him. “Hello,” I said.
He turned his head then. “Evening,” he replied, before turning to stare straight ahead again. He didn't say anything more, so I went back inside.
I called the non-emergency police line on the seventh night. I rehearsed the explanation while it rang, trying to make myself sound reasonable. I emphasized that I wasn’t accusing anyone of anything, just reporting a strange pattern. A patrol car showed up twenty minutes later.
The officer listened, nodded, then walked across the street to speak with him. They talked for maybe two minutes. I couldn’t hear what was said, but there was no tension or raised voices. After that the officer came back and told me exactly what I’d already suspected.
“He’s not doing anything illegal,” he said. “He’s parked on a public street. He’s not approaching your property. He’s not recording.”
“He’s watching my house,” I said.
“He says he’s keeping an eye on the neighborhood.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I understand,” the officer said, in the tone people use when they’re done understanding. “If anything changes, give us a call. In the meantime, maybe keep your curtains closed.”
As the patrol car pulled away, I watched the man turn his dome light back on and resume writing.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Every small sound made me jump. At 2 AM, I finally gave in and googled the address of my house along with keywords like "death," "murder," and "crime." Nothing came up except normal real estate records.
The next day, there was an envelope in my mailbox. No stamp, no return address. Not even my name. Just my address. Inside was a handwritten letter:
*I'm sorry for frightening you. I know how this must look. Your house used to be my son’s, but I never visited him the entire twelve years he lived there. We were estranged because I was a lifelong alcoholic and terrible father to him growing up. He cut me out of his life and I never made the effort to redeem myself like I should have.*
*He died six months ago in an armed robbery at a gas station. He was standing in line waiting to pay when an armed man stormed inside. My son wasn’t armed, but another man in line was and pulled out his gun to face the robber. They started shooting at each other and a bullet hit my son and killed him instantly.*
*I sit out there because I can't let go. I'm writing letters to him, things I should have said when he was alive. I'll stop coming by. You deserve peace in your home. I hope you'll be happy there.*
My hands were shaking as I set the letter down. I looked out my front window. The sedan wasn’t there. It didn’t show up the next night either, or any night after that. Sometimes I still think about him sitting alone in his car, writing letters that would never be read. I hope he found some kind of peace. I’m still not sure I have.
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