I COMPLAINED ABOUT MY NEW NEIGHBORS’ HORRIBLE FOUNTAIN & RECEIVED A THREATENING NOTE FROM THEM.

The quietude of Elm Street, once a symphony of birdsong and gentle laughter, had been shattered. The arrival of the new neighbors, the Morlocks, had thrown the idyllic tranquility of their little community into chaos.

Initially, I had tried to be welcoming. A plate of freshly baked cookies, a warm smile, a friendly “Welcome to the neighborhood!” But my overture had been met with a chilling silence. The woman who answered the door, pale and gaunt, had regarded me with a suspicion that bordered on paranoia. “Ew, it smells awful,” she had muttered, her eyes darting nervously around as if I were some sort of disease.

Then came the fountain. A monstrosity of wrought iron and gargoyles, it stood imposingly in their yard, a constant, jarring presence. The incessant gurgling and splashing, day and night, had become the soundtrack to our lives. Sleep became elusive, replaced by the monotonous drone of the water.

The neighborhood, once a haven of peace and camaraderie, was now a battleground. Tempers flared. Arguments erupted at the weekly community meetings. Finally, a vote was taken – a unanimous decision to request the removal of the fountain.

And so, the unenviable task of filing the official complaint fell to me. I, the self-proclaimed peacemaker, the neighborhood’s unofficial ambassador of goodwill, was now the bearer of bad tidings.

That evening, as I returned home, a small, ominous package lay on my doorstep. No return address. A shiver ran down my spine.

Inside, a single sheet of paper, scrawled with menacing handwriting:

“I KNOW YOUR SECRET. YOU WILL BE POLITE TO YOUR NEW NEIGHBORS, OR EVERYONE WILL KNOW.”

Fear, cold and clammy, gripped me. Who was it? The Morlocks? Or someone else, someone watching, someone waiting for the right moment to strike?

The following days were a blur of paranoia and unease. I checked every window and door lock multiple times a night. I slept with the light on, the faintest sound sending shivers down my spine. My once peaceful neighborhood had transformed into a place of fear and suspicion.

The police, after much persuasion, agreed to investigate. They questioned the Morlocks, of course, but they denied any involvement. The woman, her face gaunt and drawn, maintained her innocence, claiming she was simply trying to enjoy her own property.

The investigation yielded nothing. No fingerprints, no witnesses, no concrete evidence. The threat remained, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of our seemingly idyllic community.

I started carrying a small can of pepper spray, my hand instinctively reaching for it at every rustle of leaves, every unfamiliar sound. I avoided going out alone at night, my days filled with a constant sense of unease.

The incident had changed me. The once friendly, outgoing neighbor was now withdrawn, suspicious, constantly scanning the shadows for signs of danger. The peace and tranquility of Elm Street, shattered by the arrival of the Morlocks, had been replaced by a chilling sense of fear and uncertainty.

And the fountain, that monstrous, discordant symbol of their arrival, continued to spew its icy water, a constant reminder of the darkness that had seeped into the heart of their once idyllic community.I COMPLAINED ABOUT MY NEW NEIGHBORS’ HORRIBLE FOUNTAIN & RECEIVED A THREATENING NOTE FROM THEM.

My mother abandoned me in a cardboard box at a supermarket when I was an infant — two decades later, she reached out to me for assistance

Sue was left in a cardboard box as a small child. Luckily, a store clerk took her home and changed the course of her entire life. Now, in the form of an unexpected knock at the door, Sue has to face her past and the disappointment that comes with it. Is this a grand reunion or the biggest disappointment of Sue’s life?

I was left in a cardboard box in a supermarket twenty years ago. I was just a few months old, and all I had to my name were a few photos of my mother and a note.

The note read: I will always love you, Sue.

Nobody knew my surname or whether I had a middle name. Nobody seemed to know my mother or what had happened to my father. I was all alone in a world that didn’t know anything about me.

But even then, at a few months old, I seemed to be fortune’s fool. I was found by a kind store clerk, Ruby, who took me in.

“I couldn’t leave you there, Sue,” she would say whenever the story came up. “I became your guardian shortly after and raised you as my own. You became my little bug.”

Ruby was everything to me. And as I grew, the closer we became.

I was forever grateful that she gave me everything I needed. But still, I never stopped wondering why my mother left me and if she would ever come back.

“I know that it bothers you, darling,” Ruby told me one day as she made lasagna for dinner. “But she’s an enigma now. We have nothing that could lead us to her.”

“I know,” I said, grating more cheese for when the dish was ready. “It’s just frustrating when I start thinking about it.”

“You love the internet, you love social media, Sue. Use it, share your story, maybe it will resonate with people, and you can connect with others just like you.”

She opened the oven and put the tray of lasagna inside.

So I did just that, and I became a well-known video blogger, sharing my story with the world.

“You’ve created a safe platform for people to share their stories, too,” Ruby told me when I read comments from my latest video to her.

“It means something to me,” I said, helping myself to the eclairs on the table.

Fast forward to the present. I am successful and able to provide for myself and my guardian.

“So much for being an abandoned baby,” I said to myself as I washed my face one night.

But imagine my surprise when an unexpected knock on my door changed everything.

I opened the door to find a frail, older woman standing there, her eyes filled with regret and desperation.

“Sue, darling,” she said. “I am your mother, and I need your help!”

I just looked at her, unable to blink for fear of missing the moment.

“Do you still have the note I left with you when I left you safely in the store?”

Safely? I thought to myself. I stood there, paralyzed by the flood of emotions that had come in when she entered my home.

“Yes, I have it,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I kept it.”

“I know I have no right to ask for your help after what I did, but I need you to believe me when I say I had no choice back then. I was running from a dangerous situation. And I thought leaving you in a safe place was the only way to protect you. I needed to disappear.”