Status: Completed. :D
My Neighbors are Killers
Let Me Tell You About My Neighbors.
My neighbors are killers. They’re the sort of people I see on the TV shows my parents watch. It’s those shows with all the policemen in different uniforms who are always trying to find the criminal. Our neighbors are like those criminals.
My neighbors are killers. I can hear them through the walls. Sometimes in the middle of the day or in the black of the night, they don’t care what time it is. The sounds that I hear are not normal. There’s the pounding of a hammer, used to smash their victims’ bones. Or it’s the grinding of a chainsaw, gnawing the victims’ bodies apart. Even the rare thump when their victims’ body drops dead. Worst of all, is the victims’ loud screams.
My neighbors are killers. All the kids in my second grade class think so. They tell me stories of other children who have lived in my apartment that went missing. Nobody has solved those crimes, but we all know it’s the neighbors. Every day when school ends, my friends pat me on the back and say goodbye just in case I don’t show up to school the next day. Weekends are the worst.
My neighbors are killers. I can hear them killing people at least twice a day. I’ve never seen any bodies, but I bet it’s because they have a secret dungeon for them. They probably grind them up and use the flesh to bake Mrs. Lovett’s meat pies, like in that movie my parents didn’t want me to watch. Maybe they even own a bakery and sell their human meat pies to unknowing customers.
My neighbors are killers. Staring at their door, I couldn’t believe my parents were sending me here. They went to eat dinner, just the two of them, so they decided to send me to the neighbors. I begged to stay home alone, but they said I couldn’t. I asked if I could just wait in the car while they ate, but they told me no. So here I stood, locked outside my own home and ringing their doorbell. The door slowly opened and death greeted me.
My neighbors are killers. They welcomed me inside with huge smiling faces, acting polite and kind, but it didn’t fool me. I didn’t like how they were treating me so nicely when they were just going to kill me so I told them to do it already. I allowed them to kill me, but they just stood there and laughed.
My neighbors aren’t killers. They’re actually really nice people. Everything I’ve ever thought about them and was told was a lie. I asked them about the sounds I kept hearing and they said they couldn’t tell me because it was something my parents should talk to me about. Something I would understand when I became a man, whatever that means.
Turns out they’re not killers. They do however listen to a band called The Killers, whom I’m beginning to like. My neighbors aren’t killers.
My neighbors are killers. I can hear them through the walls. Sometimes in the middle of the day or in the black of the night, they don’t care what time it is. The sounds that I hear are not normal. There’s the pounding of a hammer, used to smash their victims’ bones. Or it’s the grinding of a chainsaw, gnawing the victims’ bodies apart. Even the rare thump when their victims’ body drops dead. Worst of all, is the victims’ loud screams.
My neighbors are killers. All the kids in my second grade class think so. They tell me stories of other children who have lived in my apartment that went missing. Nobody has solved those crimes, but we all know it’s the neighbors. Every day when school ends, my friends pat me on the back and say goodbye just in case I don’t show up to school the next day. Weekends are the worst.
My neighbors are killers. I can hear them killing people at least twice a day. I’ve never seen any bodies, but I bet it’s because they have a secret dungeon for them. They probably grind them up and use the flesh to bake Mrs. Lovett’s meat pies, like in that movie my parents didn’t want me to watch. Maybe they even own a bakery and sell their human meat pies to unknowing customers.
My neighbors are killers. Staring at their door, I couldn’t believe my parents were sending me here. They went to eat dinner, just the two of them, so they decided to send me to the neighbors. I begged to stay home alone, but they said I couldn’t. I asked if I could just wait in the car while they ate, but they told me no. So here I stood, locked outside my own home and ringing their doorbell. The door slowly opened and death greeted me.
My neighbors are killers. They welcomed me inside with huge smiling faces, acting polite and kind, but it didn’t fool me. I didn’t like how they were treating me so nicely when they were just going to kill me so I told them to do it already. I allowed them to kill me, but they just stood there and laughed.
My neighbors aren’t killers. They’re actually really nice people. Everything I’ve ever thought about them and was told was a lie. I asked them about the sounds I kept hearing and they said they couldn’t tell me because it was something my parents should talk to me about. Something I would understand when I became a man, whatever that means.
Turns out they’re not killers. They do however listen to a band called The Killers, whom I’m beginning to like. My neighbors aren’t killers.
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500 words to be exact.So the boy's neighbors aren't killers. They are, however, complete sex monkeys. Hence, the pounding & the screaming. XD
My sister & I heard a scream from our neighbors balcony upstairs & we imagined that someone pushed someone else off the balcony, so that's how I came up with this story idea. Yeah, we're kinda weird.