Ten years ago, right after we got married,
we built our own house in a regional city.
My husband’s commute would be a little longer,
but it was for when we had kids in the future,
and also for the dog I'd wanted ever since I was a child.
It was truly our dream home.
The neighborhood was quiet, and when we went around greeting the neighbors,
it gave the impression that a lot of elderly people lived there.
Though a few seemed like they might be a bit difficult,
the neighborhood association president lived right next door,
“If you ever have any problems or need help with anything, please just let me know,”
he told us, which gave us peace of mind when moving in.
He was still relatively young, around forty,
living alone with his disabled son,
and since he ran a home business and there were so many elderly residents around, he had been chosen as the neighborhood president.
Our neighbor on the other side was a very elderly woman, but she was quite eccentric, and trouble started just three days after we moved in.
There was a wall separating her house from ours, but perhaps running out of room on her own side, she started lining up flowerpots along the top of our shared wall.
When I brought it up with my husband,
“Well, she's an old lady. It’s not really hurting anything, so let’s just leave it alone,”
he gave me a noncommittal answer, so I left it alone for a while.
However, the cat she kept kept knocking them over, causing flowerpots to fall into our yard on a regular basis.
Deciding that was a step too far, I resolved to speak to her when I saw her during the day.
“Um, excuse me, but it seems there are flowerpots placed on our wall, and your cat keeps knocking them down. I’m sorry, but could you please stop putting them on our wall?”
To which she replied:
“I don’t know anything about that!”
Stunned, I just stood there unable to say anything, and then she—
“Hmph!”
snorted and went back inside her house.
That was when—
“Is something the matter?”
a voice called out from behind me, and there stood the neighborhood president at the gate.
“Well, actually...”
I explained the situation to him, and he replied:
“Ahhh, I see! That old lady is quite difficult! Don’t worry, I’ll give her a stern talking-to!”
he assured me.
The next morning, when I went outside to take out the trash, all the flowerpots on the wall had been removed.
I immediately went to thank the neighborhood president, and he said:
“Oh, no, it was no big deal at all! If anything else comes up, please don’t hesitate to talk to me.”
I thought to myself what a reliable neighbor he was.
When I returned home,
the old lady was standing out under her eaves,
so I tried to greet her,
“Hmph!”
she snorted and went back inside her house.
I thought, 'Oh dear, did things get awkward between us?'
but I naively figured we would make peace eventually.
However, about a week later,
something looking like dog poop started being left in front of our house.
Honestly, I was thoroughly disgusted by this.
Every single morning when I woke up, there was poop left right in front of our house.
I was convinced it was the work of the old lady who kept a dog,
but without any proof, I couldn't confront her. As I was discussing it with my husband,
the intercom rang.
“Coming!”
When I went to the front door, the neighborhood president was standing there.
“Well, you see...”
According to him, when he went out for an early morning jog, he saw the old woman lingering around our house. When he asked her what she was doing, she rushed back inside, so he wanted to check if anything unusual had happened.
That was what he told us.
My husband and I looked at each other—
“So it WAS her...”
When we explained what had been happening just like before,
“Ah, maybe the way I phrased it last time wasn't good enough. I'm so sorry, I'll speak to her firmly this time.”
My husband felt bad and said, “No, no, we can’t keep bothering you with this, we’ll talk to her directly,” but—
“No, that old lady is tricky to deal with. Since I’m used to handling her, it’ll go much smoother if I do it,”
he insisted,
so we decided to take him up on his offer.
“We’re really so sorry to keep relying on you.”
My husband and I talked about buying him a thank-you gift next time, feeling greatly relieved.
Sure enough, starting the very next day, no more poop was left out.
It was around that time that once every two days or so,
the neighborhood president started showing up outside our house to talk to me.
Whether I was hanging up laundry, coming back from grocery shopping,
or sweeping the entrance, he would suddenly appear out of nowhere and start chatting.
He seemed to be quite talkative,
and conversations would drag on for an hour at longest, or at least thirty minutes.
The topics were completely mundane, and honestly, I was getting sick of it,
but given how much he had helped us, I couldn't just brush him off,
so I treated him politely at first.
However, after a while,
I started checking outside before leaving the house to avoid bumping into him,
and hung laundry on the second floor instead, hoping he might subtly get the hint.
After about three months of living like that,
the intercom rang.
“I have a small favor to ask...”
It was the neighborhood president.
When I opened the front door, he was standing there with his son.
“Um, I’m sorry for asking so suddenly, but I have a business meeting I need to step out for, and I was wondering if you could watch him for about two hours?”
I had heard his son was fifteen, but because of his disability, he probably couldn't stay home alone.
Still, I really hesitated.
“I’m sorry, but if something were to happen, I don’t think I’d be able to handle it...”
I gently declined, but—
“It’ll be fine! Fine! Just turn on the TV and let him sit in the living room, that’s all! If anything happens, call me right away!”
he said, handing me a business card.
I wasn't happy about it, but since he had resolved our previous troubles, I couldn't turn him down.
“Okay... but I won't be able to entertain him or anything.”
I agreed to watch him.
“Come on, say hello,”
he told his son, but—
the son just stared into blank space with his mouth half open,
“Haa,”
was all he said.
I showed him into the living room and turned on the TV for him,
but he just sat there slouched over with his mouth half open, unsure if he was even watching.
Even at fifteen, he was quite tall, probably taking after his father, and being alone in the house with him felt extremely uncomfortable.
I brought him some juice midway through, but he didn't touch it at all.
A very awkward time passed, but without any real incident, the intercom rang after about two hours.
“Thank you so much for taking care of him! Man, I’m really sorry for dropping this on you so suddenly!”
“Oh, not at all, I didn’t really do anything!”
As I was chatting with him, secretly relieved,
“By the way, you don’t have kids yet, right?”
he asked out of nowhere.
A bit rattled, I answered:
“Ah, yeah, well...”
and he said:
“It’d be nice if it’s a girl! Maybe she could marry my son in the future! Hahaha!”
With that, he took his son by the hand and left.
Even as a joke, hearing him say something like that out of nowhere gave me a chill...
I told my husband about it, but—
“Yeah, he’s annoying, but we do owe him,” was his noncommittal response.
It was true that we owed him, so I tried my best not to let it bother me.
However,
a short while later, the neighborhood president asked me to babysit his son again.
I was secretly exasperated, but—
since he said it would only be for an hour, I reluctantly agreed.
Since I hadn't finished my housework that day, I turned on the TV in the living room and was busy running back and forth upstairs.
After about twenty minutes of folding laundry on the second floor, I came back down to find he was gone from the living room.
Thinking he might be in the restroom, I went to check, but he wasn't there.
He was in the changing room.
Holding my panties in his hands.
Suppressing the urge to scream,
“What are you doing?!”
I yelled, and then—
“Slut, slut, sluuut!”
he spat those unbelievable words at me.
Panicking, I pulled him by the hand, made him sit in the living room, and immediately called the neighborhood president.
“It’s about your son, please come over right now!”
“Huh? Did something happen?”
“I’ll explain later, just please come over right away!”
“Oh, okay!”
About ten minutes later, the neighborhood president arrived.
Meanwhile, his son had just been sitting in the living room with his mouth agape, staring blankly into the void.
“Did something happen?”
In stark contrast to my agitated state, he asked me in an eerily calm voice.
Furious, I heatedly explained everything that had happened!
I made it clear that I couldn't watch his son anymore under these circumstances.
Whereupon,
“Oh, is that all?”
he began to smirk and laugh.
And then he said to me:
“Huh? I mean, you ARE a slut, aren't you? I know you want me.”
He spat that out.
What?
My mind went completely blank.
As I stood there stunned, unable to utter a single word,
he slowly approached me,
grabbed my neck and chest with terrifying force,
and whispered in my ear:
“Everything in my town belongs to me.
I’m protecting you, so keep quiet.”
He said.
Shaking violently from sheer terror, I collapsed onto the floor right there.
How could something like this be happening?
He's my neighbor!
Thoughts spun uncontrollably in my head.
Before I knew it, the neighborhood president and his son had gone back home.
No, I must have seen them leave, but my mind was completely hazy from shock.
Snapping back to reality, I called my husband,
and sensing something was terribly wrong,
he left work early and rushed home right away.
When I tearfully explained everything to him,
he immediately called the police.
Once the police finished taking my statement, they went over to the neighbor’s house with my husband.
As for me, I was far too terrified to go to the neighbor’s house, so I just sat trembling in the living room.
About an hour later, my husband and the police returned.
According to my husband and the police,
the neighborhood president claimed his son had gone wild in my house, and while trying to stop him, he accidentally bumped into me,
insisting it wasn't intentional at all and that he had never made any offensive remarks.
He suggested that because he bumped into me fairly hard, I might have panicked and misconstrued things.
He claimed to feel extremely sorry,
and had repeatedly bowed and apologized.
I was stunned and protested:
“That’s absolutely not true! He’s lying!”
I insisted.
Knowing my personality, my husband told the police the same, but—
the police said:
“Well, you’re upset right now, there are no visible injuries on you, and the other party is deeply remorseful. Can we follow up with you on another day?”
And with that, they left for the day.
My husband believed every word I said, telling me:
“It’s useless talking to those cops today, so tomorrow I’ll consult our company’s lawyer! For now, just stay inside and don’t go anywhere.”
he assured me.
I planned to hole up in the house for a while, and if I couldn't stand it anymore, go back to my parents' house.
The next day, after seeing my husband off, I turned on the TV in the living room to watch a movie to distract myself.
It was shortly before noon, I think. Feeling a bit hungry,
I headed to the kitchen to fix something to eat when—
*DING-DONG!*
The intercom rang.
Honestly, my heart practically leaped into my throat.
Even if it wasn't the neighbor, I had no desire to answer,
so I decided to ignore it.
Then:
*DING-DONG!*
*DING-DONG!*
*DING-DONG!*
*DING-DONG!*
Would a normal person ring the doorbell repeatedly like this?
Frozen mid-crouch, cold sweat broke out all over my back.
How much time had passed?
It was probably only about five minutes,
but it felt like an eternity.
Then, suddenly, in the dead silent house,
*CRASH! SHATTER!*
an unfamiliar sound echoed through the room,
immediately followed by:
*CLATTER-RATTLE*
a sliding sound.
Looking from the kitchen toward the living room where the noise came from,
the glass patio door was shattered, and through it, the neighborhood president and his son were walking into the living room.
Around the son's neck was wrapped what looked like a belt or rope, which the neighborhood president was tugging like a leash, forcing him to stand.
“What do you know—you ARE here after all!”
“Sorry about yesterday! You were mad about that after all, weren't you?”
“Look, this lady cleared away the poop you made every single day, you know!”
With every pause in his speech, he yanked upward on the leash around his son’s neck, and each time, pained sounds leaked from the boy’s mouth:
“Gughe, gughe, guee, gughe!”
came leaking out.
I felt like I was going insane.
Teeth chattering, I stood frozen in place.
“Manners like that... are really important, aren't they?”
“Gughe, guee, gughe, guee!”
“So today, I decided to express our gratitude.”
Saying this, he yanked the leash even higher.
“GOGHEEEEEEE!”
After letting out a sound like a massive, agonized burp, his son convulsed awkwardly and lost consciousness.
“Having kids around makes things awkward, doesn't it?” “A girl would be much better, wouldn't it?”
Finally, incoherently, words forced themselves from my throat:
“KYAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
“You're being noisy, you know.”
Those were the last words of the neighborhood president before a massive impact struck my face, and I lost consciousness.
When I woke up, I was on a hospital bed.
Realizing I had regained consciousness, my husband sobbed and cried:
“I’m so sorry... I’m so sorry...”
apologizing to me over and over.
Later on, my husband explained everything to me while I was still confused and unable to make sense of things.
On that day, right after I was struck, the police arrived and arrested the neighborhood president on the spot for assault.
The person who called the police was none other than the old lady living next door.
Seeing him ringing my doorbell with a leash around his son’s neck, she had immediately alerted the authorities.
As it turned out later, neither the flowerpots nor the poop had been the old lady's doing.
She had previously gotten into a dispute with him, during which her dog was killed (there was no evidence, so it never became a case, but she was convinced it was him).
Terrified of him, she hadn't been able to say anything to him.
Seeing us talk to him frequently after we moved in, she wanted to avoid getting involved at all costs, which explained her cold attitude toward us.
A search of his house followed, uncovering numerous animal bones in the house and yard along with evidence linking him to other crimes, resulting in an eight-year prison sentence.
Apparently, he testified that he believed I was the reincarnation of his deceased ex-wife. As a result of the trauma from the incident, I developed PTSD.
We immediately sold our newly purchased house and moved close to my parents' home.
My husband quit his job and took a new one in my hometown.
I wrote this to mark our 10th wedding anniversary and to put the past behind me once and for all.
