It had been a normal, slow afternoon. I was walking up the driveway when I noticed our elderly neighbor, Mr. Halvorsen, standing on his porch. He gave me a little wave, like always—just a small nod and that familiar, gentle smile. “Afternoon!” I called out. He simply raised his hand again, not saying a word. Something about him seemed… off. Maybe it was how still he was, or the way his eyes followed me even after I turned away. I didn’t think much of it and headed inside.
Later that evening, while helping my mom prep dinner, I casually mentioned seeing Mr. Halvorsen outside again, quiet as usual. My mom stopped chopping vegetables and turned to me with a look of pure confusion. “What did you just say?” “I saw Mr. Halvorsen earlier,” I repeated. “He waved at me, same as always.”
The color drained from her face. She took a shaky breath and whispered, “Honey… Mr. Halvorsen passed away last night. They found him in his sleep this morning.”
I laughed nervously, waiting for the punchline, but it never came. My stomach dropped as the warmth drained from the kitchen. I replayed the moment in my head: the wave, the stare, the uncanny stillness. I hadn’t seen a living man that day—I had seen a shadow, an echo of a routine he had performed for years. To this day, I can’t walk by that empty porch without feeling eyes on me. The chills I felt in that moment have never truly left me.
