The Forgiven

Submitted by Eli.

Aberdeen, TN

We’ve all heard the story before—about the people next door. The ones with the overgrown grass and dark windows. The house that seems to cast a shadow over that side of the street. But no one ever talks about the opposite. The ones who seem almost too perfect.

It was the summer I first noticed them. When they moved into the house next door, the neighborhood seemed to sparkle, like someone had turned the brightness up. The old brick house suddenly looked brand new, with white painted trim, a perfect lawn, and flowers lining the walkway. And inside lived the perfect family.

There was a son who played baseball and brought home trophies. Everyone said he had a real shot at going somewhere big one day. There was a daughter whose beauty was like a rose—gorgeous but sharp. Piano lessons, debate club, student council president. Their mother was devoted and graceful, and their father seemed to love his family dearly. A businessman. A gentleman. Always opening the doors for his wife. Never letting her lift a finger.

It was all too perfect.

A few days after moving in, they came over to introduce themselves. They carried a beautiful fruit basket filled with the reddest apples, bright oranges, my mom’s favorite green grapes, and a bottle of wine tucked beside little crackers and fancy cheeses. Their smiles were wide and bright, but their eyes held a strange intensity that sent a chill down my spine.

“Hello, we’re the Andersons,” the man said warmly. “We just moved in.”

None of them blinked while he spoke.

He gestured beside him. “This is my wife, Katie.”

She stepped forward with a smile, her eyes locking onto my mother’s face without blinking. She gave a small, almost theatrical curtsy. “This is my son, Aiden, and my daughter, Samantha.”

Both children had identical blonde hair and blue eyes. They almost looked like twins, standing perfectly still beside each other.

“And I’m Tim,” he finished. “Katie thought you might enjoy a gift.”

Katie handed the basket to my mother without saying a word. My mother thanked her, but Katie’s smile never moved. Not even when my mother spoke. Then, as if rehearsed, the entire family smiled, waved, and turned in perfect sync, walking back toward their house without another word.

Just like that.

My parents were instantly enchanted. My mother called them posh. My father said they seemed tasteful and kind. They didn’t seem to notice anything strange about the encounter. There had been no real conversation. No questions. They hadn’t asked our names or wait for my parents to properly thank them. They had simply appeared… and left.

“That’s weird,” I said.

My parents ignored me.

After that, the Anderson family mostly kept to themselves. Then, in early August—right before school started—I was walking home from the square. The sun was blazing and the Tennessee humidity made the air feel thick enough to chew. My phone had died, so I walked in silence. Looking back now, it almost feels like the universe was trying to help me notice things.

My street is called Summer Avenue, though for years the name never really seemed to fit. But when the Andersons moved in, something about the street changed. People seemed drawn to that house like moths to light.

I was halfway down the sidewalk when I heard a voice call out.

“Excuse me!”

A girl stood down the street, the sunlight glowing through her golden hair and illuminating her pale skin. I pretended not to hear her. No eye contact. No response. But somehow that only made her move faster.

Samantha.

The daughter.

She ran up and stopped directly in front of me. Her smile was pleasant, but her eyes were not. They stared straight through me.

“Yes?” I said flatly.

“Our church just opened,” she said cheerfully, handing me a flyer. “We would love for your family to attend.”

When she smiled, it looked practiced. Like she had learned it from a mirror.

The flyer was bright white, decorated with tiny blue flowers and a small golden owl above the lettering. Beneath it, written in elegant script, were the words:

The Forgiven

Opening this Sunday
Service and Lunch
6633 Summer Avenue

“Your house?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said brightly. “My father believes smaller gatherings create more personal relationships with his followers.”

Followers.

Something about the way she said the word made my stomach twist.

“Cool,” I said quickly. “Well—I should go.”

She smiled again and walked away, just like before. She never asked my name.

I shoved the flyer deep into my backpack before my parents could see it. But it didn’t matter. A few days later Mrs. Anderson came over and personally invited my mother to their service.

After that, everything changed.

Every Sunday people gathered at their house. My parents included.

The strange thing was my parents had never been religious. Not once. But suddenly they were there every week. The whole town seemed drawn to that house, like they were under some kind of spell.

After a few weeks, I started noticing something strange.

Everyone who went there began smiling the same way.

By February, the noises started.

At first they followed me into my dreams, turning them into nightmares that jolted me awake in the middle of the night. My heart would pound as if something had been standing beside my bed, watching me.

Then the tapping started.

It happened while I washed dishes at the kitchen sink. Tap. Tap. The sound came from the window behind me. When I turned around, there was nothing there.

Another day I heard it again from the small stained-glass bathroom window—too high for anyone to reach.

Tap. Tap.

Each time the sound snapped my attention toward the glass. Each time there was nothing there. The hairs on the back of my neck would rise and my stomach would twist into knots.

And every time it happened, I was alone.

And when my parents were home, they weren’t the same.

They looked the same. They sounded the same. But something behind their eyes had changed. That same look. The same look the Andersons had.

I used to feel comfort in this house.

Now it’s almost worse knowing I have to sleep down the hall from people I should recognize.

Tap. Tap.

Another night jolted from my sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Pushing away the countless sleepless nights and fear creeping in over it.
It’s the wind, I tell myself.
Tap. Tap.

I hear it again. The glass calling me. Begging for me to look but I can’t. The thought of inspecting the dark winter night makes me feel uneasy.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Rapid and fast begging for my attention. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

It grows louder and louder.

I get up.

I looked out my bedroom window.

There they were.

The Anderson family was standing in their yard.

All four of them.

Perfectly still.

Looking directly at my house.

My blood ran cold. My body frozen. Eyes fixated on them. We stay for what feels like way too long and with a blink they were gone. Like I had imagined them. I stared out the window for a long time after they disappeared.

Eventually the cold from the glass seeped into my skin and I forced myself back to bed.

I barely slept.

Morning came slowly. Pale winter light filled my room like nothing had happened.

For a moment, I almost convinced myself it had all been a dream.

Until I walked downstairs.

My parents were already awake, sitting quietly at the kitchen table.

Both of them turned when I entered.

Both of them smiling.

That same calm smile.

The same one the Andersons always wore.

My mother tilted her head slightly.

“Did you see them last night?” she asked softly.

My stomach dropped.

“How did you—”

She reached across the table and gently took my father’s hand.

Then she looked back at me.

“They’ve been waiting,” she said.

A long pause filled the room.

Then my father spoke.

“They were worried you might never look.”