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- [00:02]
A
When the holidays start to feel a bit repetitive, reach for a Sprite Winter Spiced Cranberry and put your twist on tradition. A bold cranberry and winter spice flavor Fusion Sprite Winter Spice Cranberry is a refreshing way to shake things up this sipping season, and only for a limited time. Sprite obey your thirst.
- [00:25]
B
So good, so good, so good.
- [00:27]
A
Give big, Save big with Rack Friday deals at Nordstrom Rack For a limited time, take an extra 40% off red tag clearance for everyone on your list. All sales final and restrictions apply. So bring your gift list and your wish list to your nearest Nordstrom rack today.
- [00:49]
B
My name is Jared, and this happened when I was 19 years old. It was years ago now, but I still remember it clearly, especially whenever winter comes back around. It was January. Deep winter, the kind where the cold doesn't just bite, it settles into your bones and refuses to leave. Snow covered everything outside, thick and heavy, muting the world and making the nights feel longer than they should have been. At the time, I lived alone in a small apartment complex on the edge of town. It wasn't a bad place, just old. The hallways were narrow, the carpet worn thin, and the walls were so thin you could hear people coughing in the next unit. The building always smelled faintly, like dust and old heat vents. Most of the tenants kept to themselves. People nodded but rarely talked to one another. I honestly liked it that way. I was 19, fresh out of high school, working odd shifts and trying to save money. My life was pretty quiet. I went to work, came home, ate cheap food, and spent most nights playing games or watching videos while the wind howled outside. Winter made everything feel smaller, like my whole world was just that apartment in the parking lot, buried under the snow. I didn't really notice my neighbor at first. She lived directly across the hall from me. The only reason I even realized someone lived there was because her door would sometimes open right as I was locking mine. She was a woman, probably late 20s or early 30s, with dark hair. She always wore her hair pulled back. She dressed heavily, even indoors, long coats, scarves and gloves. She smiled often, but there was something about it that felt forced, like she was trying too hard to seem friendly. At first, our interactions were really nothing, just small nods, a quick hey or Good morning. Normal neighbor stuff. I didn't really think about her after that. Then one night, things shifted. I came home late from work, tired and cold, snow clinging to my boots as I unlocked my door. Hers opened, too. She asked if I had a spare trash bag. I did, so I handed one over to her she thanked me repeatedly, more than necessary, holding onto the bag like it mattered way too much to her. She asked my name, and without even thinking, I told her. She smiled wider than before and said, it's nice to finally know. That should have been the end of it, but after that night, I had kind of just started noticing her everywhere. When I left for work early in the morning, she'd be in the hallway, usually pretending to dig through her purse or check her phone. Whenever I came home, she'd step out of her apartment within minutes. Sometimes she'd already be outside, standing by the stairwell, even when it was bitterly cold. Now, of course, I tried to just brush it all off as a coincidence. I mean, we lived across from each other. Our schedules were probably overlapped. Still, something about it felt off to me. She began slowly commenting on my routine. She asked if I worked later shifts. Now she mentioned seeing me come home with fast food one time. She joked about how I always carried my keys in my right hand. That one kind of stuck with me. It was such a small detail, but it meant that she was watching closely, really paying attention. The building felt different after that. Smaller and quieter. The snow outside never stopped. It piled higher each day, turning the parking lot into uneven white hills. At night, everything felt sealed off. No traffic noise, no distant sounds. Just wind and the occasional creak of the building settling. That's when I started hearing things at night. Soft sounds moving in the hallway. Footsteps stopping near my door. I'd sit up in bed, holding my breath, listening. Sometimes I thought I heard breathing. Other times, it sounded like someone shifting their weight back and forth. Every time I checked the door, though, no one was there. I kind of just told myself I was just imagining it. I mean, what could it really be? Winter messes with your head. Isolation does, too. Then I found the first note. It was slipped under my door, folded neatly inside. It said something simple. I hope today treats you well. No name. No explanation. My chest tightened when I read it. I stood there for a long time, just staring at the paper, feeling uneasy. For reasons that I couldn't fully explain, I threw it away. A few days later, there was another note. This one mentioned the snow and hoped that I was staying warm during the winter season. Another appeared after that, saying she liked hearing my music through the wall at night. Now that one really freaked me out. I didn't play my music loudly. She would have had to be listening closely. I started avoiding the hallway. Whenever I could, I waited before leaving my apartment, listening for movement. I changed the times. I came and went but it didn't really help. She still appeared, still smiled, still acted like nothing was wrong. One evening, as I unlocked my door, I had heard her voice behind me. Hey, Jared. I froze. I slowly turned around. She was standing far too close. I hadn't heard her door open. She said that she felt like we were really getting to know each other without even trying to. She said that it was rare to feel that kind of connection. Her eyes stay locked on mine the entire time, unblinking. I mumbled something and just went inside, locking the door behind me as quickly as I could. After that, I barely even slept. I left the lights on at night. I checked the lock over and over. I avoided the peephole because I was afraid I'd see someone standing there, staring back at me. The sounds in the hallway seemed louder now, more deliberate. One night, there was knocking. Soft. Slow. Careful. I sat on my bed, heart racing, not moving. The knocking continued for what felt like forever. Eventually, it stopped. I didn't open the door until morning. That day, there was another note. This one said she was worried about me. Said she felt hurt that I was avoiding her. Said she hoped I was making the right choices. That was the moment I realized that this wasn't just uncomfortable. It was dangerous. She had become obsessed with me. I reported everything to the building manager. He seemed skeptical at first, but when I showed him all the notes, his expression changed. A few days later, I had noticed her apartment looked empty. No lights, no movement. Eventually, I'd learned she'd been asked to leave after other tenants had shared similar experiences. The silence afterward just felt strange. Too quiet. Even after she was gone, I still couldn't relax. I kept expecting her to be there, watching, waiting. I moved out as soon as winter ended. Years later, I still think about that January. About how fear crept in slowly, quietly, just like the snow. And how sometimes the most terrifying things don't announce themselves at all. They just stand on the other side of the door, waiting for you to notice. A few years back, when I was in my early 20s, I lived in a very quiet part of northern New York. Not quite deep wilderness, but far enough out that neighbors were few and spread apart. The house I rented sat near the edge of a tree line, with thick wood stretching out behind it. During the warmer months, it felt peaceful. During winter, it felt isolating in a way that's hard to explain unless you've actually experienced it. Winter up there is no joke. Snow would fall for days at a time, sometimes so heavily that the roads disappeared completely. At night, everything went silent. No cars no people, just wind, snow, and darkness. I worked during the day and usually spend my evenings inside, trying to stay warm and distracted. Most nights I watched TV or played games. Anything to keep my mind from wandering. That night I was completely alone. My roommate had driven into town earlier that day to visit his family and wasn't planning to be back until the next morning. The weather had been getting worse all afternoon, and by the time it got dark, snow was coming down thick and steady, the kind that makes the sky glow faintly orange from the streetlights, even though the nearest one was far down the road. It was probably around 10:30 at night. I was sitting on the couch, half watching something on tv, half scrolling on my phone. The house made its usual winter noises. Creaking floors, the heater clicking on and off. I tried not to think about how far away everything was, but being alone always made me a little uneasy. I never really liked silence. My mind fills it too easily. That's when I heard it. A sharp crunching sound from outside. At first I thought maybe it was a tree branch snapping under the weight of snow. But then it happened again. Slower this time, more deliberate. It sounded exactly like boots stepping on frozen ground. I muted the tv. Immediately I sat there, barely breathing, listening. Another crunch followed, then another. Each one spaced a few seconds apart. Whatever it was, it was moving closer to the house. My heart started racing. I told myself that it had to be an animal. A deer, maybe. But something about the rhythm felt wrong. Too steady, too heavy. And then I realized something that made my stomach drop. I hadn't heard a car pull into the driveway. No engine, no headlights. Nothing. The footsteps continued. They moved along the side of the house, close enough that I could tell exactly where they were. I slowly stood up and backed away from the living room window. The curtains were thin, and the idea of someone seeing me inside made my skin crawl. I went straight to my bedroom and locked the door. I forgot to mention this at the beginning of the story, but I'm a 22 year old female, by the way. I don't own many weapons, but I did have a shotgun that I kept locked up. My hands were shaking as I took it out. I grabbed my phone, too, and sat at the edge of my bed, staring at the door, listening. I kept telling myself that I'm just overreacting, but none of this felt normal. The crunching stopped. The silence afterward was worse. I sat there for what felt like hours, waiting for another sound. My ears rang from how hard my heart was pounding. Every creak of the house made me flinch. At one point, I thought I heard something brushing against the side of the building, like a hand or sleeve dragging along the wall. I didn't move. Eventually, exhaustion caught up with me. I must have fallen asleep sometime before morning, still fully dressed, shotgun beside the bed, phone clutched in my hand. When I woke up, the house was quiet. Sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains. I checked my phone. No missed calls, no messages. My roommate texted shortly after, saying he was on his way back and asking if the snow was bad. I didn't reply right away. I waited until he got home before I told him what happened. He listened, but he seemed unsure of what to make of it. He suggested that maybe someone got lost, or maybe I imagined part of it. I didn't argue. I just asked him to come outside with me. The snow had stopped early that morning. When we stepped outside, the cold hit us immediately. The yard was covered in untouched snow, smooth and white, except for one area near the woods. There were footprints that came straight out of the tree line. The prints were deep and uneven, like someone had been walking slowly, not rushing. They led toward the house, then curved around the side. Some were partially filled in with snow, but others were clear enough to make out the treadmill. My chest tightened as we followed them. They circled the house once, then again. Near the back of the house, the prints grew closer together, as if the person had stopped for a while, and then they ended right beneath my bedroom window. The snow there was packed down hard. Unlike the other prints, these weren't filled in at all. It looked like someone had stood there for a long time. I felt sick. That window was only a few feet away from my bed. If the blinds hadn't been closed, they would have been able to see straight inside. The thought that someone might have been standing there while I sat, frozen in fear, or even while I slept, made my hands go completely numb. There were no prints leading away. It was like the person had simply vanished. We called the police, but nothing ever came of it. No reports, no evidence, no explanation. They suggested that it might have been someone passing through, or maybe even a prank. But who would wander through deep snow in the middle of the night, miles from town, just to stand outside someone's bedroom? I stopped sleeping well after that. Every sound outside made me jump. I kept the curtains closed all the time. I moved a chair in front of my bedroom door at night. Winter dragged on, and with it, the constant feeling that I wasn't really alone. A few months later, I moved out. To this day, I still think about that night. About those footprints, about how close someone was without ever being seen. And the part that scares me the most is knowing that if I hadn't heard those crunching footsteps, I never would have known they were there at all.
- [14:50]
C
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- [15:21]
A
This episode is brought to you by State Farm Listening to this podcast Smart move Being financially savvy Smart move Another smart move having State Farm help you create a competitive price when you choose to bundle home and auto bundling. Just another way to save with a personal price plan like a good neighbor, State Farm is there. Prices are based on rating plans that vary by state. Coverage options are selected by the customer. Availability, amount of discounts and savings and eligibility vary by state.
- [15:56]
B
My name is Amanda and I was 24 years old when this happened. My fiance, Josh, was 25 at the time, and we had only been engaged for a few months. We decided to take a short winter trip to the Appalachian Mountains as a way to relax and celebrate before the stress of wedding planning really kicked in. We both loved cold weather and quiet places, so a remote cabin in the mountains sounded really perfect. At least it did at first. The cabin was several hours away from where we lived. The further we drove into the mountains, the worse the weather became. Snow started falling lightly, then heavier, until the road was lined with thick white banks. Cell surface faded in and out, and the trees grew taller and closer together. Josh joked that it felt like we were driving off the map, but I remember feeling a small knot of uneasiness in my stomach. When we finally reached the cabin, it was already getting dark. The place looked exactly like the pictures online a small wooden cabin with a stone chimney surrounded by trees and nothing else. There were a few other cabins scattered far apart along the mountain road, but no town, no store, and no visible people. Everything was quiet in a way that felt heavy. Inside, the cabin was cozy but old. The floors creaked when we walked, and the air smelt faintly of wood smoke and dust. There was a fireplace, a small kitchen, and one bedroom. Josh got the fire going while I unpacked. Outside, the snow continued to fall, thicker now, the wind picking up speed that night, the storm got worse. The wind howled through the trees, and snow slammed against the windows like handfuls of gravel. At some point, the power went out. The cabin went completely dark, except for the fire. We tried our phones, but there was no signal at all. We told ourselves it was fine. The storm would pass and we'd be back on the road in the morning. We were wrong. When we woke up, the world outside was buried. Snow had piled past the bottom of the windows, and the road was completely gone. Josh tried starting the car, but it wouldn't budge. The snow was too deep. We were officially stuck. At first, it almost felt fun, like an unexpected adventure. We made coffee on the gas stove, played cards, and joked about being snowed in like characters in a movie. But as the hours turned into days, that feeling faded. Strange things had started happening. The first thing we noticed was footprints. On the second morning, Josh went outside to check the snow again and came back looking confused. He said there were footprints near the edge of the property, leading toward the tree line. They weren't ours. We hadn't walked that far, and the snow had fallen overnight. Someone had been there while we were asleep. Josh tried to brush it off. Maybe a neighbor checking on us, he said. But neither one of us had seen anyone since arriving. Later that day, I had noticed the firewood stack had been disturbed. Logs were missing, moved closer to the cabin. We hadn't touched them. Josh hadn't either. The idea that someone had come onto the property without knocking made my skin completely crawl. That night, we heard a vehicle. It was distant but unmistakable. An engine struggling through snow. We rushed to the window, but all we could see were the trees and blowing snow. The sound passed slowly, then faded. No headlights. No stop. No knock on the door. The next morning, one of the chairs on the porch had been turned upside down. I knew for a fact it hadn't been like that before. The snow around it was disturbed, hagged down with footprints that circled the porch but never came close to the door. It felt deliberate, like someone wanted us to notice. Josh tried calling for help again, climbing a small hill near the cabin where the signal might be stronger. He came back pale, shaking his head. Nothing. No bars, no way out. That was when the fear really set in. We started keeping the door locked at all times. We slept in shifts. Every sound outside made us tense. At night, we could hear distant noises. Wood cracking, footsteps crunching in the snow. Sometimes what sounded like quiet talking carried on the wind. We never saw anyone, but we felt watched. On the third night, something knocked on the cabin it was slow and heavy. Three knocks, then silence. Josh stood between me and the door, gripping a flashlight. He called out, asking who was there. No answer. When he finally did open the door, there was no one there. Just fresh footprints leading away toward the trees. By then, the storm had finally begun to ease, but the roads were still impassable. The isolation just felt suffocating. The cabin no longer felt cozy. It felt like a trap. The neighbor, as if that's really what they were, never showed their faces. We saw smoke from a distant chimney once, far up the mountain, but no lights, no movement. Just enough to remind us that someone else was out there. On the fourth day, a plow finally came through the road. I don't think I've ever felt so relieved to hear an engine in my life. We packed up immediately and left without looking back. Nothing outright dangerous ever happened. No break ins, no confrontations. But that's what makes it so unsettling. We never knew who was out there or what they wanted. Just that we weren't as alone as we thought. Even now, years later, I can't think about that cabin without feeling uneasy. Being trapped by the snow was terrifying all on its own, but. But knowing someone was nearby, watching, moving things, leaving signs of their presence. That fear stayed with me long after we left those mountains behind. My name is Brendan, and I was 21 years old when this happened. At the time, I worked the night shift at a small gas station just off a rural highway. It was winter, the kind where the cold seeps through everything no matter how many layers you wear. Snowbanks lined up the parking lot, dirty and tall, and the wind never seemed to stop blowing. I worked evenings into the late night, usually alone. After 10, the store stayed open, but business slowed way down once it got dark. Most of the customers were regulars, truckers, locals grabbing cigarettes, or someone stopping for gas on their way home. I really liked the quiet most nights. It gave me time to think and count the minutes until my shift was over. That changed when he started coming in. The first time I noticed him was a little after nine one night. He walked in slowly, wearing a heavy coat, even though the store was warm. He had a NID cab pulled over his eyes and gloves on his hands. He didn't grab anything right away. He just stood there, looking around like he was trying to memorize the place. When he finally came to the counter, he bought a bottle of water. He didn't say too much, just stared at me while I rang him up. Not angry, not smiling, just staring at me. I told myself to not be weird about it. Some people are just awkward. I've been doing this for a while now, and you get all kinds of different customers. But then it came back the next night. Same time, same clothes, same slow walk around the store. This time, however, he bought a pack of gum. He asked what time I got off work. I kind of hesitated before answering and just gave a vague response. Something like, pretty late. He nodded, like that was enough. The third night, he came in again. By then the pattern was obvious. Always late, always alone, always watching. He started calling me by my name, reading it off my nametag. Something about hearing it from him made my skin crawl. He asked if I liked working nights, asked if I ever got bored being alone. I laughed it off, but inside I felt uneasy. To most, it probably just seems like regular small talk, but there was something about it that just really gave me the creeps. The snow outside kept getting worse as the weeks went on. Some nights the roads were nearly empty, just darkness and blowing snow. On those nights, he still came. I'd see his headlights pull in through the front windows, and my stomach would sink every time. He never did anything outright threatening. That was the worst part. It was always just enough to feel wrong. He'd stand too close to the counter. He'd leaned forward when he talked. Sometimes he wouldn't buy anything at all. Just linger and look around until another customer came in. Then he'd leave. Once, I noticed him watching me clean behind the counter. His eyes followed me, every movement like he was studying me. Another time he had commented on my car, describing it perfectly, even though I never even mentioned it. That's when I realized he must have been watching me outside as well. I started parking closer to the building at this point and keeping my keys between my fingers when I walked in and out, I made sure the back door stayed locked. I told my manager about him, but without anything specific, there really wasn't much they could do. They told me to just call if he caused trouble. One night, during a heavy snowstorm, he came in later than usual. The wind was howling and snow was blowing sideways across the parking lot. I was counting down the last hour of my shift when the door chimed. I stepped inside, snow clinging to his coat and boots. The store was completely empty besides us two. He didn't go to the shelves this time. He walked straight to the counter and stood there, silent. I asked if I could help him, and he just smiled at me. That was actually the first time I'd seen him smile, and it made things worse, not better. He told Me. I seemed tired, said I worked too hard at this job. Then he said something that made my heart completely race. You usually leave right on time, even during the storms. That meant he was watching me leave. I kept my voice steady and finished ringing up his drink. When he left, I locked the door and pretended to clean until my shift ended, even though my hands were shaking. Finally, closing time came. I shut down the register, turned off the lights, and I grabbed my coat. I looked out the window before going outside. The parking lot looked empty. Snow covered everything, fresh and untouched. I stepped out into the cold and quickly walked in my car. That's when I saw it. There was a piece of paper tucked under my windshield wiper underneath all the snow. My heart dropped. I stood there for a moment, debating whether to grab it or just get in the car and leave. Eventually, I pulled it free with shaking hands. It was a note written in messy handwriting. It didn't say much, just that he really enjoyed our talks and hope I stayed safe driving home in the snow. He signed it with no name. I didn't look around. I didn't hesitate. I got in my car and locked the doors and started the engine. My breath came out in short bursts as I pulled out of the lot. The roads were slick, visibly low, but fear pushed me forward. I honestly drove faster than I should have, gripping the wheel tight, checking my mirrors constantly. Every set of headlights behind me made my chest tighten. Every turn felt dangerous, but I didn't slow down until I reached my street. When I finally pulled into my driveway and shut the car off, I sat there for a long time, just breathing. I made it home safe. Nothing followed me. I quit that job not long after I told my manager I just couldn't do nights anymore. But really, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching. I never saw that creepy customer again. I don't know if he stopped coming in or if he just moved on. All I know is that winter still makes me very uneasy. And every time I see a note tucked under a windshield wiper, my stomach dropped just like it did that night. My name is Emily and I was 22 years old when this happened. At the time, I worked at a Walmart in a small town where winter seemed to last forever. February was always the worst month. Gray skies, freezing temperatures, and snow that never fully melted before the next storm rolled in. I worked mostly evening shifts, usually at the front of the store, rotating between self checkout and customer service. On snow days, the store felt strange. Some people rushed in and out, desperate to get home before the roads got worse, others lingered, almost like they didn't want to be alone. The fluorescent lights made everything feel cold and unreal. And the sound of shopping carts echoed louder than usual. That was the setting when I first noticed him. It was snowing heavily that day. Thick flakes were blowing sideways across the parking lot and the roads were already slick. A lot of employees had called off, so the store felt understaffed and tense. I was already working an eight hour shift, and by the time I clocked in, my feet were already cold and sore. It was about an hour into my shift when I saw this man. He stood near the entrance, just past the carts, not grabbing one, not heading inside either. He wore a dark coat and a hood pulled up, even though the storm was pretty warm. At first I assumed he was waiting for someone. But as I worked, I noticed he wasn't moving very much at all. Eventually he just wandered around the aisles. He didn't have a basket, didn't pick anything up. He just walked slowly, stopping at the end of the aisles and watching people pass. When he came near the front, his eyes lingered on me. I felt it before I really noticed it. That uncomfortable feeling of being stared at. I tried to ignore him. Walmart gets all kinds of strange people, especially during the bad weather. Still, something about the way he moved felt off to me. It was too slow, too intentional. Every time I change positions, helping at self checkout, wiping down registers, hand seemed to reappear nearby. A couple of hours passed and he was still there in the store. I watched him stand near the electronics section for a long time, pretending to look at phone cases without touching any of them. Then he drifted back toward the front of the store. When he passed by my register, he smiled at me. It wasn't friendly, it was knowing, like he was amused that I noticed him notice me. During my break, I sat in the break room and just tried to calm myself down. I told myself I'm just overthinking all this. Maybe he had nowhere else to go because of the snow. Maybe he was just bored. Still, when I went back out onto the floor, my shoulders stayed tense. He was still there. By then it had been nearly five hours. I watched him move from department to department, never buying a thing, never leaving the store. At one point I caught him standing near the seasonal section, staring straight at the employee only doors, like he was waiting for someone to come through. My stomach twisted. Eventually he approached my register. He set a single candy bar on the conveyor belt. His hands lingered on the edge of it longer than Necessary? He asked how long I'd been working that day. I answered vaguely. He nodded. And he said something about how long shifts feel. Even longer when the weather's bad. He didn't leave after that. He just went back to wondering. The snow outside got even worse as the evening went on. The parking lot lights glowed against the falling snow, and the store grew quieter as fewer customers came in. I kept checking the time, counting down the minutes until my shift ended. The idea of walking out to my car in the dark made my chest tighten. Near closing time, I realized something that made my blood run cold. He was still there. Yeah. This guy had been in the store during my entire shift. I mentioned it quietly to a co worker of mine, asking if she had noticed him, too. She said she had, and she also thought he was really strange. She said she felt weird about him, but didn't really know what to do. He wasn't breaking any rules. He wasn't bothering anyone directly. Still, the feeling of being watched like that never stopped. When my shift finally ended, I went to the back to grab my coat. I stalled longer than necessary, hoping he'd leave first. When I peeked out onto the floor again, I saw him standing near the front. Close enough to see the exit doors. Close enough to see me. He smiled again. I walked out with another employee, pretending to chat like everything was normal. The cold hit me immediately. Snow crunched under our boots as we crossed the parking lot. I scanned the area constantly, heart pounding. I didn't see him outside. I got into my car quickly and locked the doors. My hands were shaking as I started the engine. Snow covered my windshield. That's when I noticed something. I noticed that something was written in my windshield through the snow. It was some kind of strange face. I just knew it was the guy. It looked like he had drawn it with his fingers. I pulled out of that parking lot immediately. But before I did so, I actually looked up and I saw him standing in the parking lot, staring at me. The roads were slick, visibility terrible, but fear pushed me forward. I got the hell out of there. I drove carefully but fast, checking my mirrors the whole way. Every car behind me felt like a threat. I made it home safely. I sat in my car for a long time before going inside, replaying that day over and over in my head. Nothing technically bad had happened, but the fear was real. The next week, I switched my availability and stopped working late shifts. I never saw him again. Eventually, I left that job altogether. Even now, snow days in February make me uneasy. And whenever someone lingers way too long in a store without a reason. I feel that same chill crawl up my spine. This all happened about 10 years ago, but parts of it still follow me. Some memories fade with time. These never did. Winter always brings them back. At the time, I was a senior at a large university in the South. Winters there weren't brutal like the north, but they had a damp, creeping cold that settled into the bones and made everything feel quieter and heavier. I was deeply in love with my girlfriend, Destinee. We had already survived long distance stretches across continents, and being together felt like something solid in a world that was constantly shifting. The three of us, Destiny, our roommate Teresa, and I shared the lower half of a two story duplex. The building was made of thick concrete slabs painted a loud orange that stood out even on gray winter days. Our whole neighborhood had been built in the 1940s for returning World War II veterans, and over the years students had taken over, repainting the houses in strange pastels pink, teal yellow in winter. The colors almost felt surreal against the bare trees and overcast skies. The neighborhood was called Partywood, and most of the year it actually lived up to the name, music, laughter, people spilling from house to house. But in winter things changed. The streets emptied earlier, the nights felt longer. Sound carried strangely in the cold air. One evening, late in the fall, just as the nights were starting to get cold, Destiny and I came home from a concert. When we walked inside, we found Teresa sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the tv. The screen was filled with static, the soft hiss of white noise filling the room. She looked pale and shaken. Jesus, Theresa, destiny said gently. What's wrong? Teresa looked at us, her eyes wide. There was a face in my window, she said. I saw it. I ran to her bedroom and pulled the curtains back. Outside the yard, still bare, branches of pecan trees swayed lightly in the cold breeze. No movement. No footprints. Nothing. Destiny stayed with Teresa while I went outside, my breath visible as I checked the ground near the window. Again, nothing. Teresa had been drinking that night, and there were empty wine bottles nearby, along with a stack of horror movies. We tried to explain it away, but she was genuinely terrified. That night, as Destiny and I laid in bed, the cold pressing through the walls, we agreed to not dismiss it. The next morning, during my jog through Partywood, the air was sharp and cold. I told my friend Sam what had happened. His reaction wiped the jogger's calm right off me. There's actually been a Peeping Tom around here, he said quietly. People are talking. You need to be careful. That Word peeping stuck with me as the season shifted. For a while, nothing happened. Fall turned to winter. The days shortened. The cold came in waves. The fear faded just enough for us to relax. Then one winter afternoon, I came home to find a police car parked out front. Someone had broken in. While Theresa showered and Destinee slept. They stole underwear from the dryer. They took Teresa's keys, including our house key. The police found no evidence. But their faces told us this wasn't nothing. One officer led me outside. Snow hadn't fallen yet, but the ground was cold and hard. Behind the house, beneath our bedroom window. Sat a chair I had never seen before. Positioned perfectly facing the window. He had been watching us. Winter deepened after that. Teresa taped her curtain shut. Destiny prepared to leave for Germany. Once she hugged me goodbye. The cold wind cut through us both. After she left, the house felt empty and unsafe. Theresa and I stayed up late, drinking. Keeping to the living room where there were no windows. I slept on the couch. Winter night stretched endlessly. One night in January, Teresa was out. The house was silent. Cold air pressed against the walls. I was drunk and miserable, sitting in the bathroom when I heard it crunching. Not leaves. Winter leaves. Frozen, brittle. Slow footsteps. Moving closer. I couldn't move. The sound grew louder, deliberate. Then it just stopped. The bathroom window was high, but something scraped beneath it. Fingers appeared slowly, one by one. Then I finally saw his face. We locked eyes. I screamed so loud and lunged. He fell backward and then vanished into the night. I chased him outside, barefoot, in the cold. But he was gone. The police arrived quickly. They told me the reports had been increasing. We drove around for over an hour. Nothing. Teresa moved out soon after. I stayed winter, dragging on, unable to let go. My friend Sam and I even set up a trap. The cold nights passed. Thankfully, he never returned. Years later, I learned that he went on to hurt someone else. He was never caught. Winter still feels different to me now. Quieter. Watching. Writing this down really helps. Even now. Sa. It.