He lives across the street from you, his house hidden behind tall bushes. You’ve only seen him a few times, doing ordinary things, but he made them look creepy. He’s a tall man with long spidery legs, and a look in his eyes that could kill. Every once in a while, you’ll look over at his house and see a curtain pushed hastily back in place, where he’d been watching you.

You have never actually seen this man- Mr. Scotch is his name- do anything, other than act creepy. He had been digging in his yard one night, when you had come home late from the office. He seemed to be digging what appeared to be- graves. Two of them, to be exact. He looks up, and gives a happily creepy wave. That can’t be just a coincidence, you think, so you rush home and tell your spouse about them. A very sad look flashes across her face for an instant. She tells you that his dogs had just gotten run over and he was burying them. Then why would he smile and wave? You wonder, but don’t say these things to you wife. She already thinks your crazy. You go up the steps to your bedroom and try to fall asleep, but you can hear the shovel hitting the frozen ground- thwack! - So loud that it even enters your thoughts.

You wake up early in the morning, too early for normal people, and find that the two graves still in his backyard. No bodies fill them- yet. You peer out your window, through the morning fog, and then you see them, two black bags, being lugged by Mr. Scotch. They are leaking a blackish fluid onto his yard. This isn’t right, and you contemplate going back to sleep, but then, Mr. Scotch looks up, right at you, and smiles. It wasn’t a normal smile either, but a twisted one, like we had just shared a secret that made him as giddy as a schoolgirl. Horrified, you take your wife’s advice; pass it off as a dream, and fall back to sleep.

The next morning you don’t wake up. You’re looking down at your own body, a knife buried deep in your belly. One of the same knifes you saw Mr. Scotch received in the mail not two months before. No one listened, Not Mrs. Craven, the quiet woman down the street, or any of your neighbors, not even your own wife, and now your dead. You hear your neighbor Mrs. Biddy knock on the door with your mail. They must have delivered it wrong again. She walks into your house, her steps echoing off the wood floor. She calls out your name, climbing the stairs, once, twice, then goes silent when she opens your door to find the pool of blood dripping from your fingers onto the floor. A single, resounding scream escapes her mouth. The police will soon be on their way.
Why did it have to be you? Why didn’t anyone listen? These thoughts swirl in your head. Suddenly, they stop, and you realize it’s time to leave this world and head to the next. What awaited you, you didn’t know. You could no longer see Mrs. Biddy, your room, or anything. One last thought lingers in your mind- Mr. Scotch- laughing, because he’s won. No one will ever know he killed you. “No!!!!!” you yell, and the house returns with a pain in your chest. You must tell someone, anyone, what had happened, you must! With your last breath, you whisper into the nearest persons ear,” Mr. Scotch is the monster who killed me.”
Then as the last wisps of your life fade, you think, what about the black bag?
Who was in it?