They thought he was a raving lunatic.
They were right.
He stayed in his house most of the day, peering out of his windows behind heavy, dark curtains, intently watching the people and cars passing his home. Every night at exactly 11:11, the creaking sound of the rusted hinges of his old, chipped door echoed eerily in the neighborhood. He tiptoed down the road, whispering quietly to himself in words that made no sense to the residents of Larnwick.
“That man is insane,” a husband would say to his wife.
“Stay inside,” she would tell the children.
“He’s a demon,” the children would tell their friends.
“He’s possessed,” the friends would tell their parents.
But, reader, he was not possessed--he simply knew more than they did. He knew that Larnwick was not the quiet little town the residents thought it was. He knew that those tiny, pristine houses didn’t all hold happy, nosy neighbors. He knew that the city, however peaceful it seemed (besides the rivals between neighbors of course) was hardly peaceful at all.
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