The Neighbor's Jar

Everyone said she was harmless. Quiet. Polite. The kind of neighbor

who knocks once and waits. She borrowed sugar. Then flour. Then nothing at

all — just smiles in the hallway. People started dying on her floor. One every few months.

Always alone. Always locked from the inside. Witnesses remembered the same detail:

she asked to come in for just a second. She’d look around, comment on the apartment, ask where they kept

their kitchen knives. Like small talk. The bodies showed no struggle. No defensive wounds.

Just precision. Calm. Personal. Police finally reviewed hallway footage.

Every victim let her inside. Every time, she left carrying the same empty jar.