The Dark Corner of the Backyard

I. The Solemn Warning

Alex had only been in the quiet suburban house for two weeks, but he was already busy customizing his space. He was installing a bright, motion-sensor floodlight in his backyard, a necessary upgrade given how pitch-black the area got after sundown.

“That’s a fine piece of equipment you’ve got there, son,” a voice called over the low wooden fence.

It was Mr. Robert, his elderly neighbor. Robert was the picture of suburban amiability—a kind face, a steady hand, and always tending to his immaculate rose bushes.

“Morning, Mr. Robert. Just a little floodlight. Don’t like how dark it gets out here.”

Mr. Robert paused, his silver pruning shears hanging motionless. The pleasant smile vanished, replaced by a look of solemn, unblinking seriousness.

“I have some advice for you, son. A piece of local wisdom, if you will.”

Alex, slightly unnerved by the sudden shift in demeanor, nodded. “Go on.”

“You can install all the lights you want, but you must promise me one thing: Never turn on your backyard light after 11 PM.”

Alex chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “Why? Is there a neighborhood watch rule? Or do we have coyotes running around?”

Mr. Robert slowly shook his head, his eyes boring into Alex’s. “No watch, no coyotes. Just… a custom. A very important custom around here. If you want a peaceful existence, you respect it. Never turn on that light after 11 PM.”

The intensity in the old man’s eyes sent a chill down Alex’s spine. It wasn’t a casual suggestion; it was an absolute, non-negotiable taboo.

“Right,” Alex said, forcing a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the heads-up, Mr. Robert.”

Mr. Robert’s smile returned, just as quickly and normally as it had left. “Good lad. Have a fine day.” He turned back to his roses, leaving Alex with a lingering, unsettling feeling.

 

II. The Blinding Reveal

 

Two nights later, the warning was nothing but a nagging curiosity. It was 11:17 PM. Alex was restless, the silence of the night heavy and complete. He was reading, but his gaze kept drifting to the patio door, which looked out onto the velvety, absolute darkness of his yard.

A custom? A tradition? It was nonsense.

THUD.

A soft, muffled impact came from Mr. Robert’s side of the fence. Then, a low, grating sound—like something heavy being dragged over dirt.

Alex froze, his blood running cold. His heart began to pound a frantic rhythm. It was the moment of truth.

He crept to the window, peering into the blackness. He could see nothing.

CLANG. A metallic scrape, likely a shovel hitting a rock.

Curiosity obliterated fear. Alex’s hand shot out to the floodlight switch. He paused for a breath, the image of Mr. Robert’s dead-serious eyes flashing in his mind.

Click!

The powerful floodlight flared on, bathing Alex’s yard and a significant portion of Mr. Robert’s yard in blinding, hostile white light.

Alex gasped, pressing his face against the glass.

He saw Mr. Robert, standing near a dilapidated shed. The light had caught him mid-action.

There was a freshly dug patch of earth next to the shed. Mr. Robert was holding a shovel, and his body was hunched over a large, dark blue tarp lying on the ground.

As the light slammed into him, Mr. Robert slowly straightened up. His face, usually benevolent, was now a mask of utter, cold malice, stripped bare by the sudden illumination. It was the face of a hunter caught by its prey.

And on the tip of the shovel Mr. Robert held, Alex saw a smear of something dark and wet—a sickening crimson-brown.

“Mr… Mr. Robert!” Alex choked out, his voice a strangled whisper.

Mr. Robert didn’t move. He simply stared, his eyes twin black pits fixed on the light source.

Alex slammed the switch off. Click!

Darkness crashed back in, heavier and more terrifying than before.

 

III. The Stalker

 

Alex backed away from the window, hyperventilating. He had seen too much. The warning wasn’t about a custom; it was about operational security. Mr. Robert was a killer, and his backyard was his burial ground.

The next few days were a blur of paralyzing fear. Alex didn’t dare call the police—he had no proof, just a brief glimpse of a disturbed man with a shovel and some mud.

He stayed inside, blinds shut tight. But the tension only amplified.

The next afternoon, Alex found an envelope tucked into his front door. No stamp, no address.

Inside was a single, neatly folded note, written in elegant cursive:

I warned you. There are no customs here. Now, this is going to get VERY personal.

That night, Alex sat in his living room, lights blazing. He picked up the phone, only to find the dial tone was dead. The killer was cutting off his escape.

A soft, rhythmic scratching began to come from his back door. Someone was testing the lock.

Then, the sound moved to his bedroom wall. A deliberate, slow tap-tap-tap, followed by a longer scratch.

Alex crept to his bedroom window, heart threatening to tear through his ribs. He didn’t look into his own yard. He looked across to Mr. Robert’s bedroom window.

Mr. Robert was standing there, staring back.

He reached up, and with a measured motion, he flicked on his own bedroom light.

The sudden, harsh light blinded Alex, forcing him to shield his eyes. Mr. Robert was violating his own rule, using the light as a tool of psychological warfare.

As Alex blinked through his fingers, he saw Mr. Robert holding something small and metallic. A quick flash of light reflected off it.

BANG!

The bulb in Alex’s lamp exploded, showering the room in sparks. Darkness.

Alex screamed, scrambling back.

MR. ROBERT (V.O., calm and utterly devoid of emotion) It is well past 11 PM, Alex.

 

IV. The Twist

 

Alex spent the next hour hiding in the basement, shaking, until the sirens arrived. He had managed to text his brother before the phone lines went completely dead.

The police swarmed the property. They found the blue tarp behind Mr. Robert’s shed. They found the freshly dug earth.

A detective, a large man named Miller, approached Alex while the forensic team worked.

“We found something, son. It’s… bad.”

Alex swallowed hard. “The body?”

Miller rubbed his jaw. “In a way. It’s what he was burying under that new soil.”

Miller pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a single, beautifully crafted, silver bird figurine.

“It belonged to his wife,” Miller explained, his voice flat. “She passed two months ago. It was a terrible, long illness. He was devastated. He told us he was burying her favorite things in her favorite spot—the corner by the shed.”

Alex frowned, confused. “But… the shovel. The red stain. The warning!”

“The stain was rose fertilizer, the kind with iron in it. It looks red when wet,” Miller said, pointing to Mr. Robert’s pristine roses. “And the warning… well, that’s where things get complicated.”

Miller paused, looking Alex right in the eye.

“Mr. Robert is a very particular man. He works as a mortician. He has a rare, severe form of photosensitivity—allergies to bright artificial light, especially after dark. It gives him terrible migraines. He warned you because he hates the light. He cherishes the darkness.”

Alex stumbled backward, his mind reeling. “But the note! ‘Very personal!’ The gun! He shot my light!”

Miller sighed, looking toward Mr. Robert’s house where the old man was being led away in handcuffs.

“When we questioned him about the note, he was hysterical. He admits to writing it. He said you broke his trust, and he snapped. He grabbed his air rifle—he’s an old hobbyist—and shot the bulb out of pure, frantic rage because the bright, flickering light was giving him a paralyzing migraine.”

“Wait,” Alex whispered, sinking onto a patio chair. “You mean… he’s not a killer? He’s just… an eccentric old man?”

“He is now,” Detective Miller said grimly. “He’s a man who made a death threat and fired a weapon at your property. He’ll be charged with criminal damage and assault.”

Miller paused, kneeling down to look at Alex.

“But here’s the real twist, son. The real reason he was so determined to keep that area dark.”

Miller pointed to the fence, then to the corner of Alex’s yard, directly where the floodlight had been aimed.

“While we were searching his property, one of the officers noticed something interesting in your yard. The floodlight was shining on your side, where it never was before, remember?”

Miller pulled out a clear plastic baggie. Inside was a tarnished, heavy gold wedding ring.

“We found this buried exactly two feet beneath your rose bushes, right along the shared fence line. It’s registered to a woman named Sarah Vance, who disappeared from this house eight years ago. Sarah Vance, the woman who owned this house before the last two renters.”

Miller stared at the ring, then back at the dark, desolate corner of Alex’s backyard.

“The warning wasn’t for you, Alex. It was for him. Mr. Robert knew that bright, modern light would eventually catch something in your yard that he, the man who lives in the shadows, had been trying to forget for almost a decade. He was protecting his neighbor’s secret, not his own.”

Alex looked at his beautiful, newly purchased house. The house he had saved for years to buy.

He realized the horror wasn’t lurking in the darkness of his neighbor’s yard. It was buried right beneath his own feet.