The dough resisted under Mitchelle's palms, dense and cool in the pre-dawn darkness of the bakery. She pressed harder, folding it over itself with practiced precision, her breath forming small clouds in the unheated kitchen. Outside, frost clung to the windows like lace, and the countryside beyond remained black and silent. This was her favorite time—before the world woke up, before customers arrived with their small talk and expectations.
She'd been working at Breadcrumb & Thistle for three years now, ever since she'd moved to the duplex on Ashwood Lane. The bakery sat at the edge of town, a converted barn with exposed beams and mismatched chairs that tourists found charming. Mitchelle found it necessary. The work was methodical, predictable. Flour, water, salt, yeast. Ratios that never changed. Results you could count on if you followed the rules.
Her hands moved automatically through the motions while her mind wandered to the list she'd started last week. Small things, mostly. The black sedan that had been parked three houses down for two days straight. The cigarette butts outside her door—she didn't smoke, and neither did Mrs. Kowalski in the other half of the duplex. The footsteps in the hallway at odd hours, heavier than her elderly neighbor's shuffle.
Probably nothing. Probably her brain making patterns where none existed, the way it always did. Dr. Reeves had warned her about this during their sessions—hypervigilance, she'd called it. A symptom that might never fully disappear, even years after the fact.
Mitchelle shaped the dough into a round, placed it in a banneton basket, and covered it with a clean towel. The clock above the industrial mixer read 4:47 AM. She had eight more loaves to prepare before opening.
The back door rattled.
She froze, hands still dusted with flour, listening. The wind, probably. It had been gusting all night, throwing branches against the building. But the sound came again—deliberate this time, metal on metal. Someone testing the lock.
Her heartbeat accelerated, that familiar tightness spreading across her chest. She forced herself to breathe slowly, counting to four on the inhale, holding, releasing. The door was solid, the deadbolt new. She'd installed it herself after the old one had seemed too flimsy.
The rattling stopped.
Mitchelle waited in the silence, listening so hard her ears rang. After two full minutes, she moved to the back room where her phone sat charging. No messages. No missed calls. She pulled up the notes app and added a new entry:
November 3rd, 4:48 AM - Someone tried back door at bakery. Did not persist. Left no evidence.
She stared at the entry, then at the list above it. Fourteen observations in nine days. When had it gotten to fourteen?
"Probably nothing," she whispered to the empty kitchen, then returned to her dough.
The morning rush was mercifully brief. Monday mornings brought the regulars—Mr. Haversham with his standing order of sourdough, the gaggle of teachers from the elementary school sharing a box of croissants, young mothers with strollers who lingered over coffee while their toddlers smeared jam on every available surface.
Mitchelle moved through the interactions with practiced efficiency, smiling at the right moments, making the expected small talk. Yes, the weather was turning. No, she hadn't tried that new restaurant in town. Yes, she'd be making the cranberry-walnut loaves for Thanksgiving.
By eleven, the bakery had emptied except for an older man in the corner, nursing a cup of tea and reading a newspaper. Actual paper, not a phone. Mitchelle appreciated that. She began wiping down tables, working her way toward his corner.
"Excuse me," he said as she approached. His voice was soft, accent faintly European. "Is this your establishment?"
"I just work here. The owner's usually in after lunch."
"Ah." He folded his newspaper carefully. "I wanted to compliment the pastries. The kouign-amann especially—not many places outside of Brittany make them properly. You've caramelized the layers without burning them. Difficult to achieve."
Mitchelle felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Thank you. It took a lot of practice."
"I can tell." He stood, leaving exact change beside his cup. "Dedication shows in the details. You should be proud."
After he left, Mitchelle realized she'd been smiling. A real smile, not the customer-service version. Small moments like that made the early mornings worthwhile.
She was closing out the register when her phone buzzed. A text from her landlord:
Exterminators coming tomorrow for your side and Mrs. K's. Termite inspection. Be home by 2 PM.
Mitchelle frowned. She hadn't noticed any termite damage, and the landlord wasn't usually so proactive about maintenance. She typed back a confirmation and made a mental note to tidy up the bedroom—not that she was messy, but strangers in her space always made her anxious.
The afternoon passed in prep work for tomorrow's orders. She mixed dough for ciabatta, portioned butter for croissants, cleaned the ovens until they gleamed. Physical work helped quiet her mind, kept the thoughts from spiraling.
By three o'clock, she was heading home, her ancient Honda struggling up the country roads. The duplex appeared around a bend—a weathered blue structure that had probably been charming forty years ago. Now it sagged slightly on one side, paint peeling, gutters clogged with leaves. But the rent was affordable, and Mitchelle valued privacy over aesthetics.
Mrs. Kowalski's sedan sat in the shared driveway, but the curtains on her side were drawn. The old woman kept odd hours, sometimes playing television loudly at two in the morning, sometimes silent for days. Mitchelle had learned not to worry about it.
She parked and gathered her bag, then paused. The black sedan from last week was back, parked one house down. Same position. She could see someone in the driver's seat, but the angle and tinted windows made identification impossible.
Mitchelle's hand tightened on her keys, the metal edges pressing into her palm. She stood there for a full thirty seconds, watching for movement. The car remained still.
Just someone visiting. Not everything is a threat.
She forced herself to walk normally to her door, unlock it without fumbling, step inside and engage the deadbolt. Only then did she move to the window and peek through the curtains.
The sedan was pulling away, unhurried, disappearing around the bend.
Mitchelle added it to her list.
That evening, she made herself dinner—roasted vegetables and chicken, eaten at the small table overlooking her overgrown backyard. The previous tenant had apparently been a gardener; remnants of raised beds and a trellis stood like skeletons in the tall grass. Mitchelle had meant to clean it up, maybe plant tomatoes, but the project kept getting delayed.
She was washing dishes when she heard it: footsteps in the hallway separating her unit from Mrs. Kowalski's. Heavy footsteps, accompanied by voices—male voices, speaking in a language she didn't recognize. Not English, not Spanish. Something harsher, with sharp consonants.
The voices grew louder, then a door slammed. Mrs. Kowalski's door.
Mitchelle turned off the water, listening. More footsteps, then muffled thumping. Moving furniture? The walls were thin enough that she usually heard the old woman's television, her shuffling movements. But this was different. Multiple people, coordinated activity.
Her phone was in her pocket. She pulled it out, thumb hovering over 911. But what would she say? That her neighbor had visitors? That they were speaking another language and moving furniture?
The sounds continued for another ten minutes, then stopped abruptly. A door opened and closed. Car doors. An engine starting.
Mitchelle moved to the front window. A white panel van was pulling out of the driveway—not Mrs. Kowalski's vehicle. She tried to catch the license plate, but the angle was wrong, and the van moved too quickly.
She stood at the window long after the van disappeared, watching the empty street, the dark windows of Mrs. Kowalski's side of the duplex. No lights came on. No television sounds.
At eleven PM, unable to sleep, Mitchelle went to her bedroom closet and pulled down a shoebox from the top shelf. Inside were the things from before—police reports, court documents, restraining orders that had ultimately meant nothing. She kept them as a reminder that her instincts had been right then, even when everyone else had said she was overreacting.
She opened the most recent report, reading the officer's notes: Complainant exhibits signs of paranoia. States ex-boyfriend has been following her despite restraining order. Unable to provide concrete evidence. Recommends psychiatric evaluation.
That had been four years ago, in her old city, in her old life. The "paranoia" had ended when they'd found him in her apartment, hiding in the closet, with zip ties and duct tape in his pockets.
After that, people had stopped saying she was overreacting.
Mitchelle closed the box and put it away. She wasn't that same frightened woman anymore. She'd learned to trust her instincts. And her instincts were screaming that something was wrong at Ashwood Lane.
She pulled out her phone and started a new document, separate from the scattered notes. At the top, she typed: Evidence Log - November 2025
Then she began transferring every observation, every oddity, every moment of unease from the past two weeks. Dates, times, details. The way Dr. Reeves had taught her—facts without interpretation, patterns without assumption.
By midnight, she had three pages.
By one AM, she'd added security camera links to her Amazon cart.
By two AM, she finally fell asleep with her phone beside her pillow and a kitchen knife in the nightstand drawer.
The exterminators arrived at 1:55 PM the next day, five minutes early. Mitchelle had taken a half-day from the bakery, and she watched from her living room as a white panel van pulled up—not the same one from last night, but similar. Two men in gray uniforms got out, carrying clipboards and equipment cases.
She opened the door before they knocked.
"Ms. Carter?" The older one was balding, mid-fifties, with a professional smile. "We're here for the termite inspection. Should take about an hour for both units."
"Sure." She stepped back, letting them in. "Do you need me to stay?"
"Not necessary, but you're welcome to. We'll be checking the basement, crawl spaces, attic access. Pretty routine."
They moved through her apartment with efficient thoroughness, tapping walls, examining baseboards, taking notes. Mitchelle trailed behind them, watching. Not because she thought they were fake exterminators—she'd looked up the company, confirmed the appointment with her landlord—but because strangers in her space made her skin crawl.
When they finished her side, they knocked on Mrs. Kowalski's door. No answer. The older exterminator tried the knob—unlocked—and called out, "Hello? Exterminator service!"
Silence.
"Mrs. Kowalski might be out," Mitchelle offered, though the old woman's car was still in the driveway.
They entered anyway, and Mitchelle lingered in the doorway between units, watching them disappear into identical rooms arranged in mirror image to her own. She'd never been inside Mrs. Kowalski's place. Never had a reason to.
The younger exterminator emerged from the bedroom, frowning. "Hey, check this out."
His partner joined him, and they spoke in low voices. Mitchelle strained to hear but caught only fragments: "...completely empty... not even dust..."
Curious, she stepped into the hallway. "Everything okay?"
The older one turned, his professional smile back in place but not quite reaching his eyes. "All clear here. No termites in either unit. You're good to go."
They packed up quickly after that, handed her a carbon-copy receipt, and left.
Mitchelle stood in the hallway after they'd gone, staring at Mrs. Kowalski's closed door. Completely empty. What did that mean? The old woman's car was outside. Her mail accumulated in the shared box. But the apartment was empty?
She tried the knob. Still unlocked.
This was breaking and entering. Trespassing. She should close the door, go back to her side, mind her own business.
Instead, Mitchelle pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The layout was identical to hers—living room with kitchenette, short hallway to bedroom and bathroom. But that's where the similarities ended. Her side was lived-in, cluttered with books and baking supplies and the accumulated debris of daily life.
Mrs. Kowalski's side was a stage set.
The furniture was there—couch, table, chairs—but nothing else. No photographs, no mail, no dishes in the sink. No dust, as the exterminator had noted. The refrigerator hummed but was empty when she opened it, shelves wiped clean. The bathroom held a single toothbrush, never used, and a bar of soap still in its wrapper.
The bedroom was the same. Bed made with hospital corners, closet containing three identical house dresses, dresser drawers empty except for one containing a single pair of slippers.
No one lived here. No one had ever lived here.
Mitchelle backed into the hallway, her heart hammering. She pulled out her phone with shaking hands and took pictures—every room, every staged detail. Then she retreated to her own side and locked the door, both locks, plus the chain.
She pulled up her evidence log and typed:
November 4th, 2:30 PM - Mrs. Kowalski's apartment is staged. No actual signs of habitation. Car remains in driveway but owner has not been seen in 3 days. Men visited night of November 3rd with panel van. Purpose unknown.
Then she did what she should have done days ago: she called the police.
The officer who responded was young, probably mid-twenties, with the bored expression of someone used to false alarms and neighborhood disputes. He stood in Mrs. Kowalski's staged living room, looking around with mild interest.
"So you're saying your neighbor doesn't actually live here?"
"I'm saying something's wrong," Mitchelle corrected. "The apartment is completely empty of personal items. No one's seen her in days. There were strange men here last night—"
"Strange men?"
"Moving things. Loud voices. Then this." She gestured at the empty space.
The officer walked through the apartment, opening closets, checking rooms. When he returned, his expression hadn't changed. "Could be she moved out and the landlord staged it for new tenants. That's pretty common."
"Her car is still here."
"Could have been picked up by family. Or maybe she has multiple vehicles." He pulled out a notepad. "What's the landlord's name?"
Mitchelle provided it, along with every detail she could remember. The officer wrote it down with the air of someone humoring an anxious civilian.
"I'll give the landlord a call, make sure everything checks out. But honestly, ma'am, this looks like a normal vacant apartment to me. No signs of disturbance, no evidence of a crime."
"What about the men last night? The van?"
"Could've been movers. Or family helping her pack." He closed his notepad. "Look, I understand you're concerned, but without any actual evidence of wrongdoing, there's not much we can do. If your neighbor doesn't turn up in a few days, you can file a missing persons report."
After he left, Mitchelle sat in her living room, staring at the wall she shared with the empty apartment next door. The officer's dismissal felt familiar—the same tone people had used before, when she'd tried to explain that something was wrong, that someone was watching her.
But she'd been right then. She'd had to wait until it was almost too late for anyone to believe her.
She wasn't going to wait this time.
Mitchelle opened her laptop and began researching: property records for the duplex, news articles about disappearances in the area, forums about neighborhood safety. She cross-referenced Mrs. Kowalski's car registration, searched social media for anyone by that name.
Nothing. The old woman didn't seem to exist outside of this duplex.
By midnight, Mitchelle had compiled a timeline and printed it out, pinning it to the wall of her bedroom where she could study it. Fourteen incidents over two weeks, culminating in a staged apartment and a missing neighbor who might never have existed.
She took a picture of the timeline, backed it up to three different cloud services, and emailed a copy to herself.
Then she ordered the security cameras, paid for overnight shipping, and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow, she'd start watching back. Whoever was out there, whatever was happening in this duplex, she was going to document everything. And this time, when she went to the police, she'd have evidence they couldn't dismiss.
This time, they'd have to believe her.