Hello Readers, throwaway because I still live two houses away from him and the thought of him knowing I posted this makes my skin crawl. I’ve been wanting to write this out for months, but every time I try, I remember his smile—that big, wave-from-the-driveway, “how’s the family?” smile—and I freeze. What started as thinking we had the friendliest new neighbor on the block turned into realizing his constant friendliness was hiding a serious, dangerous problem that affected our entire street. This unfolded from September 2024 to November 2025, and even though it’s “resolved,” our neighborhood doesn’t feel the same anymore.
I’m 36F, married to “Mike” (38M), with a 7-year-old daughter and 5-year-old son. We live in a quiet, family-oriented subdivision outside Phoenix—big lots, community pool, kids biking in packs, everyone knows each other’s names and dogs. We’ve been here nine years; it’s the kind of place you feel safe letting your kids play in the front yard until dark.
The new neighbor—“Todd”—moved into the house diagonally across from us in September 2024. Early 40s, single (or so we thought), worked from home in “tech sales.” Friendly from day one: helped the moving truck back in, introduced himself to every house with a handshake and a “happy to be part of the community.” Always smiling—big, open, genuine-looking smile. Waved every morning, asked about our kids by name, remembered Mike’s fantasy football team woes, complimented my garden. Brought over homemade brownies his “mom taught him to make.” Seemed perfect.
At first, we loved him.
October: small things stood out.
Todd was outside a lot. Mowing his already-perfect lawn multiple times a week. Washing his car (same black SUV) every weekend. Walking the block “for exercise”—always the same route, always smiling and waving, even if you didn’t wave first.
He knew details.
Asked my daughter about her soccer practice before I’d mentioned she played.
Commented to Mike, “Rough night with the baby monitor going off?” the morning after our son had a nightmare.
We laughed—maybe he heard through open windows.
November: the friendliness ramped up.
He’d appear when I pulled in from work: “Need help with those groceries?”
If the kids played outside, he’d be at his window or on his porch, watching—always with that smile.
Started leaving things: a kids’ book on our porch “for your little readers,” a six-pack for Mike “for the game tonight.”
We thanked him, but it felt… frequent.
December: holidays.
Todd decorated big—lights, inflatables, music. Hosted a “neighborhood open house.” Half the street went. He was charming—knew everyone’s names, asked about their holidays, took photos with kids on his lap for Santa pics.
My daughter came home saying, “Mr. Todd says I’m his favorite on the street.”
Cute, right?
But something nagged me.
January 2025: the cameras.
We installed a Ring doorbell for package security.
Caught Todd at 2 a.m. multiple nights—walking slowly past our house, phone flashlight off, just… looking.
Not every night. But often.
We told ourselves: insomniac, checking for burglars.
February: the gifts turned odd.
A necklace for me on the porch—“Saw this and thought of you.”
Expensive. No note, but his handwriting on the box.
I returned it: “Too generous, thank you but no.”
He smiled: “Just being friendly.”
March: escalation.
Our daughter said Todd showed her photos on his phone—of her playing in our yard. Taken from his side of the fence.
I confronted him calmly.
He laughed: “I take pictures of the whole street—the kids are adorable. I have hundreds.”
I asked him to delete hers.
He said, “Of course,” but his smile didn’t change.
That night, camera caught him in our backyard—standing by the kids’ playset, phone out.
We called police.
Non-emergency—trespassing.
Officer talked to him. Todd cried, said he was “lonely,” “missed his niece,” “didn’t mean harm.”
Warning issued.
He stopped—for a month.
April: the letters.
Handwritten, in our mailbox.
To me: “You’re the most beautiful woman on the street. I think about you all the time.”
To my daughter: a child’s note—“You’re my favorite friend. Come play anytime.”
We went to police again.
Restraining order filed.
May: he violated it.
Showed up at my son’s T-ball game—sat three rows behind us, waving when I looked.
Police arrested him.
Search of his house: thousands of photos—our family, other kids on the street, taken from windows, zoomed in.
Computers: folders labeled with our names, other neighbors’.
No child porn, but obsessive surveillance.
He’d been doing it since moving in.
Psych evaluation: severe untreated mental illness—delusional disorder, erotomania (believed I was in love with him), stalking tendencies.
He’d chosen our street because of me—saw my photo on a community Facebook page years earlier.
Pled guilty to stalking.
Sentenced to treatment, probation, no-contact order.
House sold in September 2025.
New neighbors seem normal.
But we don’t wave as much anymore.
Kids don’t play in the front.
We moved the playset to the back.
I vary routes home.
My daughter still asks why “Mr. Todd moved.”
I say, “He needed to live somewhere else.”
My neighbor’s friendly smile hid a serious problem.
Not just loneliness.
Obsession.
Delusion.
Danger.
We welcomed him.
And he watched us.
