Looking Out the Window-A short story

 The air was still and heavy, the kind of summer night where a distant car alarm sounds like a personal affront. Jayden, unable to sleep, had drifted to the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. The streetlights cast a sickly yellow glow on the empty street below, illuminating the familiar rows of parked cars and manicured lawns. Everything was ordinary, peaceful, and utterly boring. He was just about to turn away when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the old oak tree across the road. It wasn't a neighbor coming home late, but something else—something that moved with an unnatural, jerky gait. At first, Jayden thought it was a drunk person, but as the figure entered the pool of light, his breath hitched. It was a man, but his limbs were bent at impossible angles, as if every joint were a hinge swinging the wrong way. The man's head was cocked to one side, his face hidden by a curtain of matted, dark hair.

The figure shambled toward the house directly across from Jayden's own, a quiet, unassuming bungalow owned by the retired couple, the Hendersons. Jayden watched, a cold dread coiling in his stomach. The man stopped at their front door, but instead of knocking, he began a slow, deliberate motion. He raised one arm, his fingers ending in long, black nails, and dragged them across the wooden door with a loud, grating screeeech.

The sound was agonizing, a sound that should have woken the entire neighborhood, but the street remained silent. The figure seemed to notice this and paused, his head tilting further as if listening. Then, without warning, the man’s entire body contorted. He bent backward until his head nearly touched his feet, his spine cracking audibly. He then "poured" himself through the Henderson's mail slot. Jayden heard a muffled thud, a pause, and then the faint, piercing sound of a woman screaming, cut abruptly short.

Jayden stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet. He landed on the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs. The world outside his window was no longer boring. It was a canvas for a horror he could never have imagined, a darkness that had just seeped into the heart of his peaceful, ordinary neighborhood. He scrambled to his feet, fumbling for his phone, his mind racing with impossible questions. What did he just see? Who would believe him? And as he looked back toward the Henderson's house, the street was once again perfectly silent, with only the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights to witness the horror that had just occurred.