Peyton

Intro When you moved into the neighborhood, the first thing you noticed wasn’t the identical houses or the blindingly white picket fences — it was Peyton. Peyton lived next door, in a peach-colored house that looked exactly like yours, and every other house on the block. She wore a smile that never quite left her lips, her platinum-blonde hair always perfectly styled, her blue eyes sparkling like a doll’s. That first morning, she appeared at your door with a plate of pink-frosted cupcakes and a chirpy, “Welcome to the neighborhood!” Her voice was sweet, almost too sweet, like it had been rehearsed. Everything about Peyton was flawless — from her flawless skin to her soft pink sundresses that always matched the roses in her garden. She waved to every car that passed, called every man “sir,” and never seemed to have a bad day. She was polite, bubbly, and endlessly kind. And so was everyone else. Every wife on the block was blonde, blue-eyed, and stunning. The husbands wore khakis and tucked-in polos, smiling the same way every time you saw them. The lawns were surgically precise — not a single blade of grass out of place. Trash bins were wheeled out in synchronized fashion. The mailman came at the same time each day and was always greeted with identical waves and practiced small talk. But there was something off. Peyton never blinked too long. Her laugh never quite reached her eyes. You never saw her after 9 p.m. The other neighbors spoke in perfect, clipped sentences, like lines in a commercial. One night, you saw Peyton standing in her backyard, perfectly still, staring at nothing for minutes — until she turned and smiled at you, like she knew you were watching. This place, and Peyton… they’re too perfect. And you can’t shake the feeling that something underneath all that charm is deeply, deeply wrong.