Let’s paint the scene. 2014. Suburban New Jersey. A couple - Derek and Maria Broaddus, move into what was supposed to be their dream home. We're talkin’ six bedrooms, posh AF, white-picket-fence energy. But hun… dreams don’t last long in this house. Because within DAYS of closing the sale, the nightmares began.

They got a letter.

And no, not a cute “Welcome to the neighbourhood!” fruit basket situation. This letter was anonymous… handwritten… and signed The Watcher.

Yeah. The Watcher. Straight outta Hell’s neighbourhood watch.

The letter said:

"My grandfather watched the house in the 1920s. My father watched in the 1960s. It is now my time. Do you know what lies within the walls of 657 Boulevard?"

EXCUSE ME SIR, WHAT?

It gets nastier. The Watcher knew details about their kids, like their nicknames and ages. They talked about watching them from afar. They asked things like, “Have they found out what’s in the walls yet?” Like this was a twisted Easter egg hunt from the underworld.

Naturally, Derek and Maria were like, “Hell. To. The. No.” They went full FBI, hired private investigators, even DNA tested the letters (yes girl, CSI vibes), but no one - no one - could identify The Watcher.

Police were useless. Neighbours were suspicious. The house sat haunted by paranoia.

They never even moved in.

And just to slap some ghost pepper on the wound, the house eventually inspired a Netflix series. But let’s be real, the true story is waaaay creepier than the dramatized version.

No one knows who The Watcher is. To this day, they’re still out there. Watching. Waiting. Creeping.

👁️ Moral of the story?
If a house feels too good to be true, it probably comes with a side of satanic pen pals. Trust your gut, your tarot cards, and if your house ever whispers “get out” - pack your crystals and RUN!

Would you have moved in or burnt that bitch down with lavender smoke and a flamethrower? 🔥👀 Drop it in the comments, you brave little heathens.