Cash on Delivery: The Neighbor Next Door Snapped

Six months into my new apartment, and out of all the milk Id ordered for half a year, Id only managed to drink five.

The rest had all vanished down the gullet of the elderly woman next door.

I installed a camera; she showed up in a mask.

I woke up early to grab it; she was even earlier.

Finally, I resorted to my last trick: cash on delivery.

I thought my troubles were over.

Seven days later, the building manager stood at my door, his face grim.

He handed me a piece of paper. Four words on it turned me to stone.

Id moved into this apartment complex six months ago. To catch a few extra minutes of sleep each morning, Id subscribed to a fresh milk delivery service. The milkman would drop a bottle into the milk box by my door before six AM daily. My usual wake-up time was seven-thirty. After Id washed up, Id open the milk box.

Empty.

At first, I assumed the milkman had forgotten. I called to inquire. He insisted, quite adamantly, that hed delivered it. Hed been delivering to this complex for three years, he said, never once made a mistake. Perhaps a neighbors mischievous child had taken it, I thought.

The next day, the milk box was empty again. The third day, still nothing. I was getting annoyed. Three consecutive days C this wasn't normal. I told the milkman, Please send me a message tomorrow after youve delivered the milk. He agreed.

The fourth morning, my phones vibration woke me before six AM. It was the milkmans message: Milk delivered. I immediately shot out of bed and rushed to the door.

I opened it.

The milk box was empty.

The motion-sensor light outside was still glowing faintly. A lingering chill in the air suggested someone had been there just moments ago. This meant someone had taken the milk in the mere seconds between me receiving the message and opening my door. Who would be so utterly bored? And every single day?

I decided to install a camera. I ordered it online, and it arrived the next day. I mounted it in a discreet corner above my door, positioning it to clearly capture my doorway and the area directly opposite. I connected it to my phone app and set up motion detection alerts. After all that, I felt a good deal more at ease. I wanted to see just who this mysterious individual was, so obsessed with a single bottle of my milk.

The fifth morning, my phone buzzed precisely at 5:50 AM. It was a motion detection push notification. I immediately opened the app. A familiar figure appeared on the live feed. It was old Mrs. Davison, my next-door neighbor. She was retired and usually very friendly. When I first moved in, shed even brought me a plate of dumplings. Seeing me, a young woman, always alone, shed frequently fuss over me.

Skylar, you work too hard; you need to take care of yourself.

Skylar, are you seeing anyone?

I couldnt believe it was her.

On the screen, she was wearing pajamas, her hair disheveled. A large blue face mask covered almost half of her face. She walked up to my door, skillfully opened my milk box, glanced left and right, then took out the milk bottle. She quickly turned and went back into her own apartment. The entire process took less than ten seconds.

I stared at my phone screen, utterly stunned. It really was her. I rewound the video. She seemed to know where the camera was, deliberately avoiding its direct gaze. The mask was also for concealment. She knew this was stealing.

A surge of anger, unidentifiable, rose within me. I thought of her as a kind, elder neighbor. She was treating me like an idiot. A bottle of milk wasnt worth much, but I couldnt swallow this insult. I saved the video. I had the evidence.

But confronting her directly? I hesitated. She was a neighbor, after all. If we fell out, it would be incredibly awkward seeing each other every day. Plus, she was old. What if I said something too harsh and she had a heart attack? I decided to give her another chance. I planned to beat her to it.

The next day, I set my alarm for five-thirty. It was still dark when I woke. I didnt turn on the lights. I crept to the door and peered through the peephole. The hallway was pitch black, save for the faint green glow of the emergency exit light in the distance. I waited patiently.

At five forty-five, I heard the familiar footsteps of the milkman and the gentle clinking of glass bottles. The sound echoed clearly in the hallway. The milkman stopped at my door, opened the milk box, placed the bottle inside, and closed it. Then, he moved on to the next apartment.

I waited until his footsteps faded, silently counting to ten. Then, I yanked the door open.

The doorway was empty.

The milk box was empty too.

I froze. How was that possible? Id been watching through the peephole the entire time. I hadnt seen anyone approach. I immediately checked my phone. The camera app hadnt registered any motion detection alerts. I double-checked the app settings C everything was fine. I pulled up the recording for that time slot. The screen was completely black. Nothing.

I understood then. She knew the cameras blind spots. She must have come from the other side of the stairs, crouching low, staying out of the cameras view. Then, she'd silently taken the milk. I even suspected she might have been waiting, hidden around the stairwell, ready to act the moment the milkman left. Thats how she managed to do it all before I even opened my door.

A chill ran down my spine. This wasnt just petty theft. This was a pathological obsession. She was going to great lengths for this bottle of milk. Calculating timings, routes, perhaps even mapping out my daily routine. How could I, a young woman constantly working overtime, possibly outwit a retired woman who dedicated all her cunning to this?

That afternoon, leaving work, I ran into her in the elevator.

Skylar, back from work? she greeted me with a warm smile, her face radiating kindness. She held a basket of groceries.

Oh, Mrs. Davison, off to buy groceries? I forced a smile.

Yes, going to make something nice for your Uncle Tom tonight. She looked at me, her eyes full of grandmotherly concern.

I looked at her smiling face. I couldn't reconcile it with the masked, stealthy figure from the early hours of the morning. This kind of person she was terrifying.

I decided to give up on trying to outsmart her. Confronting her directly still felt wrong. What if she made a scene, crying and collapsing? Id never be able to explain myself. Call the police? For a bottle of milk, the officers would just mediate.

I thought and thought. I wasnt trying to prove she stole my milk. I just wanted to drink the milk I paid for. If her target was the milk in the box, then Id just make sure there was no milk in the box.

I pulled out my phone and found the milk companys customer service number. I had one more option. My last option.

The call connected. I told the customer service representative that I wanted to change my milk delivery method.

Hello, madam, how may I help you?

I dont want the milkman to put the milk in the milk box anymore, I said.

Is there an issue with the milk box?

No, I dont want to pre-pay anymore. I want to switch to cash on delivery.

The representative sounded a little surprised. Madam, most of our customers pre-pay monthly or annually; its more cost-effective.

I know, thats fine. I dont mind the hassle. My tone was firm. I want the milkman to knock on my door every morning and Ill pay him directly when I pick up the milk.

The representative was silent for a few seconds. Madam, in that case, youll need to have exact change ready every day. Also, our milkmen are very busy with morning deliveries and might not be able to knock at a fixed time.

No problem, I accept that, I said. A general timeframe is fine, between six and six-thirty, Ill be home waiting. To finally drink my milk, I was willing to wake up early.

Alright, madam, Ive made a note for you. Starting tomorrow, well provide you with cash-on-delivery service, with single payments each time.

Thank you. I hung up, a weight lifted from my shoulders. I admitted it, I lost. I couldnt outwit a cunning habitual thief. I could only use this clumsy, yet most effective, method to protect my milk.

Cash on delivery. She couldnt snatch it from the milkman, could she? She couldnt pay for it for me, could she? Thinking this, I even looked forward to tomorrow morning. I imagined Mrs. Davison, sneaking to my milk box as usual, opening it.

Empty.

What expression would she have? Disappointment? Anger? Would she think the milkman had forgotten to deliver? Then, day after day, shed open that empty milk box, eventually realizing her free milk was gone. This feeling was more satisfying than confronting her directly.

That night, I slept exceptionally well.

The next morning, I woke precisely at six, without an alarm. I walked to the living room, brewed a cup of tea, and sat on the sofa to wait.

At six-fifteen, a soft knock came from outside the door. Three rhythmic taps. I walked over and peeked through the peephole. It was the milkman. I opened the door.

Your milk. He handed me a chilled bottle of fresh milk.

Thank you, how much? I took out the change Id prepared.

Seven dollars.

I paid him and took the milk. Thanks for the trouble every day from now on.

No trouble at all, its my job. The milkman smiled genuinely and turned to leave.

I closed the door, leaning against it, gazing at the milk bottle in my hand. It was cold, still damp from the outside. I twisted open the cap and took a large gulp. A rich, milky aroma instantly filled my mouth. This was the taste. How long had it been since Id had it? Half a year, over 180 days. Id only had it five times. This was the sixth. It was earned through my own cleverness and compromise.

Holding the milk, I walked to the window. The sky was already brightening. Early risers were exercising downstairs. Everything seemed so peaceful. I opened my phone and checked the camera. Less than a minute after I closed my door, Mrs. Davisons figure appeared, just as expected. She was still dressed the same, wearing her mask. She tiptoed to my milk box, skillfully opened it.

Then, she froze.

Her hand fumbled inside the milk box for a long time. Empty. She closed the milk box, then opened it again. Still empty. She straightened up, standing there, bewildered, seemingly trying to figure out what had gone wrong. She even walked to the stairwell, looked around, then came back. Finally, she left, unwilling to give up.

I watched the surveillance footage, a smile playing on my lips. It was a particularly good day.

Over the next few days, the milkman would knock on my door promptly around six each morning. Id exchange cash for milk, then start my day sipping my hard-won drink. Every morning, Id habitually check the monitor. Mrs. Davison would always appear a few minutes after the milkman left. Shed persistently open my milk box each day, then leave, disappointed.

I almost felt sorry for her. But then, remembering her past actions, that fleeting pity evaporated. Not exposing her was already the greatest kindness I could offer. I was simply reclaiming what was rightfully mine.

We still encountered each other in the elevator. Her smile was noticeably absent. Seeing me, shed only manage a curt nod, her eyes holding a mix of resentment and scrutiny. I guessed she was wondering what trick Id used. I pretended to know nothing, greeting her as usual.

Good morning, Mrs. Davison.

Shed simply respond with an indifferent Hmm. The elevator would fall silent. I thought this arrangement was perfect. We kept to ourselves. My world was quiet again.

This peaceful existence lasted for a week. I thought the matter was over. I believed our milk war had ended with my "indirect victory." I was too naive. I underestimated the depths of a "shameless person."

On the afternoon of the seventh day, I was at home, working overtime on a proposal, when the doorbell rang. I thought it was a food delivery, so I got up to open the door. Standing there was the building manager, Mr. Smith, a man in his forties. We rarely interacted. Behind him stood two men in security uniforms.

Mr. Smith? Is everything alright? I was a little surprised.

Mr. Smiths expression was serious, even grim. He didnt speak, just looked me up and down. His gaze felt like I was a suspect in a crime, which made me very uncomfortable.

Skylar, isnt it? he finally spoke, his tone formal.

Thats me.

Theres something we need to verify with you. He took a folder from the security guard behind him, pulled out an A4 sheet of paper, and handed it to me. Take a look at this first. His expression was like a judge delivering a verdict.

My heart sank. I had a bad feeling. I took the paper. It was printed, with several lines of bold text. The title read: Application for Compensation for Emotional Distress from Neighbor Skylar Roberts.

Skylar Roberts. That was me. I looked further down. Applicant: Mrs. Alice Davison. My next-door neighbor. I froze. Compensation for emotional distress? On what grounds could she demand compensation from me? I continued to read the stated reasons. When I reached the last part, written by hand, pressing hard into the paper, four words made my blood run cold. My entire body felt like it had been struck by lightning, and I turned to stone.