It seems like there might be a typo in your request. Did you mean “whole next door” or perhaps “hole next door”? I’ll assume you meant “the hole next door” and write a short creative piece about it. If you had something else in mind, feel free to clarify!
The hole next door appeared overnight, a jagged maw in the side of Mr. Grayson’s pristine garage. It wasn’t just a dent or a crack—no, this was a proper void, about the size of a basketball, with edges that looked chewed rather than broken.
I noticed it that morning while retrieving my newspaper, the damp ink smudging my fingers as I squinted across the lawn. The neighborhood was still asleep, draped in that early March fog, but that hole stood out like a missing tooth in a perfect smile.
Mr. Grayson, a man who polished his car every Sunday and mowed his lawn with a ruler in hand, hadn’t emerged yet. I wondered if he’d seen it. Probably not—his curtains were still drawn, and his ancient terrier, Rufus, hadn’t started its usual yapping.
The hole didn’t look like vandalism, though. No spray paint, no scattered debris. Just… a hole. Deep, too. I edged closer, peering across the invisible line where my patchy grass met his manicured turf. The darkness inside seemed to shift, like something was breathing in there.
By noon, the street buzzed with theories. Mrs. Patel from across the road swore it was a meteorite—never mind that we’d heard no crash. The kids on their bikes said it was a portal to another dimension, which got a laugh until little Timmy threw a pebble in and we all waited, half-expecting it to vanish in a puff of smoke. It didn’t. It just clinked, faintly, like it hit something metal far down.
Mr. Grayson finally appeared around dusk, his face pale and his hands trembling as he taped a tarp over the hole. “Mole problem,” he muttered when I asked, avoiding my eyes. But moles don’t chew through concrete, and they don’t leave holes that hum faintly at night—a low, steady thrum I could feel through my slippers when I stood on my porch.
I haven’t knocked on his door since. The tarp’s still up, fluttering sometimes when there’s no wind. Whatever’s next door, in that hole, it’s not my business. But I keep my curtains cracked open now, just in case.