My Neighbor Won't Stop Digging by MikeJesus

Greg was a normal neighbor, a retired golfer in his sixties who even let the narrator help him build an extension onto his house for his daughter's visits. Then one day he started digging in his backyard. From dawn to dusk, he dug with a machine-like rhythm, each stroke of the shovel perfectly timed. When the narrator finally worked up the courage to ask what he was doing, Greg replied "Sod farming. Family business," smiled, and went right back to work. His eyes never stopped watching.

The hole got deeper. Dirt piled up around the edges of his property, creating a mountain that wrapped around his entire yard. Coolers were delivered and taken down into the hole. Then a concrete mixer. Then household appliances—fridges, ovens, enough to start a restaurant. The narrator set up a makeshift lookout post with binoculars and a tripod, watching from behind a tent made from end tables and a dark red comforter. Greg stopped coming out of the hole. The dirt kept growing. And then the narrator heard it for the first time: a flute playing a light, airy melody. He remembered Greg's daughter played the flute.

The night everything changed