My neighbour used to peek at me over her fence when I was little by sophiethetoad

A man driving to a new lawn-mowing customer realizes the address is on his own childhood street. He sits in his van, staring at the abandoned bungalow he lived in until age six. His girlfriend has told him his spotty memory of those years is probably his brain blocking things out on purpose. He needs the money, so he gets to work.

The customer's lawn is wildly overgrown, and a ten-foot-tall fence separates her property from his old house. Every time he looks at it, pressure builds behind his eyes. Then a memory forces its way up: long black hair spilling down the fence from the other side, a pale forehead rising, white cloudy eyes peeking down at him. He remembers being on a broken tricycle, frozen. The eyes were watching only him. Then a voice called his name, and the face vanished.

He shakes it off. No one could peer over a ten-foot fence without stilts. It must be a child's invention. But the image is suddenly the clearest memory he has from that house.

Inside the customer's house, the ceiling is unusually high, the space cavernous and cold. On the kitchen table: money, a glass of lemonade, a sandwich. She left a note saying to help himself. The payment is far more than he charges. He hears a wet, uneven wheeze from upstairs, then two sharp creaks. He calls out. No answer. He takes the sandwich to be polite and leaves.