Good Night, Neighbors

In 1998, outside Seattle, Fred Foster lived quietly after his wife's death. He spent his days building tiny cardboard houses, fake trees, even streets. He said it was for when his friends came back.

Kids walking by at night swore they saw shadows moving inside the cardboard town. When the city tried to evict him for taking over the park, Fred begged, "They don't like being left alone."

Weeks later, a fire broke out. Firefighters found dozens of cardboard figures arranged in a perfect circle, each one painted with a smile. Fred's body was discovered sitting in the center, facing a plastic doghouse. Inside was a tape recorder. When they pressed play, Fred's voice said softly, "Good night, neighbors." And someone whispered back, "Good night, Fred."

Was it loneliness? Madness? Or something that finally answered?