The Watcher's House
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The town of Westfield, New Jersey was once a sanctuary for those who'd grown tired of the crime, chaos, and concrete that nearby New York City had become known for. Its streets, lined with maple and honey locust trees, were considered safe. Children peddled down its pavements, neighbors chattered over white picket fences, and century-old colonial homes stood open to the street, their doors never locked.

That changed when the letters came. While many families moved to Westfield to escape the fast pace of city life, Derek and Maria Broaddus were already part of the community. They hadn't fled the city, they had no reason to. Westfield offered everything they needed: a peaceful neighborhood, top-rated schools, and a manageable commute to Derek's job.

He'd come a long way from his modest beginnings in Portland, Maine. Through ambition and sheer dogged determination, Derek had risen above his working class roots, eventually landing the title of Senior Vice President at an insurance company in Manhattan. The promotion came with a spacious corner office and an even bigger paycheck, which was precisely what he needed to make his wife's dream a reality. Westfield had always been home for Maria,

As an artist, she drew inspiration from the town's tree-lined streets, historic architecture, and pastel-painted row houses reminiscent of San Francisco's iconic Painted Ladies. As a mother, however, she dreamed of raising her children with the same sense of community, serenity, and safety it had given her. Family was everything to Maria, and theirs was growing.

We know little about the Bratis family, only about their ordeal. What we do know is that the couple had three small children, two little girls and one boy. As their family grew, so too did their aspirations. Derek and Maria spent their children's early years saving for their dream home and, on June 2nd, 2014, they finally landed it. The timing was perfect, at least that's what they thought.

That same year, Westfield was named one of the safest towns in the country. However, within just a few days, it would also become the birthplace of one of the most disturbing suburban mysteries in modern American history. And at the center of it all stood a house. The old Dutch colonial manor had been a timeless presence at 657 Boulevard since 1905.

With three stories, six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a sweeping layout of nearly 4,000 square feet, it wasn't just a house. It was a masterpiece.

It had ornately carved columns, crown molding, hardwood floors, and arched entryways. Now, it had new owners. The Broaddus' had managed to outbid other interested buyers, purchasing it from John and Andrea Woods for more than $1.3 million. It was well over the asking price, but it was worth it.

To Derek and Maria, 657 Boulevard represented the promise of a new life. Their children, who were roughly 5, 8, and 10 years old at the time, would get to grow up just as their mother did, and only a few blocks from her childhood home. It was the biggest financial decision of the Broaddus' lives, and they were ready to make it their own. But the house needed work before they could move in.

Derek and Maria already had a vision in mind and wasted no time with renovations. They would brighten up the shadowy interior with a fresh coat of paint, bring the kitchen into the 21st century with a new island, and install a French drain in the basement to rid it of the damp that never seemed to dry. It was nothing dramatic, just enough to make the old house feel like home.

And the days following the sale, 657 Boulevard sat empty as contractors came and went. The Broaddus' stayed nearby in their previous home while renovations were underway, but they were always around. Maria brought the kids to see the rooms that would soon become theirs. And Derek often stopped by in the evenings on his way home from work to check on the progress. It was on one of those evenings that the first letter came.

On the night of June 5th, 657 Boulevard was swathed in darkness, illuminated only by the living room light. A dark figure drifted past the window. It was Derek. He'd come to the house after work to do some painting. Just as he was about to start with the second coat, however, he stopped. He had a sudden urge to check the mail and walked outside into the night, where the soft creak of the mailbox lid broke through the silence.

Inside, tucked between bills and flyers, was a white envelope. Derek frowned. There was no return address, just the new owner, scrawled in messy, handwritten script. Derek opened it, expecting a warm welcome from one of their new neighbors. It was anything but. "What you are about to hear, dear listeners, is not fiction.

It's a carefully reconstructed message, stitched together using real words taken from police reports, journalists, and the victims it haunted, while the full, unredacted, original letter has never been released to the public. This reconstruction captures the disturbing content described by those unlucky enough to have read it.

It's as close as anyone outside that house has come to reading what the watcher wrote. So, lock your doors and listen carefully. You never know who's watching. Dearest new neighbor at 657 Boulevard, allow me to welcome you to the neighborhood. How did you end up here? Did 657 Boulevard call to you with its force within?

657 Boulevard has been the subject of my family for decades now. And as it approaches its 110th birthday, I have been put in charge of watching and waiting for its second coming. My grandfather watched the house in the 1920s and my father watched it in the 1960s. It is now my time. Do you know the history of the house? Do you know what lies within the walls of 657 Boulevard? Why are you here? I will find out.

I see already that you have flooded 657 Boulevard with contractors so that you can destroy the house as it was supposed to be. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Bad move. You don't want to make 657 Boulevard unhappy. I asked the woods to bring me young blood, and it looks like they listened. You have children. I have seen them. So far, I think there are three that I have counted.

Do you need to fill the house with the young blood I requested? Better for me. Was your old house too small for the growing family? Or was it greed to bring me your children? Once I know their names, I will call to them and draw them to me. The windows and doors allow me to watch you and track you as you move through the house. I am in charge. Who am I? There are hundreds and hundreds of cars that drive by 657 Boulevard each day.

Maybe I am in one. Look out, any of the many windows and 657 Boulevard at all the people who stroll by each day. Maybe I am one. Welcome, my friends. Welcome. Let the party begin. The Watcher Derek stood alone in the darkness, heart pounding in his ears. Part of him hoped that it was just a harmless prank pulled by some neighborhood kids.

but the author was far too articulate to be a teenager. His words were cold, menacing, and unnervingly specific. This was no welcome. This was a warning. Follow enough true crime and you'll notice a pattern. Someone takes out a life insurance policy and suddenly they're gone. It's why Slayer statutes exist. Laws that prevent killers from cashing in. That should tell you just how valuable a life insurance policy really is.

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Part 1. Dearest New Neighbor The following day, Derek and Maria woke from a restless sleep. They'd spent the previous night poring over the ominous letter. It seemed like a silly thing to get worked up over. They'd done nothing to deserve it.

They hadn't even moved in yet. Even so, they were on edge. The contents of the typed letter included cryptic references to the contractors, their renovations, and the house itself. It was clear that the author, who signed off as "The Watcher" in a jagged cursive font, was deeply disturbed. He spoke of the house as if it were sentient, a precious entity he was destined to protect.

Worse still, it was clear that he'd been watching the Broaddus' closely. From where? They weren't sure. What they were sure of, however, was that the author seemed to have an unusual fixation with their three children. It was that terrifying realization that prompted the parents to take the letter seriously. First, Derek decided to reach out to the previous owners of 657 Boulevard, John and Andrea Woods.

The letter seemed to imply that the author had some sort of contact with the Woods in the past, and Derek hoped they could put his mind at ease. The Woods were quick to respond. However, they could offer the worried dad no answers. Only a disturbing confirmation that the Watcher's story held weight. The Woods told Derek that they had, in fact, received a similar letter shortly before the sale was closed.

Like the letter received by the Broadduses, it was signed by the Watcher. Unlike the letter, however, it was reportedly far less threatening. Whilst the true contents of the Woodses' letter have never been publicly revealed, Reeves Weideman, the reporter who made this story famous, has since shed some light on it.

In an interview, Weidemann disclosed that the letter was more admiring than menacing. In it, the watcher thanked the Woods family for taking care of the house over the years. Having lived at 657 Boulevard for 23 years without incident, John and Andrea dismissed the strange letter as a prank and discarded it without notifying the Broadduses. A decision that would later become a point of contention. Derek and Maria were at a loss.

The Woodses had never been harmed, which offered them some comfort, but the letter only confirmed that the Watcher's obsession with the house had endured through decades, and it showed no signs of slowing down. Alarmed, Derek returned to 657 Boulevard and contacted the Westfield Police Department. Officer Leonard Lugo responded to the call and, thankfully, seemed to take it more seriously than the Woods.

He read through the letter, his expression gradually becoming more bewildered. "What the fuck is this?" Lugo exclaimed. No crime had been committed, but the contents of the letter were concerning enough to treat it as credible. Lugo asked Derek whether they had any known enemies, which, of course, they didn't.

Recognizing the potential seriousness of the situation, the officer suggested that Derek move any construction equipment inside so it couldn't be used to break a window, and advised him not to discuss the letter with their neighbors. Any of them could be potential suspects. Lugo then assured Derek that he would initiate a formal investigation and left. Derek was relieved that the police were now involved.

Even so, without any concrete evidence, he knew that uncovering the identity of the Watcher wouldn't be easy. He resolved to let the police do their job, but if nothing else was certain, this was. His family was definitely not going to be sleeping there. The Broadduses kept to themselves and continued with their renovations, trying to maintain some sense of normalcy, but the house no longer felt like home.

The realization that the Watcher could be anyone left them in constant suspense, and the timing of the letter, appearing just days after they'd bought the house, added another layer of suspicion. Was the Watcher a disgruntled neighbor? Or another prospective buyer who was bitter about being outbid? Was it the mad ramblings of an unstable stranger? Or was someone they knew personally involved? These unanswered questions kept Derek and Maria up at night.

So too did the line that concluded the damned letter. "Let the party begin," the Watcher had written. Their ordeal was far from over. It was only just beginning. Part Two: Have they found what is in the walls yet?

Despite the dark cloud that now seemed to cling to 657 Boulevard, the Broadduses were determined not to let it cast a shadow on the life they'd worked so hard to build. It was just a letter, nothing more, nothing less. At least, that's what they told themselves. The family had still not spent a single night at their new home. They knew they wouldn't be able to sleep once the street fell silent and darkness swallowed the house.

In the days that followed Derek's discovery, the family was only seen at 657 Boulevard during daylight hours. Who can blame them? Contractors were in and out. Spaces needed to be measured and rooms needed to be filled. The letters chillingly specific details about the renovations and their children lingered in their minds. But the move had cost them over 1.3 million and counting, and there was no turning back now.

So, the Broadduses busied themselves with paint colors, decor decisions, and unpacking boxes. Eventually, they all but forgot about the Watcher's words. They decided to go ahead with the move and even allowed themselves to get familiar with their new neighbors. First, Derek and Maria met John Schmidt, who lived two doors down. They'd never cared much for small talk. Now, they craved it.

John welcomed them to the street, chatting casually about the neighborhood they would soon call home. Then, he mentioned the Langfords. They were Derek and Maria's next-door neighbors, separating their property from that of the Schmitts. John explained that the house was owned by an elderly widow called Peggy Langford.

She lived there with her adult children, who were all in their 60s and 70s. It was a bit peculiar, but apparently, so were they. Especially Michael Langford. According to John, Michael was known for being an eccentric character who had a habit of wandering the neighborhood. John likened him to Boo Radley, a mysterious, reclusive neighbor from Harper Lee's novel To Kill a Mockingbird.

Though initially feared and misunderstood, the fictional character is ultimately revealed to be kind, observant, and even heroic, protecting the neighborhood children from harm. John assured the Broadduses that, although Michael was a bit odd, he was harmless, just like Boo. Even so, Derek and Maria couldn't help but wonder:

The couple had followed Officer Lugo's advice and taken all the necessary precautions. However, there had been no developments in the investigation, no suspects, no leads, and no assurance that they were safe. As it turns out, they were right to be guarded.

Just two weeks after the first letter arrived, on the very day they were set to move in, another envelope appeared in their mailbox. This time, it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Bradis. The sender had misspelled their name, but it still sent a shiver down their spines. The watcher was learning more about them. When the couple read the letter, they understood why. The watcher was getting closer.

This letter, like the first, has been reconstructed using all known public excerpts. And the result, dear listeners, is bone-chilling. Welcome again to your new home at 657 Boulevard. The workers have been busy, and I have been watching you unload carfuls of your personal belongings. The dumpster is a nice touch. Have they found what is in the walls yet? In time they will. I see you've already begun destroying the house.

Did you think I wouldn't notice? You have changed it and made it so fancy. You are stealing its history. It cries for the past and what used to be in the time when I roamed its halls. The 1960s were a good time for 657 Boulevard when I ran from room to room imagining the life with the rich occupants there. The house was full of life then. It was young blood then, and it needs young blood again.

The Woods family turned it over to you. It was their time to move on and kindly sold it when I asked them to. It has been years and years since the Young Blood ruled the hallways of the house. Have you found all the secrets it holds yet? Will the Young Blood play in the basement? Or are they too afraid to go down there alone? I would be very afraid if I were them. It is far away from the rest of the house. If you were upstairs, you would never hear them scream.

Will they sleep in the attic? Or will you all sleep on the second floor, who has the bedrooms facing the street? I'll know as soon as you move in. It will help me to know who is in which bedroom. Then I can plan better. All of the windows and doors in 657 Boulevard allow me to watch you and track you as you move through the house. I see you're painting the walls. You've made the kitchen too modern. You have no respect for what it was meant to be.

One of the children was using the easel in the sunroom. "Is she the artist in the family?" I pass by many times a day. 657 Boulevard is my job, my life, my obsession. "And now you are too, Bratis family. Welcome to the product of your greed. Greed is what brought the past three families to 657 Boulevard, and now it has brought you to me."

Who am I? I am The Watcher, and I have been in control of 657 Boulevard for the better part of two decades now. The house is crying for its past, and when I watch your children, I think of the life they will never have in this house. Have a happy moving in day. You know I will be watching The Watcher.

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There were no words of gratitude like the letter the Woods family received, only the obsessive thoughts of a disturbed mind coupled with barely concealed threats. The second letter stripped away any illusion that the Watcher was simply a casual observer hoping to spook the Broadduses. It revealed the unsettling psychology of a person gripped by obsession who saw the house as sacred and was intimately familiar with its layout.

The Watcher spoke of its history with the reverence of a worshipper and the entitlement of an owner. Worse still, was his growing fixation with the broadest children. With unnerving specificity, the Watcher described their actions and fears, showing an obvious interest in where they would lay their heads at night. It was now glaringly clear that he was studying the family far too closely, and he wanted them to know it.

Perhaps most disturbing of all, however, was that the Watcher didn't say. There was no plea for them to leave, nor warning to stay away. The Watcher didn't want them gone. He wanted the Broadduses there, inside the house filling its walls with young blood, so he could watch, listen, and linger just out of sight. The Watcher wasn't just trying to scare them off. He was trying to keep them there.

Part 3: 657 Boulevard is missing you The Watcher's obsession with 657 Boulevard had now bled into an obsession with the Broaddus' themselves. Derek and Maria knew it, but the third letter confirmed it. After the arrival of the second letter, the couple decided to officially delay their move, and the Watcher noticed. The third letter read: "Where have you gone to? 657 Boulevard is missing you."

The third letter arrived in July of 2014, weeks after the second. This time, the envelope bore no names, just the address and confirmation that the Brodesses were right to stay away. Having already sold their previous house, they moved in with Maria's parents while continuing to pay the mortgage and taxes on their vacant home. They had no other choice.

Thankfully, it gave them time to figure things out, but their options were limited, and so too was their ability to cope. The Watcher's letters and the fallout that followed had taken a toll on their mental health. It tormented them as they lay awake in bed each night, unable to fall asleep. The financial strain pushed Derek to his limits, so much so that he fell into a depression and was put on medication just to get through each day.

In fact, the anxiety was so pervasive that he started sleeping with a knife by his side. Despite being far from the watcher's relentless gaze, Maria did her best to keep it together. But her own deteriorating mental health inevitably reared its head. It was during a routine doctor's visit that Maria finally broke. When asked how she was, she burst into tears.

Shaken by the incident, she sought professional help from a therapist, who diagnosed her with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, brought on by the Watchers' merciless harassment. Unsurprisingly, the couple's personal struggles soon bled into their marriage. Their relationship started to suffer, and they fought constantly. However, Derek and Maria were united on one front.

Maria's therapist urged the couple to sell their house and move on, saying it was the only way to alleviate her suffering. But they refused to let the watcher win. Determined to move into the home they'd spent their savings on, the Broadduses decided it was time to start watching the watcher. They installed a comprehensive security system in 657 Boulevard, including multiple cameras and motion detectors. But he was as elusive as he was obsessive.

The cameras didn't capture any suspicious activity. The motion detectors, however, caught something. We just don't know what. Alarms were triggered inside the house a few times, prompting Derek to spend a few sleepless nights there. Of course, when he did, 657 Boulevard fell silent.

The Watcher's cruel game of cat and mouse drove Derek and Maria mad. So, with nowhere left to look for answers, they gave in to his most unsettling taunt and looked within the walls. The Broadduses had their contractors remove drywall and pry open sections of paneling, searching for hidden rooms, secret crawl spaces, or something far more sinister.

For hours, workers probed behind the walls, their flashlights cutting through decades of dust. But they found nothing out of the ordinary, just cobwebs, insulation, and silence.

Desperate for an end to their ordeal, Derek and Maria hired Frank Shea, a retired NYPD officer, a former Marine, and now a private investigator. With over four decades of investigative experience, Shea was the silver bullet they needed. His approach was methodical and discreet, and the Watcher quickly became the Watched.

Shay conducted extensive surveillance of the neighborhood, parking in unmarked cars and studying people's routines as his camera shutter clicked silently behind tinted windows. He took down license plates, checked the trash for clues, and kept tabs on those who lingered too long. What he really wanted, however, was beneath the surface, and he knew precisely where to start. During Shay's investigation, the Langford family stood out.

They lived right next door, which immediately piqued his interest. But it was Michael Langford who he suspected most. Michael was known to wander through other people's yards, retrieve their newspapers, and peer through their windows. More so, he'd lived next door to 657 Boulevard since the 1960s, just like the Watcher, and was diagnosed with schizophrenia as a young man, which could explain the delusional, obsessive ramblings.

Shay ran quiet background checks on the 61-year-old, looking for anything that pointed to a profile twisted enough to torment a family of five. Shay found nothing that confirmed his suspicions, prompting him to explore a more unusual theory. He coordinated with the United States Postal Inspectors, thinking someone on the inside could have been intercepting or delivering the letters unnoticed.

Postal workers were interviewed, and cameras were installed at the local post office, but nothing stuck. The postal inspectors were reportedly just as confused as anybody else, and Shea was back at square one. In the end, even a decorated veteran couldn't beat the watcher at his own game. The police, however, hadn't given up yet. They had their own suspicions and, like Shea, they set their sights on Michael Langford. Part 4. Who Am I?

Investigators interrogated Michael on at least two occasions, but he repeatedly denied any involvement. In his defense, there was no conclusive evidence linking him to the Watcher's letters. No fingerprints, no surveillance footage, and no witnesses. Investigators still had their suspicions, but suspicion, no matter how strong, wasn't enough. And the Langford family made sure everyone knew it.

They rallied around Michael, maintaining his innocence and hiring an attorney, Richard Caplow, to fight for it. Caplow publicly rejected the police's suspicions, arguing that Michael's eccentric behavior was not grounds for criminal suspicion. He insisted that Michael was being unfairly targeted because of his quirks, diagnosis, and enduring presence in the neighborhood, not because of any real connection to the crimes.

Kaplow, who himself just lived half a block from 657 Boulevard, criticized what he saw as a rush to judgment by both the police and the community. And perhaps he was right. The Watcher sought to instill fear, sow seeds of doubt, and turn Westfield against itself. Though the Broaddus' battle was far from over, the Watcher had already won.

Trust had soured into suspicion and the once pleasant streets surrounding 657 Boulevard were now in the grips of paranoia. As the investigation continued, other neighbors exhibited peculiar behaviors. One woman outfitted her home with multiple security cameras that pointed directly at 657 Boulevard, claiming they were for her own protection. Another neighbor's adult children were seen by investigators acting strangely during surveillance.

Of course, none were more mistrustful than the Broaddus' themselves. Despite there being no proof that Michael was guilty, Derek and Maria remained wary of the Langford family, noting that their home had a direct view into 657 Boulevard, including the sunroom where their daughter often painted.

Then there was the elderly couple, who have never been publicly named. They'd lived behind 657 Boulevard for almost five decades, and one of their children had reportedly married someone who was raised there. At one point, there had been a minor dispute between the two couples about a tree branch that fell onto the fence that separated them. The Broaddus' thought nothing of it until Bill Woodward, their house painter, noticed something unnerving.

The elderly couple had two lawn chairs in their backyard that were facing 657 Boulevard and placed uncomfortably close. One day, Bill told the Broadduses that, while working, he turned to look behind him and saw the husband sitting in on one of those lawn chairs, doing absolutely nothing but staring into their home. Soon, Derek and Maria saw it for themselves. The old couple would sit there for hours, watching.

It would be easy to paint the Broadduses as paranoid or overreactive, but one can't ignore that the neighborhood seemed to unravel around them. These incidents were strange, but were they simply a reaction to the letters? Or was the neighborhood itself the real threat? Derek and Maria began to wonder whether the Watcher was one individual or many. Could it be the work of a group trying to protect the house's history?

or a few older residents who sought to scare outsiders away. Derek later reiterated this sentiment saying, "It felt like we were being hunted and the neighborhood was watching us, not helping us." This sense of isolation was palpable as the family grappled with unanswered questions and cries for help. Their neighbors had turned on them, their private investigator had failed them, and the police had reached a dead end.

In a final bid to expose the Watcher once and for all, the Broadduses decided to seek help from experts in the field of psychological warfare. They hired a forensic linguist to examine his letters for any distinctive patterns, and a former FBI agent to provide insights into his profile. According to the experts, the letters were likely written by someone who was older, possibly mentally unstable, and living nearby.

The handwriting on the envelopes was described as messy and old fashioned, with certain stylistic choices that suggested an attempt to disguise his identity. Despite the Watcher's hostile tone, however, he never once used profanities, leading them to believe that he might be an intellect and voracious reader. Though compelling to say the least, no definitive conclusions were reached. The identity of their tormentor remained shrouded in mystery, and the Watcher won.

By early 2015, 657 Boulevard remained empty, and the Bradas family remained traumatized. They'd endured months of psychological torture and financial losses, and were now ostracized by the community they once longed to be a part of. The Watchers' words had turned their dream home into a prison, and they were desperate to escape.

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Your burger is served. And this is our finest Pepsi Zero Sugar. Its sweet profile perfectly balances the savory notes of your burger. That is one perfect combination. Burgers deserve Pepsi. Part 5: And the Watcher Won Just six months after purchasing 657 Boulevard, Derek and Maria listed it for sale.

They were confident that the stately manor would sell fast and at asking price, allowing them to recoup their losses. At first, it seemed they were right. Interested buyers quickly started putting in their bids until the Broaddus' were made aware of something the Woodses had ignored. It came out that New Jersey law required them to disclose the watchers' threatening letters to potential buyers, and this disclosure proved to be an immediate deterrent.

The buyers promptly withdrew their bids, and the Broaddus' were left with a house they couldn't live in and, surprisingly, a target on their backs. The news of the Watcher had spread, you see, but not in the way one might have expected. The Broaddus' story had spiraled out of the realms of belief and, after their failed attempt at selling their home, public opinion in Westfield shifted dramatically. Derek and Maria were no longer seen as victims. Now, they were considered suspects.

Some residents believed that the couple had fabricated the watcher in a bid to get out of a bad real estate deal. The Westfield Leader, a local newspaper, published anonymous quotes from neighbors questioning the Broaddus' claims, with one noting the absence of visible renovations. Suddenly, the family was at the center of a scandal, while the person who caused it watched idly from the shadows. Every move they made was scrutinized, and they soon grew bitter.

Derek and Maria felt they'd been wronged. John and Andrea Woods, the previous owners of 657 Boulevard, had never disclosed the watcher's letter, ignoring the law that the Broaddus' were later bound by. The Woods' failure to disclose his correspondence had been the catalyst for their ordeal, and Derek and Maria wanted them to answer for it. The Broaddus' filed a lawsuit against them, hoping for some sort of compensation.

but it only eroded their credibility further. Richard Caplow, the same attorney who defended Michael Langford, represented the Woodses in the matter. He countered that the letter they received was one of admiration rather than aggression, and consequently did not warrant disclosure. Of course, he was right, and the court ultimately dismissed the Broaddus' lawsuit, leaving them out of pocket and in disgrace once again.

To avoid financial ruin, the Broadduses tried to cut their losses. They put forward a proposal to demolish 657 Boulevard and subdivide the lot into two properties. The proposed lot sizes were slightly smaller than the mandated minimum, meaning they needed approval from the Westfield Planning Board to go ahead with it.

On January 4th, 2017, roughly two and a half years after the Watcher first set his sights on them, a four-hour meeting was held during which the board unanimously rejected their proposal. The board blamed their decision on concerns about neighborhood character and zoning compliance, but other theories crept in.

A few wondered if the town's historical society had some connection to the Watcher, and these suspicions were only fueled by the group's fierce fight to keep the architectural heritage site standing. Even so, the society's involvement was unlikely, and the Broaddus' were more concerned with paying off their mortgage than indulging the Watcher. And he took notice. Left with limited options, Derek and Maria rented the house out in February of 2017.

Miraculously, they'd managed to find tenants who were undeterred by the watchers' letters. The new family moved in without incident and, for a brief moment, the Broadduses believed that their ordeal was finally over. Then the letter came. Two weeks after moving in, the tenants presented Derek and Maria with a white envelope. It had been so long since they'd seen one, yet the sight of it still brought on a surge of anxiety.

In the same handwritten script as always was their address and M.M. Broadus, an antiquated abbreviation for Mr. and Mrs. This time, however, their name had been spelled correctly. The Watcher's message was as menacing as ever and addressed Derek and Maria directly. The full content of the letter, which has never been publicly revealed, included several ominous passages.

To the vile and spiteful Derek and his wench of a wife Maria. You wonder who the Watcher is? Turn around, idiots. Maybe you even spoke to me. One of the so-called neighbors who has no idea who the Watcher could be. Or maybe you do know, and are too scared to tell anyone. Good move. 657 Boulevard survived your attempted assault and stood strong with its army of supporters barricading its gates.

My soldiers of the Boulevard followed my orders to a T. They carried out their mission and saved the soul of 657 Boulevard with my orders. All hail the Watcher! Maybe a car accident, maybe a fire, maybe something as simple as a mild illness that never seems to go away but makes you feel sick day after day after day after day after day. Maybe the mysterious death of a pet.

Loved ones suddenly die. Planes and cars and bicycles crash. Bones break. You are despised by the house." And the Watcher won. Despite his silence, the Watcher had never stopped watching. The letter was dated February 13th, 2017, the same day the Broadduses gave depositions in their lawsuit against the Woodses. And he seemed more determined than ever to do them harm.

The watcher alluded to fatal mishaps that might not be mishaps at all, prompting them to immediately report it to the police. While investigators examined their latest lead, the Broadduses reassessed the security system at 657 Boulevard.

they installed additional security cameras around the property, hoping to deter any unwanted visitors and reassure their tenants. Wary of the risks that came with their new residence, the new family had included a clause in their lease that allowed them to terminate their agreement should another letter ever arrive. With the home now more secure and the Watcher's fixation still firmly on the Broaddus', they chose to remain at 657 Boulevard,

Derek and Maria, however, didn't share their tenants' sense of ease. The couple had hoped that the fourth and final letter would be the Watcher's undoing. Of course, they were wrong. The letter didn't lead to any breakthroughs. The case soon grew cold once again, and the Broadduses lost faith in law enforcement. Back in 2015, the mayor of Westfield described the police department's investigation as exhaustive and leaving no stone unturned.

That assessment, however, couldn't have been further from the truth. Whilst investigators seemed to take the case seriously, their handling of it was subpar at best. They didn't even speak to some of the Broaddus' immediate neighbors. Baron Shambliss, a former officer who took over the case in 2015, echoed this sentiment in an interview with Reeves Weidemann.

"The Westfield Police Department fucked these people's case up," he admitted. Now confident that even the police couldn't help them, Derek decided to take matters into his own hands. In an attempt to provoke a response from the Watcher, he anonymously mailed letters to several neighbors who'd been publicly critical of his family.

Though the contents of the letters, which were signed "Friends of the Broaddus Family" remain a mystery, they reportedly contained no threats. Derek later admitted to being the author, explaining that he was frustrated by the treatment of his family and desperate for any information about the Watcher's identity. His actions, of course, backfired. Instead of garnering sympathy or new leads, his letters only worsened their alienation.

with many considering them as evidence that the family was orchestrating a hoax. The Broaddus' were forced to face the grim reality that the Watcher's identity would likely never be uncovered. With no resolution in sight, they began to consider the painful possibility of leaving 657 Boulevard behind.

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Part 6: The Legend of the Watcher Despite the Broaddus' resignation, authorities pressed on. In December of 2018, the Union County Prosecutor's Office took over the investigation into the Watcher. They started from scratch, hoping a fresh perspective would unearth fresh leads.

Though their efforts did little to solve the case, one particularly shocking breakthrough was made: the Watcher was likely a woman. It came out that a critical mistake had been made early on in the investigation, both by the public and the police. From the outset, everyone had assumed that the Watcher was a man. Investigators built their early suspect lists around that assumption,

focusing on the men who lived nearby and overlooking the possibility that the author might have been someone else entirely. It was a bias so ingrained that no one had questioned it until the DNA results came back. An earlier forensic analysis of the letters had detected saliva on one of the envelopes. Eager to explore this forgotten lead, the prosecutor's office ordered a DNA test, which determined that the letter had been licked shut by a woman.

though the previous analysis had never proved a match to any suspects. This revelation prompted the prosecutor's office to canvass the neighborhood again. They requested voluntary DNA samples from everyone on the block for comparison and, one month later, the Broadduses were invited to hear the results at the prosecutor's office in Elizabeth, New Jersey. The family was informed that, overall, their neighbors were cooperative.

Even so, none of the swabs matched the sample from the envelope. Whilst it's true that no match was found, Reeves Wiedemann later discovered that the prosecutor's office hadn't been entirely honest with the Broaddus'. Many neighbors hadn't been home during the canvassing, and at least two individuals outright refused to provide samples, one of whom was reportedly a close neighbor of 657 Boulevard and an early suspect in the case.

What's more, it came out that one unknown resident was particularly outraged about the DNA sweep. After the canvas, an anonymous email landed in the inboxes of several local officials. The sender, known only as Malcolm Mannix, questioned the legality of collecting DNA without a warrant and scoffed at the idea that catching the watcher was worth the effort.

The name proved to be a pseudonym, but anyone familiar with 1960s television would recognize the reference. Mannix was a crime show, and Lieutenant Art Malcolm was the partner of private investigator Joe Mannix. The message had come from someone with a penchant for old-school pop culture and a vested interest in keeping their identity hidden. Emails to Mannix bounced back, and many wondered whether the watcher had simply swapped one pseudonym for another

With no evidence to support the theory, however, it faded into memory like so many leads before it. The Broaddus family, again desperate for answers, begged the prosecutor's office to consider forensic genealogy, a technique that had gained prominence in solving cold cases by identifying suspects through the DNA of their relatives. They even offered to cover the costs, but the prosecutor's office wasn't interested.

They'd never used that technology before and simply couldn't justify using it to track down the author of threatening letters when murderers and rapists were still at large. And that was that. It was over. In March of 2019, the Broadduses finally admitted defeat and sold 657 Boulevard for $959,000 at a loss of roughly $400,000.

The new owners never received any letters, though recent reports suggest they might have felt the watcher's presence. Since moving into 657 Boulevard in July of 2019, the Young family has contacted the police 58 times. Twice, someone tried to break in through the basement windows. The same basement the watcher had once described as a place that would swallow the screams of those who dared enter.

Other times, alarms went off or the family just felt off, like something was watching. Whatever it was, it was enough to make them reach for the phone again and again and again. Derek and Maria Broadus have kept mostly to themselves, rarely speaking publicly about their ordeal. The town of Westfield has moved on, but the legend of the Watcher and the mystery of their true identity endures.

Derrick has since remarked, I don't think we'll ever know. And that's what haunts us.