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You ever get that call from a neighbor asking if everything's okay at your place? Maybe your alarm went off, or they heard a weird noise? For most of us, it's embarrassing but harmless. For Daniel Hartman, a call like that was about to turn his entire life upside down. Cedar Hollow Drive in Greenfield, Massachusetts, is one of those picture-perfect suburban streets where everyone knows everyone. Kids ride bikes until the streetlights come on. People actually wave to each other. The kind of place where a loud party or a barking dog makes the neighborhood group chat blow up. So when Carol Peterson started noticing something off at number 1247, she did what any concerned neighbor would do—she paid attention. Daniel Hartman had lived at 1247 for about three years. Quiet guy, kept to himself mostly. Mid-thirties, freelance artist, worked from home. His neighbors knew he did something with special effects and makeup—sometimes he'd mention working on indie films or theater productions. Not the chattiest person on the block, but friendly enough when you ran into him at the grocery store. Late March rolled around, and Daniel seemed to be working on some kind of project. Carol noticed him hauling equipment into his house—lights, what looked like props, some kind of sound equipment. She figured he was setting up a home studio or something. Made sense for his line of work.