Story about a crazy cleaning man (wip)

This is a draft on a story I'm working on. It's meant to be psychological horror, and the cleaning guy is a unreliable narrator. 

Clean, clean, clean. That’s all I ever hear in this town! These people expect me to clean up the vilest, disgusting messes for them, yet barely pay me a cent; cleaning takes a lot of time, money, and effort; I’ve been saving money for the tools I need to rework my house. Buying bleach in bulk is pricey. There are many stains throughout my house that need to be sanitized.

Dubiously, many of my former customers have gone missing. I can’t tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing; I am grateful for the silence that comes with this revelation, but it has left a hollowness inside me that I can’t shake off–a feeling of some sort—that if it happens again, I will be able to contemplate how I genuinely feel about it. Most of these customers were people I had some form of kinship with. I’ve known some of them all my life–others, a few mere years. People have been anxious about whether they are dead or if they will ever return. This issue has drawn the attention of the local police.

Thump. Thump. The sound of a knock reverberates through the silence of the night, a repetitive melody that fills the walls of my secluded home. It is the middle of the night, making this notion questionable to anyone in a small, humble town like mine. I peek through the gnarled blinds and catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure; the flashing red and blue lights of a police car loom behind him. He knocks once again. 

"Sir, you need to open the door," he demands with a final, sharp knock. 

I sauntered over to the door, my hand gripping the doorknob gingerly. I slowly opened the door, my eyes peering through a slight crack.

"Can I help you?" I muttered. 

"Well... This person has latterly gone missing," He held up a tattered photo of one of my recent customers, Fred Caulby. He liked boats so much that he lived on one, which was utterly unkempt. He had requested me to clean it for him.

 I stared at the photo, blank-faced for an unfathomable amount of time. I attempted to feel something—a reaction, the mere reality of the situation; yet, nothing came. The hollowness itched the back of my mind. 

"I was hoping you knew something that could assist us," he continued. 

"I—" I was at a loss for words, swallowing them down like nausea, my face tensing up. 

Every time they interrogated me, this bitter cycle would repeat itself. I was depleted of concern. Each police officer would look at me like I was something to behold---something to be enthralled by. They would tower over me like something inhuman. 

“Well,” he coughed. 

“Thanks for trying.” His voice took on a strange tone as he spoke.

He walked away slowly, eyeing me like a hawk. He paused for a moment, his eyes seething into mine. He was as still as a hawk, too. I couldn't look back at him—something about the way his eyes looked was unsettling; his eyes were widened, and twitched a lot—yet below, he forced a smile. 

"I've got my eye on you," he murmured, drifting into the unknown night. 

I shook my head back and forth, physically shuddering. I attempted to look back at him, but he was already gone. In just a mere second, he had already vanished. 

I stayed up all night, trying to comprehend everything that had happened. 

Maybe I had lost my mind? I thought to myself. 

I always felt a slight fear bubbling up inside me when I talked to a police officer, but I never knew why. What power did they manage to hold over me? I knew everyone was slightly scared of the law, and its unfathomable power over them, but my fear differed from theirs. For some strange reason, they only visited me at night. 

One may perceive this as questionable–dubiously unnecessary–but it’s not like they were interrupting anything. It’s usually just me and my overactive thoughts.