The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense

by London Clarke

  I swizzle my straw in the glass and force a smile. “Hi.”

  “I’m Garrett.”

  “Brianna.”

  He nods. “How do you know Lyndsey?”

  “Through a mutual friend.”

  He continues to nod, a smile touching his lips. “Lyndsey’s great.”

  I nod synchronously with him. “Yes, she is. She’s one of a kind.”

  “Do you work with her?”

  “Um, no. Are you here with someone?”

  He points over his shoulder. “Yeah, some friends over there.” He waves his hand across the bar, finally getting the bartender’s attention, and orders three glasses of red wine.

  I run a mental analysis on him. Came with friends, knows Lyndsey, and probably—hopefully—not a serial killer. “What do you do?”

  He jabs his thumb behind him as though he works somewhere in the back. “I’m in sales mostly.”

  Guys in sales are usually friendly. If nothing else, we’ll have a decent conversation.

  “What about you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

  “I’m in human resources.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Oh, right. Where?”

  “Friedman.” A building I pass on Route 50 every day on my way into work.

  The bartender delivers Garrett’s wine in plastic goblets. Garrett slides two stems between the fingers of his left hand and raises the glass in his right to his lips. Then he smiles. “Well, nice talking to you. I’d better get back to my friends. Maybe we’ll talk later.”

  I’ve misread Garrett. I thought he might be a potential game piece, but he has forfeited.

  I haven’t accomplished what I came here to do, and now my adrenaline hovers in limbo. My brain grapples with this awkward, intermediate place of initiating the game only to encounter an interruption that derails the high.

  Now I need something to fill the yawning void inside of me. The gin and tonic only succeeds in numbing the disappointment, and I push away from the bar, feeling emptier than before.

  I wander in and out of the crowd, sipping my drink from the straw, casting smiles here and there.

  The music stops, and a loud squeal rips through the room as a young woman in a tall Abe Lincoln hat and a lacy steampunk costume taps the microphone. I stand on tiptoes to see over the heads of the guests.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Lyndsey’s bestie.” She looks off to the side. “I just want to take this opportunity to wish Lyndsey a happy birthday.” She holds up her glass. “Lyndsey, I hope this is your best fortieth ever.”

  Laughter ripples across the room.

  The microphone squeals again, and she backs away. “Let’s get on with the dancing.”

  The lights dim, and her white ruffled shirt glows under a black spotlight. A low organ plays from the DJ’s speakers.

  People flood the dance floor. Pushing my glass against my lips, I take several more swigs, beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. I should stop. I won’t be in control if I have more, and I need to have at least one encounter tonight to make all of this worthwhile. For now, it’s just enough to make me feel like moving to the music. I step into the crowd, shaded in colors of purple and black from the revolving overhead lights. The guests sway and swing together to the sounds of a song I don’t know with a steady, driving beat.

  I haven’t danced with anyone since college. Gunnar didn’t like to dance, and it was never on my must-have list, so I haven’t missed it.

  The floor is crowded, and I’m touching several people all at once. The lights pulse and blink from green to purple as I become one with the ocean of bodies. A man dressed as the Green Hornet shifts in front of me. It’s too loud to talk now, and I’m used to enticing with my language, not with my body. Dancing feels unwieldy, like I’m trying to tap a nail into the wall with a sledgehammer.

  Green Hornet grabs my hands, pulls me toward him. Here we go. This is the point where everything revs into overdrive, and I need to push a little further, just to see how far I can go before ending it.

  The lighting in the room dims. I turn away from the Green Hornet and come face to face with another man. Longish, dark hair. Heavy stubble. He looks down at me with the most subtle of smiles. Oh, shit. I recognize him.

  “Steel?”

  The music drowns out my voice, but he smiles. He recognizes me too.

  Instant perspiration lines my back and creeps with a humid progression down my chest as we press against one another.

  The lights mostly go out, followed by a shout from the dance floor. A few hoots and cries bounce against the ceiling. Steel’s hands slide over my body, gliding around my waist and up my back. I can just make out his face bathed in indigo. He pulls me toward him until his hips touch mine.

  I never let them touch me.

  Where’s the exit? I whip my head to the left and the right. I can’t see a red exit sign. No immediate escape route. My adrenaline pulses.

  Steel’s breath is hot against my neck, and I lean against him, allowing my fingers to climb his chest. His hands find my face, and then his lips come down hard on mine, his stubble scraping against my chin.

  We walk backward, passing through a sea of people, and I cling to the fabric of his sweater as we move, straining to maintain our kiss until we’re forced to pull away. Then we leave the dance floor and advance toward the exit.

  Outside, cool air bathes my face and neck, even as my core flames. Standing in the deserted parking lot, our breath intermingling, he asks, “Are you here alone?”

  “Yes.” The answer slips easily from my lips.

  “I took an Uber here.”

  I motion with my head. “My car’s parked over there.”

  9

  Amber Mills is one of those neighborhoods where every house looks the same. Ultra-modern homes with high ceilings and massive entry halls and windows that stretch practically floor to ceiling. When the lights are on in the foyer, the whole neighborhood can see inside the houses.

  But Steel and I don’t enter through the front. Instead, we cross the back patio, and Steel slides open the unlocked glass doors. I stand in the darkened basement and wait until he flips a switch, and an overhead light flickers and settles into a dim illumination. The basement is partially finished, although the floor is concrete and lined with metal shelves full of all sorts of objects. I scan the contents—dolls, candlesticks, wooden boxes, gold cups, plates, and trays.

  “What’s all this?”

  Steel pauses by one of the shelves and runs his fingers across a stack of leather-bound books. “I’m sort of a collector.”

  “Are these all antiques?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  I lift the hilt of what looks like an ancient sword. “Where did you get all of this stuff?”

  “All over the world. I’m sort of a treasure hunter. Whenever I travel, I make a point of seeking out exceptional items—ones with a history.” He swipes a thick wooden mask with oversized eye holes and a mouth shaped like a diamond. “Like this one. It came from Ghana. An artist makes these especially for tribal rituals.”

  I stare at the gaping mouth of the mask. “Do you travel often?”

  “Fairly often.”

  A chill runs through me as I look away from the mask and rest my gaze on the cracked face of a clown doll. Creepy.

  Steel motions me forward, and we ascend the wooden steps to the main floor, where he leads me to the small den. In my house, we use this room for the girls to do homework.

  Minimal furniture. A wooden chair. A couch. A flat-screen television. Bare walls. A lamp on an old round table. Nondescript. Makeshift, almost. A waiting room.

  “Do you want to sit? Can I get you anything? A beer?”

  “How about water?”

  He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it onto the chair before leaving the room.

  The sheet-covered couch creaks as I sink onto it. The cover is creased from sitting—or maybe even sleeping. A beer
cap is pushed into a wrinkle.

  The house feels unnaturally quiet—the type of silence that qualifies as “deafening”—as my heartbeat thrums in my ears.

  I twist my head toward the door to check that Steel isn’t still standing there. The sensation of being watched is strong. Steel’s jacket slithers off the chair and onto the floor.

  He strides back into the room, his fingers wrapped around a bottle of water. He hands it to me, and I unscrew the top, put the bottle to my lips, and let the tepid water spill over my tongue.

  He drops onto the couch beside me and clasps his hands between his knees. “This is strange, huh?”

  I nod.

  “How do you know Lyndsey?” he asks.

  I look down at my hands. “I don’t.”

  “Did you come with someone else?”

  “No.”

  His mouth falls open a little and then slides into a smile. “You crashed the party?”

  My face heats and I shrug.

  “Why?”

  “It’s just . . . what I do.”

  “You like to live dangerously, then.”

  “Not usually.”

  He stands and looks down at me. “You surprise me. You seem like such a good girl.”

  I look away, suddenly uncomfortable. I want to go home. I stand too, brush off my skirt. “Your accent—I think Dawn said you’re from Holland?”

  He nods. “I was born in Amsterdam. But we moved to the states when I was thirteen. So, I’ve lived all over, really, and I’ve lived here longer than I lived over there.”

  “My mother was Dutch,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, but she came here when she was a kid too. She said she always planned to go back, but she never did.”

  He grabs the back of his neck. “I’d always planned to go back, but now that seems unlikely. This is my eighth place in eight years.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Wow. Restless, huh?”

  Steel flicks his eyes down and back up to me again. “This is a good neighborhood for me. I get a lot of work around here.”

  I should go. I’ve let this game go far enough. I crinkle the plastic of my unfinished bottle of water. “Well, I guess I’ll get out of your hair.”

  But Steel doesn’t move out of the doorway. He stands there with a small smile tugging at his lips. “You haven’t finished your water,” he says in a husky voice.

  I glance down at the bottle and take another sip. Then I hold it out for him. He puts it to his lips, turns it up, settles his eyes on me again.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he says. “And I don’t think you want to leave.”

  I inhale a long, slow intake of air. He’s wrong. I do. “No, I have to go.”

  He walks me to the door, touches my hand as I exit. “Let’s do this again.”

  As I jog across the strip of grass that separates our houses, my legs tremble with excess adrenaline. I put the key in the front door and push inside.

  The escape from this excursion was far too narrow. I took it too far. I let my guard down because he’s my neighbor. As my endorphin rush subsides, the guilt seeps in, and I remember who I am—a mother, a therapist, an adult.

  I have to stop doing this.

  10

  When the tree came down in the summer, it crushed more than just my fence and shed. The shed had become mine when Gunnar left, and I was sorry to lose it. But more devastating was the loss of my fairy garden in an old planter box just outside the shed.

  I’d had a fairy garden as a child. My mother helped me set it up in a planter box with figurines and pinwheels and old doorknobs stuck into the dirt like mushrooms. Even after I married, I kept all ten of the figures and stored them in our attic. Once Gunnar was gone, the girls helped me recreate the garden.

  I stand at the edge of the ruined shed, pushing at a rotting plank with the toe of my shoe. Somewhere under all of that crushed wood, my little fairies and gnomes may be pulverized into a million tiny shards. Seeing that would break my heart.

  Next door, something clangs loudly. Ever since we made out at the club, I’ve been lingering at the kitchen window a little longer than I should, watching for a glimpse of Steel. But I’ve also been avoiding him.

  I veer away from the pile of wood and start back toward the house.

  “Hey, Claire!” He steps through the gap.

  “Hi.” I’ve just gotten the girls off to school, my hair is a mess, and I haven’t put on any makeup yet. When I see him, I back away.

  He grips the side of the fence. “Hey, I don’t have a lot scheduled for today. My teams are all taking care of it. So, if you still want me to”—his eyes dip down to the ruins—“I’ll be happy to haul that away.”

  I tighten my fingers around the deck railing, my palms clammy in the cool air. “You really don’t have to do that, you know. I should hire someone. It won’t be long before the HOA calls and says I need to get on it.”

  “No, really, I’m happy to help.”

  “I’m sure you have other things to do with your Friday, and it’s my responsibility.”

  He turns his head. “Other things? Sure, but... I’m choosing to do this. Would you rather I not?”

  When am I going to get around to doing it? “I’m sorry. Yes, thanks. That’s really nice of you to offer.”

  “It’ll take me a few hours.” He shields his eyes from the morning sun. “You do whatever you were planning to do today.”

  I return to the house while Steel backs his truck into my driveway. Friday is my one day of the workweek I keep free of clients—my day to do housework, catch up on patient notes, or even just do nothing. Without the girls here, the house is blissfully quiet, and Gunnar has them this weekend, so they’ll go directly to his place after school.

  I drift to the back window that looks out on the yard and watch Steel drag two broken beams around the side of the house. A few seconds later, a gong rings out as the splintered wood contacts the bed of his truck.

  Why would he want to do this? He doesn’t even know me. Although he must be somewhat interested based on our kiss in The Destiny Room.

  As I move through the hallway, I stop at the mirror. Without makeup, my freckles are more obvious than ever. When Annalen was born, Gunnar mourned that she had red hair and freckles like mine. Gretchen didn’t get my red hair, but to Gunnar’s horror, she inherited the freckles. His favorite child was our second to youngest, Bridget, who ended up with porcelain skin, clear blue eyes like his, and hair like flax. Paris is our little anomaly with her dark brown hair.

  Throughout the day, while Steel clears away the shed, I return to the window to watch his progress. Periodically, he disappears or stands by the fence to take a phone call, but by late afternoon, he’s back at it, and most of the wood has been cleared away. He’s removed his shirt and his skin glistens with sweat. His hair, previously swept back, now hangs forward over his eyes, reaching his chin. It’s evident he works with his body. His arms are muscular, and the sinews in his back constrict and shift as he lifts wood and tosses it aside.

  I shouldn’t be staring at him. But no one is here to see me looking. The girls are away, and it’s not as though I should worry about Gunnar. He’s off with his new wife. So, who cares if I stare at the sexy neighbor? Even if we did have a short make-out session under strange circumstances, nothing actually happened.

  There’s absolutely no harm in a little flirtation.

  TAP-TAP, TAP-TAP. I start awake with a snort. Someone is at the back door.

  The living room is draped in late afternoon darkness, and my book sits like a roof over my chest. Then I remember. Steel has been working all day in the yard. I dart from my chair toward the kitchen, glimpsing his silhouette through the glass as I turn on the outside light and open the back door. His hair is damp, and he’s wearing a clean blue shirt and jeans.

  “Well, I think it’s finished,” he says, motioning toward the corner of the yard that looks strangely barren without the demolished structure. “But
I found these. Didn’t know if you’d want them.” He holds out his hand, displaying eight tiny dirt-encrusted figurines.

  “My fairy garden figurines.” I meet his eyes, my face flushing.

  “Fairy garden?” His mouth parts and slides into a grin that reaches his dark blue eyes.

  I drop my gaze. “I—it was just a personal project of mine.” I hold out my hands, and he drops the figurines into my palms. My throat thickens with gratitude. “Thank you for your help, Steel. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  I twitch my head and run a hand through my hair. “No, no. I have to give you something. You worked all day out there.”

  “It was a nice day. It was no problem.” He lifts his eyes from beneath heavy, dark brows, his forehead creasing. “But I’ll take a beer if you’ve got it.”

  I rock out of the doorway and motion him inside. “Oh, of course, come on in.”

  As he steps over the threshold, I realize I don’t have any beer. “I’ve, uh, got some wine, but I’m afraid I don’t really drink beer, so...”

  “That’s fine.”

  I traipse toward the refrigerator.

  “So, what happened to the tree that fell on the shed?”

  “Oh, Trey—from across the street—he and his wife wanted the firewood, so they sent someone over with a chainsaw.” My hand is clammy as I pull a bottle of wine out of the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. “Do you like white?”

  “Sure.” He slants his body against the counter and watches as I fumble with the foil.

  “When I was married, I never drank.” I don’t know why I tell him this. It’s more information than he needs or wants, I’m sure.

  “Hm. I should probably cut back on the beer.” He laughs a little. “And the smoking.”

  My hand shakes as I poke the corkscrew into the top, and as I press down, the bottom of the bottle slips against the granite. I nearly drop it.

  “Here. I can do it.” He moves closer, and his arm brushes mine as he closes his hand around the neck of the bottle.