The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense

by London Clarke

  As Steel steps past me, he puts his hand on my shoulder. “I gave you my business card, so you have my number. Call me if you want.”

  As he opens the back door, the security system beeps. Once he shuts it again, I exhale with a shudder. Strange. Now that he’s gone, I wish I’d thought that through a little more. Taking deep, cleansing breaths, I go to the sink, pick up his glass, and pour wine into it. Then I carry it upstairs to the bedroom.

  SOMETIME DURING THE night, a noise wakes me. I sit up in bed and clutch the sheets. Was that the security system signaling a door opened? I listen, straining to hear any sounds over my pounding heart. Another thump. Then the distinct sound of a door shutting. Is it coming from downstairs? Upstairs? Is someone in the house?

  A clammy film spreads over my hands, and I stare into the darkness until my eyes hurt. Seconds pass. Maybe it’s just a car door outside. The clock on my nightstand reads 3:32. Could be Tommy Frankenson getting in from a late night out. He seems to get home later and later these days.

  Another door closes—one of the upstairs bedrooms. Slowly, I place my feet on the floor. Maybe one of the girls came home early. Maybe Gunnar brought them back late last night, and I didn’t know. I grab my phone from the nightstand and scan it for texts. There’s one from Annalen.

  Goodnight, Mom. Sleep well.

  Sweat rolls down my back as I slip into the hallway and flick on the light. The door to the younger girls’ room is closed. But the older girls’ bedroom is open, the room dark. Maybe Paris got homesick and asked to come home in the middle of the night. I push the door open.

  The hallway illumination reveals Bridget’s bed, perfectly made and empty. I shift my gaze toward Paris’s bed. She is not there either, but a small lump protrudes from under the blanket. Possibly a buried doll or stuffed animal. I advance and slowly pull back the cover.

  A loud whine sends me reeling backward, shrieking. A gray circle of feline fur raises its head, looks at me with yellow eyes, and hisses. I clutch my chest, panting loudly.

  “What on earth?” I stare, open-mouthed. “How did you get in here?”

  The cat looks back as if to say, why are you disturbing me? Leaping off the bed, it trots past me and down the stairs.

  “And now a cat is running loose in the house.” Determined to somehow shoo the critter back outside, I traipse downstairs, flipping on lights in search of the stowaway.

  “Where are you? You can’t stay in here.” This is stupid, talking to an animal that can’t respond, but all I can think about is the cat pooping or peeing in the house. I spot it crouching in the kitchen, glaring at me. Behind the cat, the back door yawns wide.

  As I lunge forward, the cat dashes outside. Then I pause on the threshold of the doorway, cradling my chin, watching the creature disappear into the dark. How is it possible the door was open? I always check the locks at night.

  I shut and then open it again. The familiar beep of the security system sounds. At least that’s working. However, I’ve forgotten to turn on the alarm.

  A cold trickle of fear makes its way down my neck. What if someone is in the house? Whipping around, I sweep my gaze over the living room. Nothing appears out of place or disturbed. I return to the back door, flip on the outdoor lighting, step outside, and scan the yard. The light wind sends a shiver through me.

  Shadows drift everywhere. Is something lurking in the corner where the shed used to be? Or is it a dark vine growing on the back fence? Is someone on the bridge, or is that the reflection of the water?

  Finally, I lock up and arm the security system. Nothing amiss. I must have forgotten to check the door after Steel left. Maybe he didn’t close it completely. It blew open. A neighborhood cat wandered in. Everything can be explained.

  13

  “Do you have a gray cat?” I ask Dawn over a coffee the next morning.

  We sit on her screened-in back porch wrapped in the heavy wool shawls she bought for us when she and her husband visited Scotland last year.

  Her eyes slant toward the sky, considering the six cats they own. “I don’t think so. Let’s see, Sheba, Finian, Lou-Lou—no, they’re orange tabby, and Finian’s black, and one of ours is a calico. Lou-Lou’s sort of gray, but he’s really a tortoiseshell. Why?”

  I quickly tell her about my cat visitation from the night before.

  Her eyes widen. “Wow. That’s weird. I haven’t seen any stray cats around the neighborhood.”

  I shudder, recalling my shock when I pulled back the covers on Paris’s bed. “I really thought someone was in the house.” I shake my head. “You’d think a year after Gunnar left, I’d be used to night noises and wouldn’t get so spooked. But it’s happening a lot these days. I hate it when the girls are gone.”

  For more reasons than one. I get myself in trouble when they’re away.

  Dawn leans forward, a perfectly conditioned lock of wheat-colored hair slides over her shoulder. “Speaking of the girls being gone,” she drops her voice, “I got a good look at your luscious neighbor working over at your house the other day. How did you manage that, woman?”

  I must be glowing like an ember.

  Dawn waggles her eyebrows. “Anything going on there?”

  Dawn knows nothing about my adrenaline-junkie nighttime excursions, my trips to nightclubs and bars to test the limits of my resolve. She thinks I’m Helen Homemaker crossed with Louisa Level Head. I clamp my lips together and look away.

  Dawn’s voice changes from playful to concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

  She jabs me in the arm. “Spill it. This is me you’re talking to. I can read you like a book. Did something happen?”

  I feel the red blotches forming in my cheeks.

  “Something happened, Claire. Tell me.”

  I take a deep breath. “I slept with him.”

  Dawn’s expression changes from creased compassion to wide-eyed, open-mouthed surprise. “Oh my—”

  “No.” I hold up my hand. “I know what you’re going to say, but I just can’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Dawn grabs my fingers. “Sweetie, Gunnar is gone. He’s been gone for a year, and now he’s remarried. Why won’t you let yourself consider someone else?”

  “It’s too soon. And the girls. I have to think of them.”

  Dawn nods. “Yeah, and? So? I’m thinking of them too. Maybe they’d like their mother to meet someone and be happy.”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s not like he’s Quasimodo.”

  I shake my head harder.

  Dawn says nothing, and we sip our coffee in silence.

  “Was it good?” she finally asks, smiling.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Just curious.”

  “Whether it was or it wasn’t—I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She begins to rock in the chair. “Okay, okay. Lighten up, Claire. Geez. So, you had a roll in the hay with the guy next door. It’s not the end of the world.”

  It feels like it. Dawn doesn’t know. I may be an adrenaline junkie, but I never let things go that far. I don’t lose control. I pride myself on it. “I just want to forget it ever happened.” The images trail through my mind on a perpetual screen like a strip of cellulose—Steel on top of me, the open ceiling tile, the shadow.

  “Why?” Dawn asks. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing, but something’s wrong with me now.”

  “Yeah, you’re psyching yourself out. You’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve any happiness.”

  “No, it’s not that. I don’t feel right. I know that sounds weird, but ever since that night, I’m looking over my shoulder. I feel like someone’s watching me. Like they’re in the house with me. But no one’s there. As I said, I hate it when the girls are gone.”

  Dawn’s brow furrows. “How is the new shared custody schedule working out with Gunnar?”

  “Fine. We’re just keeping things fluid and flexible at the moment.�
�� I look down at my watch. “Speaking of, I need to get going. They’ll be home this afternoon, and I still have things to do.” I stand, pull the blanket around my shoulders.

  Dawn looks up at me, her brow wreathed. “I’m not the therapist here, but you know what I think about this thing with Steel? I think this crisis is all in your head, Claire. It’s easier for you to deal with a crisis than your actual feelings.”

  Maybe. But that doesn’t explain why I don’t want to go home. It doesn’t resolve the nervous trembling in my stomach. If I could, I’d stay at Dawn’s all day.

  SUNDAY EVENING, THE girls return home, ushering in normality, routine, and relief.

  “Look what Daddy bought me!” Paris holds up a stuffed animal. A cat.

  I stiffen. The plush toy is black with green eyes and looks nothing like the gray feline from last night, but the irony is not lost on me.

  “How nice of him.”

  “He said if you let us, we could have a real one.”

  That’s rich. And just like Gunnar. What does he care if the kids get a pet now? He doesn’t live here anymore and won’t have to deal with the responsibility. “How nice of him to offer.” I try to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

  It doesn’t go unnoticed by my perceptive child, Annalen. A slow smile spreads across her face.

  “How’s Martina?” I cringe a little at my mocking tone.

  “She’s nice,” Annalen says. “She makes us oatmeal cookies.”

  Paris wrinkles her nose. “She wears too much perfume. She smells like one of those air fresheners you put in the bathroom.”

  Gretchen laughs. “Yeah, you can smell her before she comes in the room.”

  Paris sets her stuffed toy on the kitchen island. “Mommy, can I play Apollo’s Cave on the computer in your bedroom tonight?”

  “For a few minutes before dinner, but once the food is ready, you need to stop.”

  “Okay!” With a little hop, Paris grabs her cat and rushes upstairs to play her game.

  The rest of the evening consists of fixing food, listening to the girls fill me in on what happened while they were with their father, and trying to wheedle out information about Martina. TV time follows with the obligatory episode of Gilmore Girls and then making sure lunches are packed and backpacks are lined up by the door and ready for school the next day. Once they’re all in their bedrooms, I go to my own. I should be exhausted, but I’m wired.

  Standing by the window, I survey the street below. Over at the Painter’s, Trey gets out of the car and makes his way toward the house, steadying himself against the hood.

  Steel’s truck meanders down the street and pulls into the driveway. My heart thrums a little as I watch him climb out and stride inside. Then I do something I know I shouldn’t. I rummage through my purse for his business card, and I send him a text.

  I’m sorry about yesterday and my drama. Thank you for bringing over the bottle of wine.

  The outgoing text swoops into the cyber atmosphere, and I stare at the screen, regret percolating in my chest. I was doing so well. Why do I feel like I need to see him again?

  Seconds later, a response comes through.

  Don’t worry. I understand. And I have more wine over here if you want some. :)

  I cover my lips with my fingers. What if I were to do what Dawn suggested—what Steel suggested—and let myself go?

  It might happen again.

  It’s a risk. I can’t control the outcome.

  My bedroom door glides open, and Paris stands on the other side. “Mommy?”

  I toss the phone on the bed. “What is it, sweetie? Why aren’t you asleep?”

  She rubs at her eyes. “I think the cat Daddy gave me is trying to talk to me.”

  “What?”

  “I was sleeping, and it was next to me, and it kept whispering in my ear, so I put it over on the chair, and it’s still saying things.”

  “It’s a stuffed animal. You know it can’t talk.”

  “But it’s keeping me awake, Mommy.”

  I humor her. “What do you think it’s saying?”

  “It’s saying,” she licks her lips and lowers her head, trying to imitate a low, growling voice, “let’s go outside and play, little girl. Come on, let’s go. There are things to do out there.” She looks up at me. “It keeps saying that over and over.”

  I laugh a little at the voice she’s creating, but her face is so earnest. “Well, you know you can’t go outside and play. It’s nighttime. Time for sleep.”

  “I told it that, but it keeps talking.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders and gently lead her into the hallway. “You know, nighttime makes it easy to imagine all sorts of stuff, including talking stuffed animals.”

  “But I didn’t imagine it!”

  “Okay, well, let’s go back to bed, and I’ll tuck you in again.”

  “Can’t I sleep in with you?”

  “No, sweetie. If I let you sleep in the bed, I have to let all your sisters, right? Can you imagine how crowded that would be?”

  Paris giggles.

  It’s easy to make her laugh with that imagery. In truth, I counsel too many parents who let their children sleep in their rooms and then spend months trying to reverse the habit. “Come on.” I prod her shoulder blades and follow her into the bedroom.

  Bridget is fast asleep in the other bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. The stuffed cat is on the chair, illuminated by the nightlight plugged into the wall.

  “Mr. Kitty seems pretty quiet now,” I say.

  “Is that his name?” Paris asks.

  “I don’t know. I just said that.”

  I hold up her sheet, and she climbs in.

  “Mommy, will you take Mr. Kitty with you? Maybe he won’t talk if he sleeps with you.”

  I settle the blanket over the sheet. “Sure, baby. I’ll take Mr. Kitty with me.” I lift the plush animal from the chair and tuck it under my arm as I step into the doorway.

  Paris turns on her side, seemingly content to try sleeping again. “Good night,” she whispers.

  “Good night.” I close the door.

  Standing in the hallway, I examine Mr. Kitty. It’s just a toy with green plastic eyes and stiff fake whiskers. Nothing more. Even so, it gives me the willies. His eyes are realistic for a stuffed cat—they stare out with an intelligent glint, like those porcelain dolls that used to creep me out in scary movies. I don’t want it in my room. I carry it downstairs and lean the toy against the couch cushions.

  14

  You’ve been ghosted!

  Standing at my work mailbox, I stare down at the card. It’s attached with a black ribbon tied around a plastic baggie full of mini chocolate bars, candy corn, and waxy balls that are meant to pass for chocolate.

  The card reads: Happy Halloween! Someone thinks you’re pretty sweet and wanted to pass along some tasty treats. Now you can do the same for someone else!

  Above the message, an illustrated, friendly ghost gapes open-mouthed. Corny, but a nice gesture. As I carry the baggie toward my office, I stop to chat with Bart Jenkins, senior clinic administrator.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning, Bart.” I hold up the bag. “Are these from you?”

  He kicks back in his chair and runs his hands into his salt and pepper hair. “You’re not supposed to know who it’s from.”

  His smile tells me all I need to know.

  I rattle the candy in the bag. “Well, thanks.”

  Bart swivels toward his computer. “Just don’t forget to pass on the love.”

  “I won’t.”

  I carry the bag into my office and begin my daily ritual. Number one, check emails. While scrolling for anything important, I open the bag, take out a jack-o-lantern, and peel away the aluminum foil. I pop the naked chocolate into my mouth. Crunchy, like a rice treat.

  A lengthy message from Annalen’s science teacher asks the parents to please support the kids as they undertake their science project. There’s a website
we’re meant to look at and many instructions that I’ll have to read later about helping them come up with topics. I take two mini chocolate bars out of the bag of candy, unfold the wrapping from one of them, and insert the first block into my mouth. Annalen’s good at science, and I’ve never had to assist her before. I doubt she’ll need my help now.

  I smooth out the foil from the chocolate bar on the desk in front of me. Something the size of an eyelash wriggles in the wrapper. I stop chewing and stare.

  Shit. It’s a worm. Rolling away from my desk, I slowly move my gaze to the second block of chocolate. Another tiny worm crawls from a slit at the corner of the wrapper. Reflexively, I hang my head over the side of my desk and spit wildly, hoping some of the contents will hit the trashcan. Wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, I grab for the bottle of water, swig a mouthful, and spew it into the trashcan, desperate to expectorate the wormy chocolate.

  The repulsion, the sheer horror of having potentially eaten worms, maggots, weevils, or whatever they are, brings on uncontrollable shudders. For the next few minutes, I repeat the process of swilling, swishing, and spitting, hoping to wash away any trace of invertebrate matter. Then I dump the entire bag into the watery worm grave.

  Worms in the chocolate? Absolutely disgusting. I should at least let Bart know, lest he pass along wormy chocolate to others. I rise from the desk and make my way to his office. He bends over an open file, pressing a pen to the papers within.

  I scrub at my lips, suppressing another urge to spit. “Hey, those chocolate bars had worms in them.”

  Bart looks up at me. “What?”

  “The candy you gave me. I thought you should know in case you gave it to anyone else.”

  His eyebrows compress. “I didn’t put any chocolate in the bag. Only candy corn and Twizzlers.”

  I crane my head back. “Well, mine had chocolate in it.”

  He shrugs. “Not from me. Maybe someone else ghosted you too.”

  Rubbing my forehead, I return to my office. There was chocolate in the bag. I know. I ate the disgusting, wormy stuff. I lift the trashcan and peer into it. Yep. It’s still there.