The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense

by London Clarke

  I glance over my shoulder. There’s a small crowd of neighbors gathering on the edge of the sidewalk. At her mailbox, Dawn pretends to pull letters from the box while she eyes the ensuing battle. Hyo stands in the yard, shielding her face from the sun as she stares across the street at her daughter-in-law. Maria Gomez, Tim Johnson, and several other people trickle out of their houses. And Steel. He stands behind his truck and pulls lumber from the back.

  I catch his eye. He gives me a wave, and I shoot one back, my hand low beside my hip.

  Rich starts to close the door. “Get the hell off my doorstep, or I’m calling the cops. You’re harassing us. I’m calling my attorney too.”

  “You do that! I’m calling mine,” Linda shouts at the closed door. Then she whips around and brushes past me, marches down the steps.

  “So that’s it?” Gen throws her hands in the air. “We’re just going to let him talk to us like that?”

  “What else do you want to do, Gen?” Linda reaches the last step and whirls toward us. “You wanna burn down his house? We’ll have to get the police involved.” She starts to walk again. “And I am calling my attorney—even though he only handles wills and estates.”

  As I descend the steps, Gen glares at me. “And what were you doing, Claire? You were no help at all, just standing there looking like a possum in the middle of a football field.”

  I cross my arms. Suddenly, I’m more irritated with my neighbors that they’ve dragged me into this than I am at Rich and his dangerous son. “I wasn’t even there. I didn’t see what happened. That makes it a little more difficult to confront this poor man in cold blood.”

  Gen hurries down the stairs, her face blazing. “Poor man? What are you talking about? He’s a clueless asshole.”

  “Rich is afraid of him, Gen,” I say.

  Her brow wrinkles. “Who?”

  “Thomas. Rich is afraid of his own son. Didn’t you see the bruises on his face? Thomas hits his father. Rich is scared. That’s why he won’t do anything.”

  Her mouth falls open. “How do you know that?”

  “Because this is what I do for a living. I’m trained to recognize the signs.” I pivot away from her and keep walking.

  “Someone’s gonna get hurt,” she calls after me.

  “Then keep your children out of the street, Gen. Maybe it’s on you to protect them.”

  I pass by Steel’s truck.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Domestic squabble.”

  He jerks his head, motioning toward the road. “Police are here.”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see silent red lights bathing both sides of the street. Great. Saves me from having to do it.

  Steel shuts the door of his truck. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  17

  As Steel walks into the house carrying a bottle of wine, the girls stop what they’re doing.

  Annalen pulls the earbuds from her ears. Gretchen looks up from the laptop. Bridget and Paris pause halfway down the staircase and sit on the step, grasping the railing spires as they look through them.

  “Girls, this is our neighbor, Steel.”

  Steel smiles. “Hi, ladies.”

  “Hi,” Gretchen and Annalen say in unison. Bridget and Paris continue to stare, pressing their foreheads against the banister.

  “Anyway,” I say, breezing through the awkward moment, “we’ll just be out on the deck.”

  “Why are you sitting outside?” Gretchen asks. “It’s cold out there.”

  Still reeling from the confrontation with Gen, Linda, and Rich, I’m not in a frame of mind to make this the night the girls get to know Steel better.

  “Steel and I have some things we need to discuss—about the backyard.”

  “What about the backyard?” Annalen asks.

  “I’m going to rebuild the shed,” Steel announces.

  We haven’t absolutely confirmed this, but it’s a good excuse right now.

  I herd him toward the kitchen. “Would you like a beer instead of wine? I have some in the fridge.”

  He gives me a sidelong glance. “Wine has been working well for me lately.”

  As we step out on the deck, the evening air is still. We open the wine and drink it while watching the sun sink over the line of trees.

  “Your girls are beautiful,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  “They look like you. Especially your oldest one.”

  “Annalen. She’s my mini-me.” I take a swallow of wine and sigh loudly. “I really needed this.”

  He smiles, and deep grooves appear under his heavy stubble. “What happened out there?”

  I heave out a sigh. “Gen and Linda are the neighborhood defenders of safety and justice. I mean, the boy—Tommy—is bad news, and there’s no doubt about that. But the parents have no control either. The dad looked like he’d been in a street fight.”

  Steel sips his wine. “Maybe social services will get involved since the police are here.”

  “Yeah, I hope so. I’ll check in on the Frankensons this week. Tommy’s mother looked like she could use someone to talk to.”

  Steel stares out at the yard. One by one, the green and blue lights pop on.

  I shudder out the words, “I’m sorry about the way I acted last weekend.”

  He sits forward and reaches for my hand, grasping my cold fingers in his warm ones. “No, no, listen, Claire, I’m sorry. I feel like I forced the issue. I should’ve used more self-control. I usually don’t let myself get involved easily with women.”

  Sounds like a line, but I like that he’s the one saying he’s ‘not that kind of a guy.’ Even if it’s not true.

  He sets his glass on the deck by his feet and crosses his arms. “You were saying that Tommy is a troubled kid. I’ve talked to him a few times, but he seems okay.”

  I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Tommy used to be the cutest little kid. He rode his bike with my girls and the other kids in the neighborhood. He was polite, asked a lot of questions. It’s only been in the past six weeks or so that he’s sprouted horns.”

  Steel downs the rest of the wine in his glass in one gulp. “People probably said that about me too.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I made some bad decisions when I was his age—really bad. I’m still paying the price for them.”

  Now I’m curious. “Like what? I won’t judge you.”

  He passes a hand across his mouth. “As a teenager, I was pretty depressed, although I didn’t realize it then. I got in trouble all the time, hung out with the wrong crowd. Without going into too much detail, let’s just say I got deeply involved with hobbies and—extracurricular activities.”

  “Drugs?”

  He gives a short, sharp laugh. “Drugs were the least of my problems.”

  “Wow. Really?” What could that be, I wonder? My mind wanders all over the place. Nothing violent, surely. Video game addiction? Or pornography, maybe.

  He takes a long, slow breath and turns his empty glass in his hand. “Anyway, let’s talk about you—”

  “Mom?”

  I crane my head. Gretchen hangs onto the threshold of the door, peering out.

  “What is it, honey?”

  “Paris wants you. She says she’s scared.”

  I pivot all the way around. “Scared of what?”

  “I don’t know. But she can’t find Mr. Kitty. She says she’s looked all over.”

  I shoot Steel an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes flash with perceptible irritation, but he quickly holds up a hand and stands. “I should go.”

  Disappointment punches me in the gut, but I stand too. “Okay.”

  He puts his hand on my arm. “How’s this week to start on your new shed? Or this weekend?”

  “Sounds good. The girls will be at their dad’s this weekend.”

  His mouth twitches into a smile. “Great.”

  18


  “I looked everywhere for Mr. Kitty.” Paris sits on her bed, her lower lip pushed out. “I can’t find him anywhere.”

  “He’ll turn up.”

  Paris isn’t easy to calm down tonight. I struggle to convince her to put on her pajamas and climb into bed. “Come on. Get under the covers.”

  “He was right here in my room, but now he’s gone.”

  “Maybe one of the other girls moved him.”

  She huffs and finally gives up the fight, slamming herself onto the mattress. She crosses her arms over her prostrate body.

  “I don’t like him, Mommy.”

  “Who?”

  “That guy you were with tonight.”

  “Why don’t you like Steel?” I suspect I know why. He’s the first man she’s seen me with since Gunnar left. This part is always hard on the kids. My own experience aside, I see it all the time with my clients going through divorce.

  “He scares me.”

  I laugh a little as I cover her. “What? How can he scare you? You talked to him for like, two seconds.”

  The scowl drops from her face, and her eyes widen. “A shadow man was standing behind him,” she whispers.

  Cold chills line my arm, raising each hair. “Paris, come on. You’re just making stuff up now.”

  “I’m not!”

  “What are you talking about, then?”

  She pushes up on her elbows. “When he came in, I saw it. It was like he had an extra shadow—like it was stuck to his back or something. And when you went outside with him, the shadow man stayed inside with us—just staring at us.”

  “Oh, stop it.” I shove aside the imagery she’s painted and re-settle the covers over her. “Paris, you are worn out. You need to close your eyes and go to sleep. There are no shadow men in the house. That’s your imagination.”

  “But I—”

  “No.” I put my finger to her lips. “No more silly talk. You’ll get yourself all worked up, and then you won’t be able to go to sleep.” I move toward the door.

  From the hallway, Bridget brushes past me and skips to her bed. “’Night, Mommy.”

  “’Night, honey.”

  I linger in the doorway, preparing to switch off the light. “Okay. Ready for lights out?”

  “Yes,” Bridget chirps.

  I flip the switch, and the room darkens. The plug-in nightlight casts a thin ray of illumination on the wall.

  “Mommy?” Paris sits up and pulls the sheets under her chin.

  “What is it?”

  “The shadow man is standing right behind you now.”

  I spin around, but there’s nothing there.

  THE SHADOW MAN. EVEN the suggestion of it gives me the shivers. I remember that night two weeks ago in the basement after Steel left. I saw a shadow man too. At least, I thought I did. Maybe Paris and I are both imagining things.

  I turn on my side and reach up to flip off the light. Almost immediately, I feel myself slipping away into that twilight space between waking and dreaming and random images.

  “Claire.”

  My eyes pop open. Are one of the kids calling me? I wait, listen. Nothing. Between the exhaustion and the wine, it takes seconds for me to drop off to sleep.

  “Claire, wake up.”

  I stare into the darkness, my heart jumping into action. I’m only dreaming the voices—sounds you hear right before fading into the deepest of REM sleep. Seconds later, the voice vibrates right next to me. “Claire, come outside. Follow us. Let’s play a game.”

  With a sharp intake of air, I sit up and grasp for the chain on the lamp. The light blinks and then spreads across the room. I inventory my surroundings. The room is so cold I wonder if the heat is working. Actually, it’s more than the cold. Fear balloons inside me.

  Paris’s words have spooked me and put these ideas into my head. But she’s a little girl. I’m the adult. Be the adult.

  As I reach for my bottle of water on the nightstand, a scream from down the hall turns my blood to liquid nitrogen.

  Paris.

  I bound across the floor, rip my bedroom door open, and thunder down the hall. The entrance to Paris and Bridget’s bedroom is a black hole, and I feel like I’m swimming underwater to get to it. Grasping the threshold, I pull myself inside, simultaneously flipping on the light.

  “What is it?”

  Bridget sits up, squinting, glancing from me to Paris.

  Paris points to a wicker shelving unit on the wall. It’s been there since the girls were toddlers, filled with vines of plastic ivy and a fake candle.

  “I saw a fairy and a snake right over there.” She’s pants like she can’t breathe, clasping a hand to her chest.

  “A fairy and a snake?” I stare at the shelf. It needs dusting, and the LED battery-powered candle has been burned out for ages. My hands rise to my hips. “You dreamed it.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She practically shouts the words, and I flinch. She’s never raised her voice to me. “They were there.” She climbs out of bed and marches to where I stand, jabbing a finger toward the ivy. “Right there. The fairy was flying over it—she was glowing—and the snake was winding around it, hissing.”

  Several strands of the ivy hang below the shelves. She probably mistook it for a snake. “Well, I don’t see a snake or a fairy there now.” I rattle the plastic plant and look over at Bridget. “Did you see them, Bridge?”

  She shakes her head. “I was asleep. I only woke up when she started screaming.”

  “What’s going on?” Gretchen pokes her head into the room, followed by Annalen.

  “Your sister had a bad dream.”

  “It wasn’t a dream!” Paris shrieks. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

  I hold up my hands. “Okay, everyone, back to bed. Now!”

  The girls reverse slowly out of the room, and in the hall light, I glimpse Annalen’s pajamas. The knees are smudged with green and brown. “Annalen? What is all over your pajama bottoms?”

  She looks down and paws at her knees, attempting to dislodge the dirt. “I—I don’t know.”

  “Well, throw them in the hamper. I’ll probably need to use stain stick. But now—everyone—to bed!”

  Gretchen and Annalen scuttle back to their room. I try to squelch the frustration firing inside me, but it’s filling my chest, and once again, I’m resenting Paris’s tirade. I point to the bed and narrow my eyes at her.

  “They were right there.” She gestures again at the wicker shelf.

  “Even if they were, they aren’t going to hurt you.”

  “How do you know? They were really scary.”

  I snap. “Paris, it is three o’clock in the morning. I don’t want to hear another word about this. I want you to go to sleep.”

  Paris runs and throws herself onto the bed, fisting her hands on either side of her with a sound of frustration. Ignoring it, I re-cover and try to kiss her, but she turns away.

  Back in my room, I lie awake, turning Paris’s words over in my mind. I don’t like how I handled the situation. Gunnar was always the disciplinarian.

  A snake and a fairy? I look over at the figurines on top of my dresser. Could she have gotten the idea from them? It’s obvious she truly believes she sees these things. The shadow man behind Steel, the snake, Mr. Kitty talking to her. And now, where is Mr. Kitty? Images of a stuffed cat animating in the midnight hour and prowling around creep through my head.

  When I was a little girl and dreams or noises scared me, my mother would sit at my bedside, and we would pray together, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep...”

  There are moments in my life when I wish I still prayed, when I wish I still believed in God.

  Now I can’t sleep.

  Thoughts collide with one another, and a knot of anger takes root in the center of my chest. But anger at whom? Myself? Gunnar? The God I don’t believe in?

  I step out of bed and sit at my computer, moving the mouse around until the screen awakens. Then I pull up
a browser and search for dream imagery of snakes and fairies. I have a fair idea of what the snake could mean.

  Whenever I look up clients’ dreams, I like to use Dr. Carolina Smith, a respected and trusted psychologist who posts her dream analysis online. Although I remain skeptical about the significance of dreams, I usually find that Dr. Smith’s explanations make sense. In this case, a snake could represent someone whose behavior or presence in your life is toxic, dangerous. Paris probably conjured this after her assessment of Steel. She imagines that he’s bad or trying to replace her father.

  I can’t find anything on Dr. Smith’s site about fairy imagery. Other sites suggest playfulness, inner child, and even deception.

  Organ music sings out of the computer, and I press down on the mute key. A black rectangle unfolds on my screen. Another pop-up.

  “No, no, no,” I breathe, hammering the escape button. But the film rolls. The camera’s vision is that of a person moving through high weeds, a small hand parting the grasses as they walk.

  I sit up, jut out my neck, squint at the screen. This time, I didn’t even use the URL. But the quality, the camera angle—all looks like the same filmmaker as the last one.

  An old farmhouse and a swing set come into focus. The suspended seat lifts into the air and then flies backward. A little girl kicks her legs as the swing goes up, stops, and then falls again. She wears a blue dress, and every time she sails through the air, the skirt flies up, but she’s too young to worry about that. No one is around to see her anyway. The field is empty except for the person filming.

  The camera sweeps around to the front of the swing set, directly in the little girl’s line of vision. She stops propelling herself and slows. Her face seems so familiar.

  She scrubs her feet in the dirt below until she stops moving. “Hello?” Her expression stiffens, confusion setting in. She doesn’t know the person filming.

  The screen flickers and the scenery shifts to black and white images—some stills, some animated. Dark spatter across wallpaper. A shovel striking the ground as it unearths dirt and casts it aside. An empty swing, swishing back and forth. The steamer trunk.

  Again, the steamer trunk.