The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense

by London Clarke

  I meet his smile and return it, my face flushing. “I just want her to do well in school. I don’t want high school to be her downfall.”

  Steel’s lighthearted smile shrinks into a grimace. “High school was my downfall, that’s for sure. That’s when my life headed south.”

  His words don’t make me feel any better. “You’ve said that before. What happened to you?”

  He scrubs a hand over his beard. “We hadn’t been in the country all that long. I was in a new school, trying to find my way.”

  Looking at Steel, I have a hard time believing he ever had a hard time fitting in. I imagine the girls lined up just to talk to him, let alone the rest of it.

  “I got in some trouble. Some big trouble, actually. And it pretty much changed the trajectory of my life.”

  The server brings the bill, and Steel swipes it away from me. When I protest, he holds up a hand, reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet.

  “Thanks.”

  He slaps a credit card onto the tray. “When I was a kid, I did almost anything to fit in. But you know, fitting in means different things to different people.” He hands off the tray to the server and then folds his hands on the table. “One day, I’ll tell you about who I really am.” Steel lowers his voice like he’s letting me in on a secret. “After we’ve slept together a few more times.”

  Something inside me grinds to a halt. Screeching tires. A record scratch. Pain blooms in the middle of my chest. His comment is inappropriate. Presumptuous. More than presumptuous—borderline offensive. Heat rises to my face. I should tell him off, but instead, I’m strangely, horrifyingly turned on by his remark, and that upsets me more than his words.

  His lips slide into a smile again, and he jabs me in the arm. “I’m just kidding.”

  I open my mouth, the words on the tip of my tongue—that’s not going to happen again—but the server brings the card slip, and Steel signs it, tosses the pen on the table. “Let’s get out of here.” He unhooks his coat from the back of the chair.

  A clap of thunder vibrates through the restaurant, and the overhead lights flicker.

  “Come on,” he says. “We’d better get home before the storm starts.”

  ON THE DRIVE BACK, I’m quiet, mulling over what Steel said and the misplaced erotic charge it sent through me. “One day, I’ll tell you who I really am . . . after we’ve slept together a few more times.”

  Who is Steel Nolan, really?

  The sky explodes with lightning, and the ground rumbles beneath us as Steel rides the accelerator.

  “Hopefully, the rain will hold off until we’re inside,” he says.

  But as we turn onto our street, the heavenly dam breaks and buckets of rain hammer the car. Steel pulls his truck into my driveway and we sit and wait, staring out at the sheet of water rushing over the windshield.

  “We almost made it.” I laugh a little.

  There’s no hurry to get inside anyway. No one’s waiting for me. But I should go in. Right now. A few seconds more and anything could happen.

  Steel peers out of the windshield, up to the sky. “We should maybe wait a few minutes until this lets up.”

  “Hopefully, the rain will stop soon.” I should just thank him for dinner and make a run for it, save a few awkward moments sitting in the car.

  But I don’t get a chance to decide because he reaches over and slips his hand across the back of my neck, pulling me toward him. Bending over the console, he kisses me. For a few seconds, I fight it, push against him. My mind is telling me to get out of the truck now. But then my heart rockets into action and my head fills with dangerous longing—just like last time. I break out of the kiss in an attempt to slow things. No, this can’t happen again.

  Steel buries his face into my neck, sliding his arms around my waist.

  “I want you, Claire,” he breathes against my ear. He kisses me again, his tongue against mine, as he presses me into the seat. Then he lifts himself up and steps over the console and into the spacious backseat.

  Thunder rocks the truck. Lightning turns the interior blue. My adrenaline surges. Still holding my hand, he stares at me, willing me to follow him into the back. All of my restraints close down and go silent as I mimic his path over the console. He immediately pulls me down on top of him. I know where this leads, and suddenly, I don’t care.

  His thumbs press against my hip bones, his breathing ragged. “Backseat of a truck feels naughty, doesn’t it?” His hands move to my skull as he pulls my face down to his, and then everything jets forward. We grind against each other until he finally pushes up my dress, ripping my tights to get them off. “I want to eat you alive.” Then he flips me over, flat against the seat while he tugs down his pants.

  The whole truck moves. It rocks back and forth under me as the wind blows gusts of wind under the truck’s carriage.

  Who is this man, really? How did I end up in this situation for the second time with someone I know so little about? But his touch lights me up from the inside, and I’ve never felt the sort of white-hot urgency I feel to be with him.

  Steel is like the storm raging outside, and I find myself responding, carried away in a flood of emotion and sensation as the rain winds down and slows to a steady patter.

  Tap-tap-tap. The sluggish realization that something is rapping against the window makes me twist my head back and look. Through the rain-coated glass, the face of my ex-husband stares down at us.

  With a gasp, I sit up, pushing Steel off of me and attempting to pull down my dress.

  “Who is that?” Steel reaches for his pants.

  “It’s Gunnar.”

  “What? Oh, shit.”

  He pulls his pants over his hips, and I swipe my boots from the floorboard and force them over my bare feet, my hands shaking.

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know. But he wouldn’t be here unless it was an emergency.” I open the door and drop out of the truck, barely maintaining my balance as my feet hit the pavement. The rain is cold against my face and bare legs, and I glance down at the balled-up ruined tights in my hand. I’ve left my underwear somewhere on the floorboard.

  Gunnar moves away from the truck and stands under the front stoop, waiting for me while he stares at the house next door draped in caution tape.

  Steel steps out into the rain. “What should I do? Will you be all right? Should I come inside with you to talk to him?”

  “No,” I practically yell. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you when he’s gone.”

  Steel nods and gestures to his truck parked in my driveway. Gunnar’s car is blocking him. “I’ll move the truck later.”

  Through the window and the flapping windshield wipers of Gunnar’s still-running car, Annalen looks out at me with wide eyes. My heart plummets.

  I dash through the pelting rain and up the front steps of the house, tensing as I stand beside Gunnar to unlock the door and shoulder my way inside. “Why is Annalen in the car?”

  Gunnar’s face glistens with raindrops, and his forehead compresses. “Annalen told me about the Frankensons. Guess the neighborhood is really going downhill, huh?”

  My knees are soft, my ankles trembling. I feel like a teenager who’s just been caught having sex with her boyfriend.

  Gunnar stares at me with ultra-blue eyes that I used to love so much, and his voice is eerily calm when he speaks. “I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour.”

  I rake my wet hair out of my face. “I was out.”

  “Yes, I see that.” His tone is drenched with disapproval.

  I can’t look at him, so I stare at the front door. How will I explain this to Annalen?

  “What’s going on? Why is Annalen in the car?” I toss my ripped hosiery onto the table by the door.

  “I wanted to talk to you alone first. Since I couldn’t get you on the phone.” Gunnar’s eyes flick to the nylons and then back to me. “Annalen—you know . . . um, started her period tonight.”

  I straight
en. “Oh.”

  Gunnar turns away, and for the first time that I can remember, he seems embarrassed.

  “Anyway, Martina gave her some things, but Annalen—well, she wanted you, and Martina thought it was best if she came home.”

  Well, if Martina thought it was best...

  “Of course.” Now I want Gunnar out of here, so I can run outside and pull Annalen into a hug.

  Gunnar wipes the rain from his face and neck with taut fingers. “She isn’t feeling well, so I don’t know if she needs to go to the doctor or—”

  “No, she doesn’t need to go to the doctor.” For once, I’m the expert. “She needs ibuprofen and a heating pad. She’ll be fine.”

  He shrugs. “Okay, well, whatever needs to happen.”

  “Can we please bring her inside now?” Impatiently, I draw my hands to my hips.

  “Yeah, fine.” He starts toward the door but then pivots. “Gretchen says you think Annalen’s been sleepwalking—like, outside the house at night. She’s very worried about her sister.”

  Thanks, Gretchen. “There was an incident of sleepwalking, but like I said, she’ll be fine.” I’m inclined to think I was right about the blackouts or short fainting spells and sleepwalking—it could all be connected to hormonal changes.

  Gunnar puts his hand to his forehead. “What’s going on here, Claire? Are you too wrapped up with your new boyfriend to properly look after the girls?”

  A river of anger rushes through me. “Excuse me? You have no right to say anything. You just ran off and married your girlfriend without a word to anyone.”

  “Martina’s a good woman.”

  “Well, Steel’s a good man.”

  He scoffs. “Steel. What kind of a name is that?”

  I bite my tongue, thinking that’s rich coming from a man named Gunnar, but then this is about the girls. There’s no room for childish pettiness here.

  Gunnar raises his hands to his hips. “And Paris says she doesn’t like him—this guy.”

  “Paris wouldn’t like any man I dated. She misses you.”

  He slants his eyes away from me, and his face hardens. “Well, you need to pull it together.”

  My hand jerks, and for a fraction of a second, I think I might hit him. Instead, I point toward the door. “Get the hell out, Gunnar.”

  He yanks the door open. “You’re not in high school anymore, you know.”

  If I’d had something in my hand, I would have pelted it at the back of his head. But a minute later, Annalen drifts inside. Her eyes flick to mine and back to the ground again, as though she’s ashamed. I’m the one that’s horrified at what I must look like and what she must be thinking. I pull her against me.

  “Oh, honey. You’re not feeling well? Are you crampy?”

  She quickly pushes away. “I want to go to bed.”

  “I’ll get you some Advil and a heating pad. You’ll feel better in a bit. Do you have everything else you need?”

  Oddly silent, Annalen nods and heads up the stairs. I know she comprehends what she saw—Steel and me crawling out of the truck, still pulling our clothing down. She must be upset. Even so, she probably won’t say anything at the risk of embarrassing both of us.

  But when she reaches the third step, she turns toward me, her face encased in shadows. “Mom, what were you and Steel doing in the truck?”

  My mouth falls open, and the answer is reflexive, effortless. “We were just talking.”

  It’s the first time I’ve ever lied to any of my daughters.

  23

  “I moved the truck last night after your husband left. Is everything okay?”

  I talk to Steel on the phone while standing in the kitchen. The television blares in the next room, where Annalen reclines on the couch with a heating pad. She won’t be able to hear my conversation in here.

  “Yeah, fine.” I run my fingers over a fresh bruise on my wrist. “Annalen was having some problems and didn’t feel well, so Gunnar brought her home.” I rush on. “Everything’s fine.”

  Silence. I reach over and stroke the lip of the bowl sitting on the counter. Leftover Halloween candy rests in the bottom.

  “Hello? Steel? You still there?”

  “Claire, I...”

  I wait, hold my breath, but he doesn’t complete the sentence.

  “Anyway,” I exhale. “Last night was kind of a disaster, as you can imagine.”

  “I know. I feel responsible. Again.”

  “Don’t. I was a willing participant.” An eager one. Even after his presumptuous comment. Somehow, I’d given in a second time, and even now, as I listen to his voice on the line, my body responds, deserting my brain altogether.

  “I want to keep seeing you,” he says. “I don’t want these one-offs, though. I want to be a part of your life—your girls’ lives too.”

  I grasp at my sweater and feel my heartbeat throbbing against my knuckles. “But you hardly know me.” Steel doesn’t have a clue what it’s like to be a parent of four kids and dealing with an ex-husband and all the complications those things entail.

  “I want to know you better.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the basement door drift open, almost as though someone has pushed it from the other side. I move toward it. The volume of the television swells.

  “Let’s just do this one day at a time,” I say mechanically. “And right now, I need to call you back.”

  “Okay. Let’s talk later.”

  I disconnect the call and look over at the couch where Annalen lies, heating pad draped over her stomach, eyes closed. Then I move into the doorway leading to the basement. Leaning forward, I flip on the light, hold the rail, and slink down one step at a time.

  The basement is dark, even during the day, even with the overhead. The sliding glass door is covered by a heavy curtain and blocks out most of the daylight. A damp, musty smell hangs in the air, and as I rip open the drapes, little lines of dust particles form forcefields against the sun. Who knows when I last cleaned down here.

  I feel eyes on me, and I spin around.

  On the chair in the corner, Mr. Kitty sits, his plastic, emerald-green orbs staring at me. I take several steps back as short, sharp electrical charges pulse through me. Paris has looked all over for that stuffed cat, and I’d nearly forgotten about it.

  What sounds like a clap of thunder reverberates through the house as multiple doors slam shut. I whirl away from the plush animal and rush to the base of the staircase, my foot poised on the first step.

  “Annalen? What’s going on?”

  “Mom! Mommy!” Her voice sounds a million miles away.

  “Annalen?”

  Knocking.

  Banging.

  Shrieking.

  My feet barely touch the steps as I shoot up to the landing and throw my whole body against the basement door. Wrenching the knob, I stagger into the living room. Annalen is no longer on the couch. I spin toward the second flight of steps and propel myself to the third floor. All of the bedroom doors are shut.

  “Mommy! Help!” Her voice comes from inside her bedroom.

  I grasp the knob, but it doesn’t turn. “Unlock the door, Annalen!” I shout, my forehead pressed against the panel.

  “It’s not locked!” she screams.

  I throw my shoulder against the wood, and pain shoots through my neck and jaw. Driven by Annalen’s inhuman wails, I pound the door and kick at the base. Sweat drips from my forehead and runs down the side of my face. Tears sting my eyes. “I’m going to get you out, sweetie.”

  “Mommy! There’s something else in here!”

  The piercing sounds of her distress are more than I can take, and I look around frantically for something to slam against the door. I need a sledgehammer or an ax.

  And then, all at once, my daughter’s screams stop.

  My hand shakes uncontrollably as I reach for the knob, and this time it turns. The door swings open, and I trip inside, nearly falling to the floor. My eyes sweep the room from corner to
corner, looking for the “something else” supposedly in the room. Annalen sits on her bed, staring at me, her feet on the floor, a strange sort of close-lipped smile on her face.

  “Annalen?” I rush toward her, sink down on the bed, and wrap my arms around her. “What happened? Why wouldn’t the door open?”

  Vacant eyes stare back at me. She laughs, and I draw away from her, surprised by her reaction.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mommy. Maybe it was just stuck.”

  I reach toward her. “Are you okay?”

  She ducks away from my hand and shoots forward, out of the room.

  I hear the spew of the bathroom faucet. Annalen chuckles and then she begins to sing. It takes me a moment, but I recognize the melody and the words. “Cat’s in the Cradle.”

  Where has she learned that song? I heard it as a kid, but it’s never been played in this house.

  Several minutes pass before she returns to the room. She’s no longer singing, but she’s humming.

  “Where did you learn that song?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s a really old song, you know.”

  “So?” She goes to her closet, pulls out a black cardigan, and thrusts her arms into it.

  “Are you cold?”

  A scoff. “Yeah. This house is frickin’ freezing.”

  “Annalen! Don’t use that word.”

  “What word?” She goes to the window and looks out, placing her fingers against the glass.

  I’ve never known Annalen to sound so snotty, so . . . like a teenager. “That word. Frickin’. It’s not a word I want to hear out of your mouth.”

  “It’s not the word.”

  “I know. But it’s close enough.” I rise slowly from the bed and join her by the window. “What’s going on out there?”

  “Nothing,” she says, moving away and crossing the room again.

  I remain at the window, staring out at the street. Steel’s truck pulls into his driveway. I watch, waiting to catch a glimpse of him. Then I pivot toward Annalen. “Are you upset with me?”

  From across the room, her eyes look dark. “Well, you’re still breathing, aren’t you?”