The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense

by London Clarke

  On the stoop, Jax turns. “I’ll call Julie Havner tonight. This is definitely a case for her to handle. She’ll know what to do.”

  They leave.

  I stay.

  For several minutes I stand in the doorway, watching their car until I can’t see it anymore. The heat from the house is at my back, escaping around me. Finally, I step back and shut the door, closing myself inside with whatever else is here. And now, I know for sure that I am not alone.

  As I pivot to face the cavernous foyer, I find I can’t put one foot in front of the other. I’m petrified to move any further into my own house.

  With a creak that sounds a little like a cat’s yowl, the basement door drifts open. I take a breath, sucking in so deeply that I cough. Swiveling around, I swipe my key fob from the table and fling open the door. Then I run to my SUV.

  36

  I sit in the backseat, shaking, my knees pulled into my chest as I stare out a side window, then the windshield. Twisting around, I check the empty space behind me.

  Nothing about this is normal. Am I really going to sleep in my car? I left my phone inside. What if the girls call?

  I peer through the side window again. Steel’s truck is in his driveway. I don’t remember seeing it a second ago. The hazards are blinking, streaking the foggy night air with rays of red. From the base of my SUV’s window, Steel’s forehead appears. Then his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Like a swamp creature from the lagoon, he rises until his face is fully revealed. He stares at me, his expression indiscernible and shadowy.

  My gaze is riveted to where Steel’s eyes should be, although I can’t see them properly. I grapple with the moment—the bizarre nature of what is happening. Seconds tick by, and I finally muster the strength to speak. “What do you want?”

  He continues to stand and glare.

  “Leave me alone, Steel.”

  Fear creeps over me in a cold, shivery sweat. He raises a cigarette to his mouth, inhales, and blows out a stream of fog.

  “Get away from the car, Steel,” I command in my most strident voice. “You need to leave me alone.”

  The smell of smoke reaches my nostrils, and a thin gray, undulating mass floats up from the floorboard. I suddenly realize that the cabin of the SUV is filling with smoke. I cough as the haze becomes more pronounced and burns my eyes and the back of my throat.

  I have to get out. I can’t stay in here.

  My windpipe spasms. “Get away from the door!” I yell, lapsing into hacking.

  Steel doesn’t move. He takes another drag from his cigarette.

  Desperate, I throw myself across the console and reach for the steering wheel, jamming my hand against the center panel. The horn blares, the sound bouncing off of my garage door and rolling out into the neighborhood.

  Still coughing, I wrench my neck to look over my shoulder. Steel is backing away, the tiniest of smiles curving his lips. The strobing lights of his hazards bathe his silhouette in red as he descends into the shadows.

  I continue to press on the horn as I watch him move up the steps and into his house. Only then does the choking fog begin to dissipate. My eyes water, not only from the smoke but with real tears, as I shudder out a sob and release my hand from the steering wheel.

  37

  One day I’ll tell you who I really am...

  I don’t sleep. I search private investigators’ listings and find a few local ones with good ratings. I check several websites and read the reviews. In the morning, after calling several agencies and getting their voicemail, I settle on Michael Dunn from the One and Dunn Agency. Cheesy name, but Michael actually answers the phone. Plus, he’s former military, no-nonsense, and willing to start right away. He also does forensic analysis.

  “What about information regarding the origin of a website?” I ask. “Can you do that?”

  “We can do that,” Dunn assures me. “We can retrieve evidence from computers, recover information, and investigate mobile devices, tablets, basically any device with communication capabilities.”

  Standing at the window in Dawn’s guest room, I look out at Steel’s house. The light is on in his foyer. “Okay, great. And then in terms of the guy—the one I need to know about...”

  “Yeah, shoot me over a photo and any relevant information. Where he lives, his daily schedule, if you know it, anything you think might help me.”

  I grasp my bottom lip and shift it left to right. “I really just want to know something about him, his background. He’s told me he has a dark past.”

  “So, a background check. Yeah, we can start with that.”

  I turn away from the window, lift my mug to my lips, and drain the last of my coffee. “He lives right next door to me, and I have kids. The main thing I need to know is how dangerous is this guy, really.”

  I’VE NEVER BEEN PRONE to depression. Even when Gunnar left me, even after my mother died, I was sad and angry, but I never allowed despair to tip my emotional scales. I had children to think about, and I needed to get on with it.

  But this.

  For the first time ever, I feel helpless, hopeless, defeated. I have four girls, and I don’t know how to protect them. Right now, selling the house seems like my only real option.

  “Wanna buy a haunted house?” I jokingly ask Bart in the breakroom.

  He stands beside me, bobbing his tea bag in a mug of steaming water.

  “What?” he chuckles. “You think your house is haunted?”

  I tear off the foil of a pod of half and half and pour it into my coffee. “Maybe. Shadows, voices, alarms going off, stuffed animals moving around.” I shrug a shoulder. “I’m inclined to think these are the things that make up a haunted house.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. It’s all happening.”

  He sobers. “You know, the house my wife and I used to live in—I swear it was haunted. Creaking floors and slamming doors, and we’d hear our names at night, waking us up.”

  “Yes!” I brighten, grasping his arm excitedly. “Yes, something wakes me up at night saying my name too!” I feel like I’ve just connected with a long-lost relative. “So, you understand.”

  He nods, pours a packet of sugar into his tea. “Yeah, even the dog would sometimes face the corner and bark at nothing.”

  At last. Someone who might actually be able to help me. “What did you do? How did you get rid of it?”

  He purses his lips, shakes his head. “We didn’t. We just learned to live with it. It didn’t seem violent. We figured we could all coexist pretty happily.” Bart takes a sip of his tea and makes a face. “Until I realized I couldn’t happily live with my wife.”

  My mood immediately plummets. “You didn’t call anyone? Didn’t try to get rid of it?”

  “No, and it was sporadic. Sometimes we’d go months at a time without anything out of the ordinary.” He plucks a second packet of sugar from the counter and tears it open. “I did sometimes wonder, though, if it might have played into the divorce. My wife—she became a different person around the same time we started experiencing the activity. Belligerent, combative—”

  “Claire?” Heba, our receptionist, pokes her head in the door. “I’m sorry to disturb, but Whitney Brierson is here and wants to know if you can see her early today.”

  “Whitney? Really? She’s here now?”

  “Yes. You had an opening this morning, so I put her in the slot. I hope that’s okay?” Cradling her hands in front of her, Heba squints and winces like she’s worried I’ll smack her.

  “It’s fine,” I say. But dread fills my chest. I planned to contact Whitney today, let her know that I can’t treat her anymore. Now I’ll have to tell her in person. Not to mention that I should warn her about Steel, about the website. Something evil wants his soul. And maybe it wants yours and mine too...

  As Whitney treks into my office, I check out the bandage taped across her forehead. “What happened?”

  She puts a hand to the gauze. “Oh, I had a little fender bender. B
umped my head.”

  I reflexively wonder if it had anything to do with Steel.

  “Oh, wow. But you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, my car didn’t fare too well, neither did my phone. But, you know, those are both replaceable.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  I drop into my chair. “Other than that, how are things going?”

  She looks down at her arms. My gaze travels there as well, once again noting our matching bruises.

  “Not good.”

  “What does ‘not good’ look like?”

  “I think Steel and I are done.”

  I struggle to keep my eyebrows from shooting up, my mouth from falling open. “Really? What happened?”

  She looks down at her lap. “He just started acting really weird and told me he needs some space.”

  I nod, encouraging her to continue.

  “But I mean, it’s like some kind of switch flipped. One day he was all affectionate and telling me he wanted to be part of my life, and the next—well, he started backing away. And then it was like high school all over again. You know, like when the cute guy starts treating you all weird as soon as you’re in love with him?”

  “Are you? In love with him?”

  Her eyes fill with tears, and the muscles in her throat constrict. “I think so. But look where that’s gotten me.” She slaps her hands against her thighs and looks up at me suddenly. “Do you think I should call him? Or drive by his house or anything? Just to see if maybe—maybe if he sees me, he’ll change his mind.” She gives a sort of laugh-sob.

  I’ve seen far too many divorced women in this predicament. Tell her, tell her.

  But I don’t.

  I shoot her a sympathetic smile. “Do you think contacting Steel is a good idea?”

  She drops her gaze, shakes her head. “No. Probably not.”

  I hesitate, allowing her to recognize the gravity of her own words. “He’s a rebound relationship, Whitney. You’ll forget about him, you’ll move on with your life, you’ll meet someone else, and you’ll heal. Everything will be okay.”

  She nods, sniffs. “No, I know you’re right. And I think he might be seeing someone else anyway.”

  My throat tightens. “Have you asked him about whether he’s seeing someone?”

  “He’s adamant that he’s not. Even though I found a used condom in the floorboard of his truck.” She covers her face with her hands. “And women’s underwear in the backseat.”

  I feel my cheeks burn. I lean forward, clasp my hands together. I had my conflict-of-interest speech all ready to go, but now I don’t think I can choke it out. But after everything that’s transpired, I feel some obligation to warn her. I would hate for any of Whitney’s belongings to end up in Steel’s treasure chest.

  “It sounds like your suspicions were right, Whitney.”

  “I know,” she squeaks, the sobs overcoming her.

  “It sounds like he wasn’t honest with you.”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “It sounds like you’re better off without him.”

  I NO LONGER PARK IN the parking garage. After seeing the man in the leather hat, I filed a report with the building and started parking in the outside lot. It feels safer somehow, out in the open.

  As I’m leaving work, my phone sings out Eva Cassidy from inside my purse. I pull it out, look down at the screen. It’s a number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Claire? Julie Havner. Jax Sullivan asked me to call you.”

  “Who?” For a moment, I’m confused. Then I remember—Jax said he’d contact his mentor, have her get in touch with me.

  “Julie Havner. I’m a sensitive. I work with paranormal cases.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Yes! Thank you for calling.”

  “Yeah, so what can I do for you?” Her voice is terse with little inflection or character. She sounds distracted, and I suddenly feel oddly self-conscious.

  “Uh, well, did Jax tell you anything about my situation?” I cross the parking lot and climb into my SUV.

  “He probably did, but I can’t remember what he told me. Are you the woman with the haunted winery?”

  Air seeps from my lungs as I sink back into the car seat. “No. I’m the one with the haunted house—seeing shadows, hearing voices. Jax’s partner Mickey was attacked in my basement.”

  “Oh, wait. Yeah. I think I do remember Jax saying something about that.”

  A ripple of irritation jets through me at her flippant tone. “Yeah, he said he’s left you several messages.”

  “I’m sure he did. I just got back into town, and my voicemail message box is full, so I haven’t even gotten to some of the calls from a month ago.” She gives a little laugh.

  I can already tell this isn’t going to work, and the disappointment presses into me. I squeeze the phone with the same intensity that I clench my jaw. “Basically, I’m looking for help, and Jax said you might be able to help me.”

  She sniffs. “Um, well, it depends on how fast you need the help. Right now, I’m packing to leave for the Bahamas for two weeks. And then, of course, I have a waiting list. So it could be a couple of months before I get to you. If you can wait until after that, we can set up something.”

  A couple of months? Is she kidding? “I’m really trying to get this resolved as quickly as possible. I guess I’d better look for someone else.”

  “Yeah, my schedule stays pretty full, and there are plenty of other organizations out there.”

  I lift my hand to my temple. My head has been hurting ever since Whitney left. “Okay. It’s just that I have four daughters, and I’m really scared for—”

  “Hey, Brenda, I hate to be rude, but I gotta fly. I’ve got to finish packing. Just—call me in a few weeks, and I’ll see if I can get you on the schedule somewhere.”

  Click. And she’s gone.

  I toss my cellphone into the passenger seat, miffed that Julie Havner can’t even get my name right, let alone give me the time of day. A few weeks? There’s no way I can wait a few weeks. I’m suddenly glad I’ve taken Dawn up on her offer to stay at her house while she and her husband are out of town.

  38

  The kids and I spend our first night at Dawn’s making sugar cookies in the shapes of turkeys. All the girls take turns icing them with a sugary frosting we mix with food colors.

  I’ve forgotten how many cats Dawn has. Most of the time, they stay outside, but tonight they traipse around the kitchen, rubbing their faces against our legs and purring. I jump every time one of their heads presses against my ankle.

  Paris giggles. “Mommy, you’re really scared of cats, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I insist, nudging one of the cats away. “I just don’t like it when they sneak up on me.”

  “Where is Miss Dawn?” Bridget asks.

  “She and her husband left today for Arizona to visit their son. They’re spending Thanksgiving with him.”

  Paris’s lips and tongue are indigo from decorating and eating so many blue turkeys. “Why are we staying at Miss Dawn’s house?”

  I’m prepared for this question. I’ve told Gunnar that we have black mold, and that’s the story I’m sticking with. “We had a leak last year, remember? Remember the hole in the basement ceiling? Well, black mold formed, and it can be very dangerous. We need to get rid of it before we go back.” I’m even beginning to believe myself.

  “Is that why there were dark shadows all over the house?”

  “Dark shadows?”

  “You know! The ones I keep seeing, Mommy. I keep telling you, but you never listen to me.”

  I inhale deeply. I’m listening now. I promise I believe you now.

  “That might be the reason, Paris. Black mold can cause all kinds of problems.” The lies are buzzing around like flies tonight.

  Annalen’s forehead creases as she shoots me a glance that says she doesn’t believe me for a second.

&nb
sp; “Hopefully, we can get it cleared up in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, we’ll housesit—and cat-sit—for our neighbors, and you guys get to hang out with Abby while we’re here.”

  Paris clasps her hands above her head. “Abby!”

  I smile. “And I have lots of plans for us this week. I’m going to take some time off of work, and we’ll go out to eat and Christmas shopping...”

  Annalen waves her hands in the air. “Ooh, it’s just going to be a fun, old-fashioned family Christmas, isn’t it, everyone? Damn, Mom. You’d think we were the Partridge family or something.”

  It takes a second for me to register the sarcastic tone of her voice. “Annalen, come on.” I’d hoped being away from our house would improve her attitude, but that’s proving to be an unrealistic hope. Equally perplexing is her use of the Partridge family as a reference. I’m pretty sure we have never watched the Partridge Family.

  Paris tugs at my sleeve, pulls me down to her level, and whispers in my ear. “Annalen has been acting so weird.”

  I focus on her blue teeth. “Paris, go in the bathroom and wash the food coloring off your mouth.”

  She dances off to the bathroom, and I start to move the empty icing bowls into the sink.

  Gretchen holds up her most artistic turkey cookie for us to see. She’s spent the last ten minutes on one cookie, making sure all of the icing colors are correct—brown for the body, green and yellow for the feathers, a red gobbler.

  We all tell her it’s beautiful, and she proudly sets it on the wax paper beside the last one she made. Bridget immediately snatches it up and bites into it.

  “Bridget!” Gretchen screeches, bashing her sister over the head. “You ruined it!”

  Bridget chews, suppressing her laughter.

  I frown at her. “Bridge, that was not cool at all, and you know it. You saw how hard Gretch worked on that.”