The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense

by London Clarke

  I flinch at her remark. Don’t judge. Refocus. Don’t get angry. The red splotches must be rising into my cheeks, mottling my complexion, revealing my emotion. Calm down, breathe. Plenty of clients have gotten upset with me before, and I’ve never let it bother me. But Whitney is intentionally taking jabs, trying to make me react. I take another deep breath. “I understand. Relationships are always so delicious in the beginning. But then, they can turn sour so fast. He’s dangerous, Whitney.”

  She leans forward, the cords in her throat stretching as her voice rasps, low and hard. “You know what’s really terrible? He makes me forget about everything but him. I feel a little like I’m eighteen again and experiencing love for the first time. You know, he’s the best sex I’ve ever had. What about you?”

  My heart hammers, and adrenaline and anger race against one another to see which one can pump more fuel into my brain. What if she leaves here, and in a week I find out she’s been murdered? I rise from my seat. “Women die around him.”

  Whitney’s face is hard—more rigid than I’ve ever seen it. “You know, Claire, you gave up something really special. Now you’re just a sad, lonely woman.”

  “I know things about him, Whitney. Things you may not know.”

  She straightens, and a strange calmness settles over her. Then she laughs, a chilling, unearthly cackle.

  I don’t move. My mind scrambles. I’m not sure what is happening. Her shift in demeanor is unsettling. It reminds me of Annalen’s sudden mood swings.

  She crosses one leg over the other, jiggles her foot. “I know things about you . . . Claire Bear.”

  My mother used to call me that. No one’s called me that since she died. My balance wavers.

  “I know that Steel Nolan was the best sex you ever had. He made you cry. Even your husband didn’t do that.”

  Dumbfounded, I stare at her and try to remain stoic. So, this is all about revenge, then. She wants to punish me. “Nice of Steel to kiss and tell. That shows you what kind of a man he is, Whitney. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  She stands, moves toward me. “I know where you used to go when your parents fought—the field, the swing set.”

  Okay, I never told Steel that. How could she know?

  “You’ve been keeping secrets for a long, long time. Haven’t you Lucinda?”

  I jump and step back, bump into the wall, unable to breathe. Her use of the name flicks at some part of me from long ago. Dropping into self-preservation mode, I slide into therapist speech. “You’re angry, Whitney. I realize I wasn’t professional with you. I should have been upfront with you all along.”

  “Cha!” She lunges toward me, forcing air between her teeth.

  I recoil, and my fingers grip the door frame. “I think you should go.”

  Under her upper lip, she skirts her tongue across her teeth. Then she reaches down, grabs her enormous purse from the floor. She fishes inside, pulls out a container the size of a jewelry box, and sets it on the coffee table. “Here. Happy Thanksgiving.” She meets my gaze. “To say thank you for everything. But don’t open it until I’m gone.” Then she pivots and moves toward the foyer.

  I rush ahead of her and fling open the door, my legs trembling.

  Lifting her hood so that it once again covers her eyes, she strides over the threshold. I watch her walk across the street to Steel’s house.

  With a cry of frustration, I slam the door and lock it. Then I return to the living room and carefully lift the box from the coffee table. Placing my fingers over the top, I remove the lid. Chocolates—four designer truffles positioned neatly in paper candy holders. One has a topping of candied fruit. Another is crisscrossed with white drizzle. But as I look closely at the four domes, I see something moving. Tiny worms writhe and wriggle, some burrowing holes into the shell while others crawl out of the truffles.

  I feel sick as I carry the box into the kitchen and toss it into the trash can. Then I grab a mug from the cabinet, fill it with water, and pop it in the microwave.

  Overhead, the ceiling creaks. Footsteps. Is someone upstairs?

  I return to the darkened foyer and start up the steps on legs that feel like rubber. “Abby? Are you home?”

  I stare up at the landing as the footsteps continue, but Abby doesn’t answer. Trudging up the rest of the way, my brain churns. Could she have come in early and I didn’t hear her?

  At the top of the staircase, I direct my gaze down the hall. A light in the guest bedroom blares. “Abby?”

  “Hey, little girl.”

  The voice is not Abby’s. Neither is the shadow that appears against the door to the guest room. Instead, the man in the leather hat steps into the hallway. His eyes glow like burning coals. Painful shock rips through me, and I run toward the staircase, my legs leaden and unwieldy.

  Grabbing the newel post, I swing around it and turn my head. He’s right there—his rancid breath puffing against my neck, red eyes filled with murderous lust, his mouth open and revealing teeth like metal spikes. I lunge forward, but he clings to me, his entire being upon me, riding my back, weighting me to the ground.

  I hear myself screaming as I grasp the railing and try to pull up. He laughs, a sinister, crackling rasp against my ear. His strength is ten times that of mine, and although it passes through my mind that he is not human, my feeling of stark terror is the same as if he were. Maybe even more so.

  He is going to kill me. I am going to die.

  The man’s hideous laughter grows in volume as he drives his heels into the sides of my legs and slaps my arms, shoulders, and head.

  And then, all at once, he lifts from me. My chest heaving, I scrabble to my knees, looking to the left and the right for any trace of him. He has disappeared like vapor.

  I grasp the railing and hoist myself to my feet, my legs threatening to collapse again. I half-slide down the stairwell, and when I reach the bottom, I anchor myself against the wall.

  The doorbell gongs again, sending me into a spasm that includes a throaty shriek. Slowly, I rotate toward the door, my heart racing all over again. “Who is it?”

  “Claire? It’s Linda.”

  My hand bangs against the doorknob before I grasp and turn it.

  Outside, Linda holds her stomach, panting, her face lined with pain. “It’s Gen.”

  On the street, sirens wail. The side of Linda’s face glows red as three police cars swerve into Trey and Gen’s driveway next door.

  From the step, I watch as the cops launch themselves into the yard. Trey charges from the front door. In his arms, he carries Gen. Her body hangs and sways unnaturally—her arms bent back and lolling, her head swinging.

  Trey drops to his knees and releases Gen onto the ground as the police and EMTs close in. Trey’s voice breaks over the din—a barely human sound, an animalistic keening.

  “She’s dead! Oh, God, no! She’s dead!”

  50

  The day of Gen and the baby’s funeral is one of the worst days of my life.

  Dawn and her husband have returned early from Arizona to attend. Dawn, Linda, and I huddle together at the graveside while the rain pours around us as it has done for weeks. People in dark clothing dab at their eyes and stare down at the hole in the ground where the two coffins will soon be lowered. In front of the gathering, Trey stalwartly holds the umbrella over his children’s heads as the minister presides over the ceremony. His message is one of comfort and support, exhorting the community of friends and family to rally around the survivors.

  My gaze bounces from Trey’s gaunt form to his two devastated children. He hardly seems to notice they’re there.

  My own children are coming home tonight. Annalen has been butting heads with Martina, and Paris really wants me. With everything that’s happened the last few days, along with Dawn’s hasty return, I’ve decided to go back to my own house. What’s the difference, anyway? Whatever was in my home has followed me to Dawn’s. At least I finally have an appointment with the minister. He’s coming to bless the house this
week.

  After the service, I stand with Dawn and Linda in the parking lot.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us to Trey’s parents’ place for the reception?” Dawn asks.

  “I’m sorry. I would, but I have to get back. The kids are coming tonight.”

  Linda adjusts the teal scarf that keeps slipping from her neck. “Don’t worry, Claire. It’s going to be so sad anyway. Trey and the kids haven’t even been back to the house since it happened. They’re going to live with his parents indefinitely.”

  Dawn swipes a tissue under her eyes. “When I spoke to his mother the other day, she said Trey is entering an AA program. He was apparently passed out drunk when Gen . . . you know. Amelia and Colton had to wake him up to tell him their mommy wasn’t breathing. Anyway, he’ll be selling the house. Some friends will be over this week to pack up.”

  Linda’s eyes brim. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her tearful.

  “I just can’t believe she’s gone. And suicide.”

  I clamp my teeth and mutter, “The devil has taken over Amber Mills.”

  Linda and Dawn both stare at me, their foreheads creased.

  I hold up my hands. “I mean, that must be what’s happening, right? Where was God when Gen popped open that bottle of pills? Or what about when Tommy Frankenson pulled a knife and stabbed his parents?” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m just so angry.”

  “Well, we’re not robots, Claire,” Linda says. “We’re not pre-programmed to just walk around in a circle all day. If we were, then maybe we’d never do anything bad. Is that what you want?”

  “I want people to stop dying and being hurt.” I look off into the parking lot where people walk like zombies to their cars. “I can’t believe it was suicide. I just can’t.”

  “You think it was an accidental overdose, then?” Dawn asks.

  Before I have a chance to answer, Linda chimes in. “Gen would’ve had to practically take the whole bottle. Nothing accidental about that.”

  I’m convinced that nothing happening in our neighborhood is by chance. There’s a disease infecting us all, one by one, seeping like tar into the lives of the inhabitants. Something is systematically haunting us, stalking us, killing us off. The Frankensons, Gen and the baby. And I can’t help but wonder which one of us will be next?

  Dawn places a green-gloved hand on my arm. “Claire, are you sure you don’t want to bring the kids over and stay with us a few more nights?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll call you guys later.”

  As I drive home in my new SUV, I weigh my options. I have to protect the kids at all costs, and maybe that means they’ll have to live with Martina and Gunnar. The thought of it twists my stomach and makes me want to throw up—giving over custody of my girls. But if it means they’ll be safe... It would give me a chance to follow Trey’s lead, sell the house, move into an apartment far from this neighborhood.

  I turn onto my street and take several deep breaths as I approach my house. Steel’s truck is still gone. I hope he never comes back. Maybe realizing a private investigator was following him scared him away. Or maybe he’ll fake his death again and move across the country.

  A white sports car is parked on the curb outside of my house, and as I pull into the driveway, I spot a woman standing at my front door, ringing the doorbell. She’s dressed in a leather jacket and wears a black cap. Her tawny hair hangs over the hood of her coat. She pivots and gazes at me through dark sunglasses.

  I step out of the car. “Hi. Can I help you?”

  Her jaw moves up and down as she chews at what I assume is gum. “I’m Julie Havner.”

  My mind jolts. Julie Havner. The psychic medium. “Oh, hi.”

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.” She smacks her gum.

  I move up the front steps. “Um, yeah.”

  She nods. “I flew back from the Bahamas specifically to help you. I’ve been having dreams about you, your children.” She flicks a black leather-gloved hand toward the house. “This place.”

  She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure why. I bounce my keys in my hand. “Wow.”

  “And then I checked my email and saw a video sent to me by Mickey Malkawi that I couldn’t ignore. So I knew I had to come back.” She takes another step toward me. “I think you’re in a lot of danger.”

  I unlock the door and push it open. “Front door open,” the security system announces.

  “Come on in.”

  “I LOVE YOUR PLACE.” Julie tips up her face as she steps into the foyer. “These high ceilings are wonderful.”

  “Thanks. It was one of the reasons we bought the house.”

  She doesn’t take off her glasses but circles the foyer, pops her gum.

  Shrugging out of my coat, I gesture toward the living room. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No, but I’ll take a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, of course.” I move toward the kitchen, and Julie follows, her flat-heeled boots clacking against the tile.

  “Sorry, I’m a complete mess,” she tells me. “I came straight from the airport.”

  “Oh.” I’m a little taken aback by her willingness to cut short her vacation, and my eyes fill with tears. “I’m just overwhelmed that someone is finally here to help me. I can’t thank you enough for coming. I know you’re really busy.” I insert a coffee pod into the machine and wait as the mug fills.

  Julie wanders to the window that looks out onto the deck. “With the dream I had—I didn’t have a choice.” She taps a fingernail against the glass. “What’s out there?”

  “My shed,” I announce. “There’s been some strange things that have happened—”

  “No, don’t.” She whips her hand toward me. “Don’t tell me anything. I like to do my own readings without any input.”

  “Oh, sorry. Okay.” I carry the coffee mug to the island.

  Julie finally removes her sunglasses and wraps her hand around the coffee mug. Her pale green eyes are large and barely blink as she turns toward me.

  “So, I guess I’ll dive right in and tell you about me. I like to call myself a psychic investigator, but if we want to get down to brass tacks, I’m really a sensitive with some psychic giftings.”

  “Okay. What exactly do you do?”

  She blinks. “Haven’t you watched any of my shows?”

  The shows. That’s where I’ve seen her—on the program that Annalen loves so much. “Um, yeah. I may have seen a couple of them.”

  Julie places her hands palm down on the island, rocking toward me. “I’ve worked with police, FBI on cases—homicide, missing persons, unsolved. I also work with private investigators and journalists.” She clasps her hands together. “My television show was number one on the Paranormal Channel’s listings for three years before it ended. But you can still see the reruns.”

  I almost wish the girls were already here so they could meet Julie. Annalen would be thrilled.

  “As for what I do,” she continues, “I evaluate homes, property, even businesses for evidence of the paranormal. What I don’t do is speak to the dead.”

  “Do they ever speak to you?”

  Julie bobs her head. “Sometimes they try. Sometimes I hear them, and I can tell you what they’re saying, but I don’t communicate with them other than to tell them to leave. I have assisted with some exorcisms. But if you’re trying to reach Grandma Susan, who has passed on because you want to make sure she’s doing okay?” She shakes her head. “I don’t do that. In my experience, that’s opening doors that we’re trying to shut, not walk through.”

  “I have no desire to hold a conversation with any dead relatives.”

  “Good.” She sips from the coffee mug. “Oh, and I don’t do seances or spirit boards or anything like that either.”

  I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “I won’t ask you to.”

  She nods and spins on her heel. “Wait. You don’t have any spirit boards in the house, do you? Because those can mes
s me up, and I might not get a full picture of what’s going on here.”

  “No.”

  She inhales deeply, nods. “Okay. I think I’d like to start upstairs.”

  I gesture toward the hallway. “Be my guest.”

  I start to follow her, but she stops, turns to look at me over her shoulder. “I’d like you to stay here. I don’t want any distractions.”

  Holding up my hands, I hang back as she ascends the staircase and moves toward the bedrooms. I return to the kitchen and fix myself a cup of coffee and listen to the floor creaking overhead as Julie traipses from room to room.

  My grief and anger from earlier today drain away and are replaced with a glimmer of hope. Maybe I’m finally getting somewhere with this whole nightmare. I rest my top teeth on the rim of the mug and breathe deeply.

  Julie rejoins me at the kitchen island some fifteen minutes later, sits on one of the stools, and slides her sunglasses to the top of her head. “I’m glad I came when I did. You’re sitting on a powder keg here. And one day soon, it’s going to blow.”

  51

  We sit in the living room while Julie finishes drinking her coffee. She still hasn’t taken the gum out of her mouth, and I try to keep from making a face at the thought of the clashing tastes.

  She huffs out a short breath. “I’m going to tell you about my dream now.”

  I lean in. “Okay.”

  She holds up her hands and makes opposing L-shapes with her thumb and the other fingers like she’s framing a picture. “There was a field, a swing set. And then I saw this old house that was practically falling down, and I heard your name, over and over.”

  “There is a lot behind this house that used to be a field, and there used to be a swing set when I was a kid.” I hesitate. “And there is an old, abandoned house there.”

  “It’s a significant place for you.” Her hands rest on her knees, and her brow creases. “A terrible place.”

  “I would go there when my parents argued. I’d swing on the swing set and...” I close my eyes. “Just escape for a while.”