The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense

by London Clarke

  “Could it be a brain tumor?”

  “No, no, honey. I don’t think it’s anything like that. Anyway, there’s something else I want to talk to you about that could be related.” I point out to the road. “Were you out here last night or early this morning? Walking up and down the street?”

  Her brow creases. “Huh?”

  “Linda said she saw you out here last night, walking around in the street, looking for someone. Looking for Steel.” I dart my eyes toward his window. “She brought you back into the house. You don’t remember any of that?”

  “Steel?” She shakes her head slowly and then faster. “No, I wasn’t looking for him. I wasn’t outside.”

  I believe her—at least that she has no memory of it. “Maybe you were sleepwalking. I did that a few times as a girl too. It’s no big deal. I just don’t want you to sleepwalk in the street again.”

  An engine revs, and I look up just as Tommy’s green clunker flashes by. He guns it into his driveway, and the front of the car noses down and halts millimeters from the garage door. No, I’ve got to be on guard for Annalen. If she were to wander out during the night, and that maniac was driving around...

  Tommy gets out of his car and trips into his house.

  Annalen nods toward him. “He’s in my science class.”

  I look at her. “You haven’t mentioned that before. I didn’t know you shared any classes with him.”

  She shrugs. “Didn’t seem important to say anything about it. He’s out of school a lot.”

  A cat saunters up the sidewalk, stops, and blinks at us. Gray fur, yellow eyes. It looks just like the cat I found in Paris’s bed.

  I stretch out my pointer finger. “Do you know who that cat belongs to?”

  Annalen shakes her head. “No. I think it’s a stray.”

  It looks well-fed, its gray face round and the fur healthy. “This is the second time I’ve seen it.”

  Annalen whips her head toward me. “Can we keep it?”

  “I don’t think so, sweetie. We’ve got enough to worry about right now.”

  Her face falls. “Yeah, I’ve got to finish my science project for school.” She sighs, the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  I nearly forgot all about the email from her science teacher.

  “Hey, do you know any kids with the last name of Brierson? Jocelyn, I think, is the first name.”

  Her eyes dart up, considering. “No. Why?”

  “Oh, I just met this woman, and she said her oldest daughter probably goes to school with you.”

  “It’s a big school, Mom.”

  “I know. I just wondered.”

  Across the street, a plastic pumpkin glows in the downstairs window of Trey and Gen’s house.

  “Tomorrow’s Halloween,” I remind her. “Is your dad going to let you take your sisters out trick-or-treating?”

  Annalen stares at the cat. “Martina’s going out with us. She says she’s never had the chance to take kids out before.”

  My heart cinches. “Ah. Are you going to dress up?”

  “Martina thinks I’m too old to dress up for Halloween. She says thirteen is the cut-off age. And I’m almost fifteen, so...”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Martina has a lot of opinions, doesn’t she?” A painful thread pulls inside me at the idea of Annalen being “too old” to dress up for Halloween. “Plenty of high school kids still go out trick-or-treating. I’m sure some of your friends are dressing up.”

  She nods. “Yeah, but they’ll be going out here in this neighborhood, and I’ll be with Dad and Martina in theirs.”

  “That’s only like, two streets over.”

  She straightens, clasps her hands, and stretches her arms. “Anyway, I don’t think I’ll dress up.”

  “Okay, honey. You do what you want.”

  She holds out her hand, wriggles her fingers. “Here, kitty.”

  The gray cat crouches and darts off into the darkness.

  I’m relieved. “The cat probably belongs to someone in the neighborhood anyway.”

  THE SUN HAS ALMOST completely disappeared behind the trees when I peek out the back and catch a glimpse of Steel walking toward my house, earbuds slung over his shoulders, his flannel shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal a triangle of chest hair.

  Something in me stirs.

  I take a deep breath, push open the back door, and stare just beyond him to the frame of the shed. The structure is coming to life—walls, a floor, a roof.

  He swings his arm toward his work. “Got a good start on it today.”

  “You really did. It looks amazing already.”

  He stomps his boots on the steps, shaking the dirt from the soles. “I’ll be back tomorrow to work on it again.” Cresting the deck, he locks gazes with me and moves to stand a few feet away, a smile tipping his lips.

  “Thank you. I don’t know why you’re doing all of this, but I really appreciate it.”

  His smile fades a little, and he cocks his head to the side. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

  We stand there for just a little too long, too silently. I know he wants me to invite him in, and I’m almost tempted. But then I catch myself. The girls are home.

  He seems to read my mind and breaks the awkward pause. “Are your girls going to their dad’s tomorrow night?”

  His question catches me off guard, but I nod.

  “Can I take you out to dinner?”

  “Tomorrow’s Halloween.”

  His gaze slides off to the right. “I won’t be trick-or-treating? Will you?”

  I laugh and cover my face with my hand. “No.” What is wrong with me? “Of course. Yes, I’d love to go.”

  His smirk deepens. “But I mean, if you want to do costumes, and you’re into all that—you know, I’m game.”

  I bite my lip, and my face heats. “No, it’s fine.” Why couldn’t I have just said no, this isn’t going to work? But now I’ve said yes, and there’s some part of me that’s glad he’s asked.

  He drops his gaze as he pivots away and starts off the deck. “I’ll see you in the morning, Claire. I plan to make an early start on the shed.”

  I watch him walk through the hole in the fence. I really am ridiculously attracted to the guy. But for some reason, I don’t see this ending well.

  21

  I wake with a start and immediately glance at the atomic clock—3:17. The floor creaks in the hallway—someone is walking past.

  I’ve purposely left my door open, so I can hear if Annalen sleepwalks again. As my feet hit the floor, the cold air rushes across my ankles. I grab my robe from the chair, slide my feet into slippers, and head downstairs in time to see the front door open and close. Even though she’s sleepwalking, she’s moving quickly.

  I follow, turning on the porch light and stepping onto the front stoop as the wet chill of fog embraces me. Looking off to the left and the right, I squint into the dense, smoky sheen of night, but I don’t see Annalen in either direction.

  “Annalen?” I call out, jogging to the sidewalk.

  The street is deserted. No cars, no people.

  “Annalen?” A voice calls from down the road, and I realize with a chill that’s not an echo. Someone else is calling her too.

  I dart off toward the voice. Where is she? How could she have disappeared so quickly?

  Again, the disembodied voice calls her name. Is it a man’s voice? A woman’s? I can’t be sure.

  “Who’s there?” Fear cuffs the base of my neck and creates an earthquake that quickens my breathing. “Annalen!” I cross the street and rush along the sidewalk, past Linda’s house, Dawn’s house.

  Up ahead, spots of light flash from behind a bush. I hurtle forward, catching one of my slippers on the crack in the sidewalk. It skitters in front of me, and I stop to pick it up. As I straighten, I glimpse beams of gray light intersecting with each other like fireflies, glowing, dancing, before separating to opposite sides of the street.

  Behind me, someone ch
uckles. I whirl around. One by one, the streetlights flicker and go out, and the street fades into darkness.

  Panic sets in, squeezing my chest. “Annalen!” I force myself forward.

  The echo of her name quickly follows.

  Is the voice coming from my left or my right? “Where are you?”

  “Come find me,” it says. “You’re close.”

  A single exterior light pops on, illuminating a small section of the road. I stride toward it.

  “Claire.”

  Hearing my name stops me. A man stands in the shadows, his face hidden, but as he moves into the swath of light, I recognize Rich Frankenson, his hands hanging to his side, his shoulders sloping downward.

  “Rich,” I pant. “I’m looking for Annalen. She’s sleepwalking, and I can’t find her.”

  His mouth opens and moves as though he’s trying to talk, but no sound comes from his throat. A prickly, cold sensation crawls over my shoulders.

  “Rich? Is everything okay?”

  He doesn’t respond. Slowly, he pivots and walks away from me.

  “Rich?” I watch his retreating back. Maybe he’s angry I’ve woken him up. But as he moves into the darkness, another figure joins him. Shadowy and undefined, the form walks beside him, but they do not speak. Together they stride past Rich’s house and continue on until I can’t see them anymore. Despite the cold air, sweat pools at the small of my back.

  Sirens peal in the distance, and one by one, all of the streetlamps glow again. The searing noise stabs at my heart as it draws closer. Seconds later, red lights bathe the street and sidewalk as two ambulances and three police cruisers pull up in front of the Frankensons’ driveway. Police and EMTs spring from their cars and vehicles and bolt toward the front door.

  Neighbors trickle out of their houses. Dawn, also in her robe and slippers, hustles across the street. “What’s happening?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s obvious that whatever has happened is serious.

  A police officer gestures, hands extended. “Get back, everyone. Stand back.” Another cop sets out cones and stretches yellow caution tape across the house entrance, designating the area as a crime scene.

  Gen waddles out of her house, draped in a wool coat and clutching her belly. “What’s going on?”

  “We don’t know,” Dawn says. “Something at Rich and Agnes’s.”

  Two EMTs exit the house carrying a gurney. Dawn grabs my hand, and I hold my breath. Gray tufts of hair swirl from the top of the woman’s head. An oxygen mask covers her mouth and nose, and a silver-toned blanket drapes her prostrate form. The EMTs quickly load her into the back of the ambulance.

  Gen beats the air with her hands, seemingly hyperventilating. “It’s Agnes. What’s happened to her?”

  I have to find Annalen. Right now. I pivot away from them and run down the street toward my house. The front door is already open, and Gretchen and Paris stand on the front step in their pajamas.

  Gretchen’s face is pale under the porch light. “Mom, what’s happening?”

  I push past her. “We have to find Annalen. Help me look for her.”

  “Annalen is upstairs asleep.”

  That’s not possible. I watched Annalen leave. But in truth, I only saw the front door open and close again.

  Taking the stairs three at a time, I rush to the landing and burst into Annalen’s bedroom. She sits on her bed, rubbing her eyes.

  I exhale a long stream of air and collapse beside her. “Oh, honey. You’re here.” Tears slide down my cheeks, and I cover my face with my hands. “Thank God.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I wrap my arm around her thin shoulders and pull her close. “It’s okay. I thought you were sleepwalking again.” I kiss the top of her head and take several deep breaths. “It’s okay.”

  “I’ve been here all along.” Her voice shakes. “But Mom?”

  “Hm?”

  “There was a man here.”

  I stiffen and pull away to look at her. “What man? When?”

  “Right before you came in.”

  My heart skips several beats. “Who was it?”

  “He was standing in the shadows, so it was hard to see him clearly, but... it looked like Mr. Frankenson.”

  22

  The police report of the Frankenson murder-suicide gives the following details: In the middle of the night, sixteen-year-old Thomas Frankenson entered his parents’ bedroom. He stabbed his father multiple times—in the chest, the neck. He stabbed his mother once in the shoulder. Rich Frankenson staggered out of the bedroom and collapsed on the landing. Then Thomas returned to his bedroom and stabbed himself through the heart. All with a weapon the police termed as “an ordinary steak knife.”

  The following afternoon I sit in Gen’s kitchen, hunched over a glass of wine. It feels surreal talking about a murder that took place next door.

  “Well, let’s face it, we all knew he was troubled.” Now that Tommy Frankenson is dead, Gen claims to have known all along that violence was brewing. “He was a deeply disturbed kid.” The overhead light flickers as Colton and Amelia stomp around upstairs, preparing to trick-or-treat. “Rich and Agnes had a hard time having kids, so when Thomas came along, they spoiled him like crazy. Agnes told me that. A few weeks ago, he started having these violent rages. I feel so sorry for them—for her, now.”

  I say nothing. There’s a part of me that’s frustrated with myself for not being a better neighbor. There’s another part of me that’s angry with Gen and Linda for dragging me over to the Frankensons’ and heaping more logs on a family that was already burning.

  It’s dark as I leave Gen’s, and I fix my gaze on the Frankensons’ house, draped in yellow strips as if it’s been toilet-papered in caution tape. My last encounter with Rich on the sidewalk was so bizarre. The memory sends a chill through me. Was he trying to tell me something? Had I really seen him minutes before he died? Then I consider the dark figure walking with him and Annalen’s claim that she saw him in her room—and I’m right back to where I started, trying to make sense of it all. What is going on in this neighborhood?

  My house is eerily empty. The girls left early this morning with Gunnar and Martina, who planned a trip into the country to do hayrides and pumpkin patches and corn mazes. When the newlyweds arrived, I managed a peek out of the window and caught a glimpse of Martina sitting in the passenger seat of Gunnar’s Porsche Cayenne. She couldn’t look more different from me. Dark hair pulled back and bright red lipstick. Gretchen calls her “flashy.”

  I sit in my kitchen with a pit of sadness in my stomach, feeling like a hollowed-out pumpkin. My hand drifts to the jumbo bag of Halloween candy. I tear open the plastic and dump its contents into a salad bowl. I’ll set it outside on the step for trick-or-treaters since I’m going to dinner with Steel.

  After everything that happened last night, a date is the last thing on my mind. On the other hand, the alternative is to sit inside this house alone, watching the walls close in with shadows.

  The doorbell rings several times, and I shuffle to the door. Four kids around Paris’s age are all dressed in costumes. Two of them I recognize—Amelia and Colton. Trey waves from the street.

  “Trick or treat!”

  “Hi, guys,” I say. “Hold on a second. I’m running a little late tonight.”

  I rush through the foyer and into the kitchen and swipe the salad bowl from the island. Then I head back to the front door and hand out candy to the kids as Trey makes his way up the steps.

  “How are you?” he asks. “How are the girls?”

  “Fine, I guess. You know—shaken up.”

  He nods. “We all are, I think. Gen’s a basket case.”

  “The girls are with their dad tonight, so...”

  The kids scurry down the steps. “Come on, Daddy!” Amelia calls out. “Next house.”

  “More candy!” Colton shrieks.

  Trey nods again and stumbles a little as he goes down the ste
ps—he’s probably already been into the beers tonight.

  Once they’re gone, I put the bowl of candy outside the door on a plant stand and head back inside. Time to get ready for dinner.

  It’s been more than twenty years since I’ve gone out on a real date. I pull something out of the closet from the back of the rack—a turquoise sweater dress that I wear with black below-the-knee boots.

  When Steel rings the doorbell forty-five minutes later, my stomach dips with fluttery dread as I open the door.

  “You look amazing,” he says, stepping inside.

  I could say the same to him. Then again, I thought that even when he was covered in sweat and dirt from working in my yard.

  AT THE RESTAURANT, I have a hard time eating. With everything that’s gone on this week, I have no appetite.

  “Did you know the family well?” Steel asks once the servers take away our plates. “The Frankensons?”

  “They pretty much kept to themselves. Other than waving across the lawn or from the mailbox, I never had a full conversation with any of them.” The confrontation with Rich on the front step probably comes the closest.

  “Wonder what happened. Think the kid just snapped?”

  “I don’t know. There’s often a trigger for these things. I’m pretty sure Tommy was abusing his parents before this happened.” I shrug. “It’s all just so sad.”

  Steel drains the last of his wine.

  “Makes me worry for Annalen. She goes to school—or went to school—with him. I think he was in her science class. She just started high school this fall, but she’s in all honors classes, and she’s sensitive, you know. She perceives things a lot of other kids don’t.”

  “She seems sensitive.” Steel wipes his hands and tosses the napkin on the table. “I mean, in the brief exchanges I’ve had with her.” One corner of his mouth slants upward. “I read people quickly. Annalen’s not only beautiful, but I can tell she’s smart too. Like her mother.”