The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense

by London Clarke

  I gesture wildly at the house. “You don’t want to go in? Check it out?”

  He frowns. “You crazy? With all them hibernating snakes? I wouldn’t set foot in that place. It’s cursed or something.” He turns, waves his hand. “Anyway, like I said. Not my property, not my problem. You should head out of here now. I don’t want to hear about you sliding down a sinkhole.”

  I wrap my arms around myself and shiver. The rain stings my face, my hands, and I gape at the house until my eyes burn with rainwater. The window remains empty.

  Now, more than ever, I wonder why Steel would have gone inside that house?

  40

  Later that week, I break down and call a local church, inquiring if anyone can help with my “paranormal problem.” Desperate times call for desperate measures. I talk with a pastor and tell him about the paranormal investigators, Mickey’s attack, and the difficulty of finding immediate assistance. The pastor says he’s dealt with such cases before and suggests that maybe he can come by later in the week and perform a house blessing.

  In the meantime, I return home to pick up more clothes and take them back to Dawn’s. I’ve been wearing the same three pairs of pants and two skirts and tops for a week.

  I take a deep breath, unlock the door, and whip inside, determined to leave fear at the threshold. I carry my mail into the kitchen and begin sorting it on the island. While opening a bill, I glance up and look out the window. My shed is no longer just the framework. It’s finished.

  As I swing open the back door, I’m startled by the annoying new feature of the security system announcing, “Back door open.”

  I leap across the threshold and rush toward the railing. “For shit’s sake.” I really hate that announcement feature.

  The shed is perfect—even better than the original—yellow with double white doors, new windows, and white flower boxes on the front.

  I slink down the steps, my chest squeezing with dread. Crap. Now I will have to insist on paying Steel...

  A note is taped to the door.

  I wasn’t sure what kind of table you’d want, but I found this at a friend’s warehouse. Hope it’s okay. Steel

  I open the door. The smell of new paint permeates the small space. The walls are white. Gray composite woodgrain lines the floor. Black-lacquered new table and chairs sit in the corner. This is a top-notch she-shed.

  But I don’t want to be obligated to Steel Nolan for anything.

  Blinking away tears of frustration, I slant my eyes to the floor. Something is moving, slithering along the base of the wall. At first, I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking at, but as it raises its head, a forked, flickering tongue darts from its mouth. A scream rips from my throat, and I stumble backward into the yard.

  As I stand there, shuddering and grasping handfuls of my sweatshirt, I glance up at Steel’s house. Did the snake find its way into my shed, or was it put there intentionally? Nothing feels accidental anymore.

  Steel’s silhouette is centered in the window. For one fleeting moment, I imagine that it’s not Steel I see, but the same man from the abandoned house—the rim of his leather hat extending from his head. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them again, the silhouette is gone.

  I DON’T WANT TO TEXT him. It’s too personal. It invites a response. Instead, I tape a note to his door just as he did in leaving a note taped to the shed.

  Thank you for completing the work. Please invoice me.

  41

  “Mommy, why do you keep staring out the window?” Paris asks.

  Because Mommy has become a paranoid stalker. “Well, honey, I’m just checking on our house.”

  Paris joins me by the window and slides onto my lap. Together we stare out the panes across the street.

  She traces her reflection. “What’s the house doing?”

  “Nothing. But since we’re not staying there at the moment, I just want to make sure everything is okay.” In fact, I haven’t looked at our house once. I’ve been riveted to Steel’s place, watching the lights in the windows shift and alternate from upstairs to downstairs. I don’t know what I expect to see, but there’s an almost obsessive quality to my need to watch Steel’s movements. I keep hoping the private investigator will call. What’s taking him so long?

  I mentally replay images of Steel’s trunk—the souvenirs from women and one-night stands. It gives me the shivers every time I think about it. How could I have been so deceived? How could my assessment of his character be so off-base? Thank God Whitney is no longer seeing him either.

  Paris toys with a piece of my hair, curling it around her finger. “When can we go back to our house? I want my old room.”

  I force a smile. “Soon, honey. When the black mold is gone.”

  Or maybe tomorrow. The minister from the local church is scheduled to come tomorrow morning to bless the house. One can always hope that’s all it will take.

  I stand, lifting Paris into my arms. “Oh, you’re getting so big. Come on. Bedtime.”

  She plays with my earring as I carry her up the stairs. Annalen passes us. She stares at her phone while sliding her back against the wall and clunking down each step. She’s in a bad mood again tonight, sullen and wearing her all-black clothing. She’s barely spoken a word to me since I got home.

  “Hey, sweetie, there are some cookies left in the kitchen if you want some.”

  The cellphone light illuminates her face as she reaches the bottom. “I’m not eating that crap.”

  “You’re not supposed to say crap,” Paris sing-songs.

  “Fine, I’m not eating that shit.”

  Paris gasps and looks at me, her mouth hanging open. “Mommy, did you hear—”

  “Yes.” Anger rolls through me at Annalen’s defiance, but I decide to ignore it. I can only handle one thing at a time.

  “Annalen, you’re in trouble,” Paris calls out from the top of the steps.

  In the bedroom, I plonk Paris onto the queen-sized bed she’s sharing with me. “All right, peewee. I’ll be in later tonight.” I kiss her forehead.

  She smiles. “I love sleeping with you, Mommy.”

  “Well, don’t get used to it. These are special circumstances.” I sit down next to her, bouncing the bed a little.

  “I know, but it’s fun.” She pulls the sheet up to her chin. “Mommy, why is Annalen being so weird?”

  “She’s going through a rough time right now.” I smooth her hair.

  “She says bad words, she’s mean to you, and . . .” she drops her voice to a whisper. “She says she wants to do bad things with the neighbor.”

  I draw back, wrinkle my nose. “What neighbor?”

  “That guy you brought to the house.” Paris’s eyes widen, and she slaps her hand over her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Bridget told me not to, or you’d get mad.”

  Straightening, I use every ounce of self-control to remain calm and not coach her. “Which guy?”

  “The guy with the funny name. Steel.”

  I mash my lips together. “What did Annalen say she wanted to do with him?”

  Paris swivels her head back and forth against the pillow. “I don’t know, but Gretchen said it was gross.”

  Standing, I grasp Paris’s hand. “Good night, baby. Don’t worry about Annalen. I’ll take care of it.”

  It’s raining again. The fusillade taps overhead against the skylight. I grasp the stairwell railing and close my eyes as I slowly descend, counting each step—one, two, three... Breathe. Do not march into the living room and lambast her with accusations. Ask questions, but don’t assume.

  Even so, in my head, questions line up, waiting to be asked. Has something gone on between Annalen and Steel that I don’t know about? If he’s as much as touched her, I’ll kill that bastard...

  “Annalen?” I crest the bottom of the stairs and enter the kitchen, but she’s not there.

  I search the TV room followed by the basement and the main floor. Then I check the other bedrooms upst
airs. Finally, I return to the kitchen, locate my phone on the kitchen counter, and prepare to call her. Before I get a chance, my phone rings.

  Unknown Caller.

  “Hello?”

  The line crackles, and then a voice, chilling in its familiarity, rasps, “I’ve got her.”

  “Who is this?”

  The line goes dead.

  Fueled by Paris’s words, something deep in my gut drives me outside to the street. My heart hammering and my breathing shallow, I blink against the falling rain. “Annalen!”

  Across the street, the brake lights of Steel’s truck flash before he jets out of the driveway. I step into the road, desperate to catch a glimpse of him through the windshield as he whips the wheel. Someone is sitting next to him—the face is in shadows, but it looks like Annalen.

  The vehicle swerves, narrowly avoiding me. Then the truck juts forward and speeds down the road just like Tommy Frankenson used to do, engine roaring.

  “Annalen!” My voice breaks as I instinctively run after them, battling the wind as it hisses and spits rain into my face.

  Two strides in, I stop. No chance on foot. I’ll have to follow in my car.

  Panting, barely feeling my feet hit the pavement, I dash back into the house.

  Gretchen makes her way down the steps. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  I snatch the keys off the front table. “Call the police! 9-1-1! Steel has your sister.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it!” I scream.

  She gasps, and her hands jerk before she turns and runs back up the stairs.

  Outside, the wind feels colder than it did twenty seconds before. I stumble to the SUV and climb in, slamming my back against the front seat. I crank the ignition, gun the gas, and blast out of the driveway. Why would Annalen go with Steel? She doesn’t even like him. She told me she thought there was something wrong with him . . . and she was right!

  Where would he take her? He must know that I’ll come after him with everything I have.

  Exhaling a shaky breath, I press my foot down on the gas pedal and race through the intersection, careening through stop signs. At the light, I glimpse the back of Steel’s truck ahead of me. He turns into the shopping center and parks directly in front of The Destiny Room.

  “You bastard. Did you actually think I’d let you take my daughter into that place?”

  I park under a streetlight a row back from his truck, and then I wait, my adrenaline pumping as I prepare to get out and storm his car. Leaning forward, I glance up through the windshield, and my heart stops. A man stands under the streetlight, leaning against the pole, staring at me. His leather hat tips to the side and the corners of his mouth pull into an unnaturally wide arc, revealing pointed, broken teeth.

  The man. The one I saw in the parking garage and the window of the old house. All of my windows are rolled up, but his voice seeps through the barrier loud and clear. “You can lock your doors, little girl, but I’m still coming in.”

  I shift my gaze to Steel’s truck, except it’s no longer there.

  “Shit!” I start the ignition again, yank the gear shift into reverse, and roar out of the space, leaving the man under the street lamp, smiling, his legs casually crossed at the ankles.

  “Who are you, you asshole?” I check my rearview mirror. He’s still there, growing smaller and smaller.

  I swerve to the right and circle the parking lot, desperately scanning for Steel’s truck. As I drive behind the building, passing a line of other trucks and dumpsters, I shake the wheel the way I want to shake him. “Where is my daughter? Where have you taken her?” My voice fills the cabin of the SUV, swelling with fear and panic.

  I’ll have to go back to the house, wait for the police. I turn out of the parking lot and head toward Amber Mills, my breathing erratic, adrenaline spiking. I cast a glance into my rearview mirror to see if the man in the hat is still standing under the street light.

  My body and heart both thrash in shock. The man is in my backseat, staring at me with coal-black eyes and a leering, broken-toothed smile. Punching the brake, I swing around and look.

  No, the backseat is empty.

  I turn slowly, face forward again, exhaling jagged spurts of air. I press the gas pedal, and the SUV jolts forward. Up ahead, the sign for Amber Mills glows in the headlights. A puff of air disturbs my hair, and a voice reverberates against my ear. “Hey, little girl. I’m still here.”

  With a shriek, I stomp the brake again, but my foot slips off the pedal onto the accelerator. The car careens up the embankment. I try to steady the wheel, but I have no control over the steerage, nor can I move my foot from the gas. I scream long and hard as I glimpse the fence line enclosing the community pool looming in front of me.

  “You’re going to die,” the voice breathes. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to split you wide open.”

  The SUV continues to pick up speed, and the digital speedometer climbs from forty-five to fifty to fifty-five. Bracing myself, I turn my head away as the vehicle blasts through the chain link, jarring my entire body. There’s a sickening screech of metal scraping metal. Violent thumps pummel the underside of my seat as the SUV crunches over lawn chairs and patio furniture, whipping one of the tables onto the windshield. The glass cracks and fragments. Then the vehicle stops moving, and my head smacks against the steering wheel as the SUV plunges into the pool.

  42

  I shift my legs, and something crackles underneath me. It’s quiet except for a faint whirring and what sounds like soft-soled shoes squeaking against a linoleum floor.

  My eyes flutter open, and I stare up at a pockmarked ceiling. A strip of fluorescent lights blares. A sink is wedged in the corner. Beside me, a pole dangles a bag containing clear fluid. I visually trace the tube to the needle taped to the top of my hand.

  Scattered details crash through my brain. The car. The pool. But I’m alive. At least I think I am. Yes, the police were here. I talked to them, told them about ... Annalen! Steel has her.

  I try to sit up, but I feel like I’m floating in water, my body bobbing up and down on the surface. Sitting up is an impossibility. The most I can do is raise my head and make a strange sort of moan.

  A nurse wearing pink scrubs patterned with little diamonds enters the room. She eyes me as she goes to the sink, presses a hand sanitizer dispenser, and rubs her palms together.

  “You have a visitor.” She darts her gaze toward the door.

  Blonde hair, perky smile. Abby. I’m disappointed. I’d hoped the girls might come.

  “Gunnar picked up the girls early this morning.” Abby sits at my bedside, her hand over mine. “It’s all okay. It’s going to be fine.”

  “What about Annalen?”

  Abby’s eyes flick to the left. “Yeah. She was there too.”

  I raise up from the pillows. “Did you see her when she got home? What time did she come in?”

  Abby’s eyebrows draw together. “Claire, she was at the house all night. She never left.”

  Wait, that’s impossible. I saw her in the truck with Steel. “But—but I couldn’t find her. Did Gretchen call the police?”

  Abby shakes her head. “No. Because Annalen was there. Gretchen didn’t understand why you wanted her to call the police.”

  I fall back on the pillows.

  Abby squeezes my hand. “It’s okay, Claire.”

  But it’s not. Now I’ll have to explain why I thought I saw Annalen in the car with Steel, why I thought he was trying to kidnap her. But I did see her in his truck, didn’t I?

  “When I came home, and you weren’t there, the girls were upset, and they couldn’t get you on your cell, so...”

  My eyes brim with tears. This is the worst thing ever.

  “What happened, Claire?” Abby asks softly.

  I open my mouth to speak, but I cough instead. The man in the leather hat flashes in my mind. “Someone was with me in the SUV.”

  The chair legs squawk against the linoleum as she sco
ots forward. “Someone was with you? Who?”

  Oh, no. I shouldn’t have said that.

  “Was there someone else in the car with you?”

  “I don’t know. A man—he was in my backseat.”

  Her face compresses. “Who was it?”

  I close my eyes, and several tears trail over my cheeks. If I can’t even be sure I saw Annalen in the truck with Steel, I can’t verify a man in my backseat. “I don’t remember.”

  Her gaze shifts to the bandage taped across the side of my forehead. “Does it hurt?”

  I run my fingers over it. “Not my head, no.” The pain is inside. Something aches, but I can’t explain it. I have no internal bleeding, no broken bones. Lots of bruises and cuts and scratches, but many of those, the doctors agree, seem old.

  “Gunnar asked if he should come to the hospital,” Abby says.

  “He did?”

  She nods. “I let him know you were okay. He seemed surprised you weren’t more badly hurt—considering the state of the SUV.”

  We both look up as the nurse enters the room.

  “We’re releasing you.” She pulls the IV needle out of the top of my hand and presses a cotton swab to it. “The doctor wants to see you once more, and if all goes well with that, you can go this afternoon.”

  I’m never letting you go... The phrase shudders through me, reminiscent of something someone said long ago. I shake my head, fuzzy from painkillers. Old memories and images churn in my mind, along with pictures from the pop-up video—a teacup, a steamer trunk, the man in the leather hat. Trying to keep the mental pictures at bay is futile. They spill over the edges of my mind and pour in like water.

  43

  I feel like I’m losing it. I can’t let anyone know about this. I’m a therapist. I’m supposed to have it all together. I should be completely in control.

  And now, there will be questions—why I took off like a bat out of hell following Steel, thinking that my daughter was with him. I’ll have to talk to the insurance company about my totaled SUV and describe how I ended up in the pool. On top of all this, I have to deal with the practical: getting a cellphone and a rental car. Not to mention notifying work. And the minister from the church—I’ll have to explain why I wasn’t at the house and reschedule.