The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  I perk up. She’s back.

  Clearly, despite all odds, she’s come to her senses. I hate myself for feeling hopeful again, but I’m desperate for it. No matter how many times she proves that she’s completely gone, I can’t help but think she’s going to get it right. I can’t help but feel like this will be the time it will be different.

  This is going to be different, better now. She wouldn’t have come back otherwise, right? What would’ve been the point?

  But when she turns towards me, staring into the window, I know she’s staring at me. I lock eyes with her, and her lips curl up in the grin, the familiar smirk I saw once before.

  When she was standing over me in my room, the knife in her hand.

  It was just a dream, I remind myself. A nightmare. It meant nothing.

  But she stands tall, proud. Her head is too high. She might be wearing the same outfit, but she’s changed. There’s a gully between who she was six days and thirteen hours ago and who she is now. There’s something different about her.

  She’s not scared anymore. She’s not down.

  She’s – dare I say – confident?

  Dad always said a scared dog was the most dangerous, but I don’t know. I don’t think he knew about Jane Clarke when he said that.

  Because as she struts up the driveway, wheeling two suitcases behind her, there’s something in her walk that’s terrifying. There’s something in her presence that commands respect, commands awareness, commands recognition.

  He’s not home. His car is gone.

  I hope he doesn’t come back. I hope he stays away. Because as she turns one more time at the top of the steps, looking at me, I know for sure she’s mouthing words at me.

  Words I’ve heard before, I realise as a shiver runs up my spine.

  My heart aches as I read her lips, the words recognisable even from here.

  She slams the door, she and her suitcases gone like she was nothing but an apparition.

  This is no apparition, no nightmare this time, though.

  Her words were real.

  It’s all …

  I don’t know if I pass out or fall asleep, but when I wake up, the words are spinning in my head over and over like a demonic curse.

  ‘Stop it!’ I shriek, clutching my head, willing them to stop, willing her to stop.

  But I can’t. I can never make it stop.

  Chapter 41

  Three days she’s been home. Three long days, three long nights.

  Three days’ worth of screaming, of shoving, of knives appearing out of nowhere. Three days of watching him cower, watching him beg, watching him fall apart.

  She’s wearing him down.

  I wish the demon had never come back. She should’ve stayed wherever she was, demented and abusive. She should’ve stayed gone. It would’ve been better for all. I know that now. No matter how badly I want it to be untrue, I can’t change the facts.

  The house was quiet without her, almost serene. There was a calm in 312 Bristol Lane I hadn’t seen in a while.

  I think he could be happy without her. Maybe she’ll go away again.

  But there’s something different about him, too. Even though she’s a tyrannical wrecking ball when she’s home, she’s also a presence when she’s gone. It’s like her claws are always in, no matter how far away she is.

  It’s love. A twisting, demented love built on false hopes and the past. But it’s still love. Love doesn’t let you choose who gets to dig their claws into you. Love doesn’t always give you a choice. Love isn’t rational.

  And, despite everything, despite her toxic hatred fuelled by rage, he loves her. Despite the pain she causes and the turmoil she wreaks on his life, he adores her. It’s sad and it’s not smart. I want to shake him, tell him their love story isn’t healthy, isn’t right. I want to tell him that sometimes love isn’t meant to be. Sometimes, two people are just poisonous together.

  She’s lethal with him, for him.

  Still, I sit here, my melancholy attitude making me rock a bit slower as I watch him, sulking at the dining room table, the fifth or sixth beer in his hand. For the past three days, he hasn’t left the house, moping around, sitting around, alcohol in his hand at all times.

  She’s ruined him. She’s shattered his confidence, and now, since her leaving, she’s crushed him completely. He doesn’t know who he is without her. I see that now. Even though with her he’s a shell of the man he should be, without her, it’s even worse. There’s no sense of direction, no peace. Just a crumbled husk of a man she left behind. How could she do this to him? To them? Why couldn’t she see what she was doing?

  But this morning, as the sun rose, she left again, this time taking the car. No suitcase though. She’ll be coming back.

  Where is she going? What’s going on with her?

  I can’t begin to understand her.

  He stands, staring out the dining room window, long after the car is gone. There’s no joy at the sight of her leaving. No joy left at all, in truth.

  I haven’t seen him smile in weeks. How could I expect him to smile, though?

  I stare at him, thinking about walking over there, thinking about what I should say to him. But what could I say? Who am I to say?

  I sit, rocking, pity in my heart for him, an inexplicable love for a man I hardly know.

  We sit in this purgatory for a long time, me staring at him, him staring at nothing, blankness filling both our lives.

  Emptiness is the thing of destruction, is the start of the downhill descent. I know that now. Maybe I’ve known it for a while. It feels familiar somehow.

  He stands now, leaving the room, walking away. He’s gone for a long moment, and I wonder what he’s doing. What could he possibly be doing?

  He returns, something in his hand, something long. He wipes at his face, looking out the window, studying something. For a moment, my heart stops. I think he’s staring at me. Should I wave? Should I stand? Does he see me?

  But he doesn’t because, after a quick moment, he looks up, up at the ceiling. I don’t know what he’s staring at.

  I feel an icy chill, one I can’t explain.

  He moves the dining room chair now to a corner of the room, still in view. I don’t know what he’s reaching for.

  What’s he doing? She’d be so mad at him for standing on that chair. He’s leaving footprints, dirty footprints, all over it. She’s going to be so mad at him when she comes home. Is that a rope in his hand?

  He’s doing something above his head now, the rope dangling. What is he trying to fix now?

  I don’t understand. I can’t think. Something feels terribly wrong, terribly wrong. I put the cat carefully on the floor, standing, my knees cracking as I do. I lean on the window, my hand touching the cold glass as I peer out.

  The rope is around his neck now.

  Oh, God. No. No. No.

  He’s pulling it tight.

  He isn’t. He can’t. He won’t.

  This won’t fix it. It’s not fixing it. My heart stops. My hand goes to my chest.

  Tears start to fly.

  I race towards the door, but it’s a slow crawl. I need to be faster. I need to do something. I need to stop this. I can’t let this happen. This isn’t what I wanted, never what I wanted. But when I get to the front door, it’s too late. I can see through the big bay window it’s too late. He’s kicked the chair. His legs are flailing.

  I rush back inside. I can make it to the phone. I can get help. I can save this. This can go away.

  My heart is fluttering fast, wildly beating. My hands shake, and my legs are like lead. I need to move faster. I need to get to the phone. I need to save him.

  It’s my job to save him.

  I pick up the phone, my fingers trying to find the buttons. It’s no use. I stare out the window, seeing his face in a grotesque expression. Terror rips through me as he dangles, swinging. How is that rope holding? What is it tied to? My brain can’t process it.

  I dial the numb
ers, numbers I haven’t dialled in a long, long time. Numbers I’ve only dialled a few times. My fingers are clumsy.

  I turn from the sight of him swinging, staring instead into my kitchen, the big table sitting where it’s always been. I look past the stove, the shiny brass doorknob taunting me. I need to hurry. I need to get in there.

  I abandon the phone, tossing it down as I rush across the kitchen, gasping for breath. My hand touches the doorknob, the familiar brass feeling shockingly cold. For a moment, I consider what I’m about to do. I know there will be no going back. A deep dread stirs inside of me. I know that whatever is behind the door will change everything. But I must do what I need to now. There’s no time for weakness. I toss the door open into the room I haven’t entered in so long.

  It’s been so long.

  But no, it hasn’t.

  It’s happening. I need to stop him.

  The door flies open. And there, centred in the bay window, is the familiar, sturdy hook. The hook a plant once hung from. But it also stirs another memory, a much darker one. I realise without a doubt that there was once something besides a plant that hung from that very hook. My stomach drops as it floods right back, the opening of the door opening a door within to the memories I’d rather forget.

  That hook on the ceiling looks like the hook I’ve seen so many times in my memories, in my mind. It looks like the one I’ve tried endlessly to forget about. Because on that day, when I came home after that final, wretched fight, when I found him dangling, there was oddly one thing I noted. The hook. The hook looked so sturdy, anchoring him to the ceiling. My mind traced the curvature of it, studying it like I was examining fine art. The calmness that settled in as I looked behind the horrors dangling from it struck me as odd, but I couldn’t help it. The hook was what I associated with that awful day for decades and decades. It was the reminder I didn’t want of what I had done and couldn’t undo. Even on that horrific day, my husband’s bruised neck and purple face the thing of true nightmares, I couldn’t take my eyes from the hook, even when the guttural scream echoed off the walls when I realised I’d finally done it. I’d pushed him too far.

  I knew even then that it was my fault. It was completely my fault. The angry words spat at him over our lack of children. The wild accusations every month. The biting words, the degrading monologues, the weapons, and the final straw that afternoon had pushed him over.

  The knife to his throat that led to him shoving me down, pinning me against the wall, and threatening to kill me. Ironically, despite all of the times I’d treated him so badly, it had taken me pushing him to violence that had been the final straw. I had gone too far, my rage and darkest desires pushing yet another person I’d loved. I’d destroyed two lives now, and with them, the only hope I had that there was any goodness within me. But still, with all of that swirling in my head, I’d stared at the goddamn hook, wondering how it had held.

  The realisations come flooding back at once, the deep truths I’ve been trying so hard to ignore. I’m trembling with recognition of realities I’ve tried so hard to shut out. Even after all these years, this room floods me with the sensations I’ve fought most of my life to overcome.

  It can’t be. It can’t. This isn’t happening. It’s all a mistake, a horrific nightmare. My hand covers my mouth as I shake my head, staring once again at the hook in the ceiling, wondering how it can hold so much. This isn’t true. It hasn’t happened. There’s no way that it’s true.

  It isn’t though. It isn’t. Suddenly, it’s apparent. There’s still time. There is still time to save him, to undo everything. I know it now. The overwhelming thought terrorises me, and I freeze. Panic chokes the air in my lungs, freezes the blood in my veins.

  The room. It’s empty. A dusty old room I haven’t been in for years. Not since he took his life that day, leaving me and my moroseness behind … but is the room empty? Is it too late? I blink, and I can see it all. I see him right here, like I could reach out and grab him. The hook, the rope. The chair. It’s all here. I blink again, though, and it’s all gone. My brain screams with pain, a throbbing, slicing sensation. I clutch at my head, crying and just wanting it all to stop. Wishing I could stop it. I’m so confused.

  One moment, it’s like I can see him there, his feet dangling back and forth, back and forth. But then, I look again, and it’s just the empty hook, a room that has fallen victim to the stale air of not being used and a layer of dust too thick to swipe away. Back and forth I go, thrown to and fro between reality and the past so quickly, I can’t tell them apart. I don’t know what’s happening anymore.

  I take a breath. He’s not in here. It’s too late.

  But no. No, it’s not too late. It’s definitely not too late, I think. He’s not in here. But I can still make this right.

  I rush back to my rocking chair, staring out the window, looking out across the yard at 312 Bristol Lane.

  There he is! I see him. Silly old woman. Of course he isn’t in my dining room. He’s over there. He’s dangling, his feet kicking wildly. I glance to my right, verifying that the empty dining room in my house is still vacant.

  I look back across the street, my head hurting, pounding with confusion. There he is. He’s hanging there. He needs help.

  How can this be? I grab my head, sure I’m going to die right here.

  I want to die right here.

  No. No, no no. God, no.

  ‘Amos? Amos, where are you? I need you, Amos. Come over here. Come back,’ I yell irrationally. I need the cat. I need someone. I need anyone.

  I slump down into the chair, looking back to 312 Bristol Lane. My breath is fast and hard. I can’t breathe in enough air.

  I can’t let this happen. I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  I dry heave, tears and snot and the feeling of bile rising in my throat. My head swirls and I see it all too clearly, right in this room.

  The swinging feet. The sight of him, my beloved, dangling in the window. I can’t stop it. I can’t do anything. I’m too late.

  I rock back and forth back and forth.

  Falling down.

  Falling down.

  My fair lady.

  My fair lady.

  Falling.

  Fair.

  Fault.

  It’s all my fault. I did this. I pushed him too far. I pushed him, just like I pushed Lucy. It might have been different, Lucy’s push a physical one and his a metaphorical shove, but it was still me doing the pushing. What had I done?

  I take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut. And then, deep within, the resolve rises, a resolve I haven’t felt for decades.

  It’s not too late. I have another chance. I can change things.

  I stand from my chair, my legs weak but my determination strong. I won’t let him do this. I will stop it this time.

  I deliberately head for the half-eaten rhubarb pie on the counter, the knife gleaming in the light. I grab the handle, willing my legs to move faster. I breathe in and out, reminding myself to keep moving, to keep breathing. I can stop him. I can save him.

  I can save him from himself, but most of all, this time, I can save him from me.

  Out the door I go, the screen slamming behind me. I heedlessly rush down the stairs, willing my feet forward, praying I don’t fall.

  I head towards 312 Bristol Lane to do what I’ve always needed to do.

  When I get to the front door, I grab for the doorknob and fling it back, the knife in my right hand.

  I stomp inside the house towards the bay window, hoping I’m not too late. Please God, don’t let me be too late this time.

  But before I can get to the dining room, before I can figure out how to get him down, how to save him, something puzzling happens, and I squeeze my knife even tighter.

  Chapter 42

  ‘Stuart? I have to get to Stuart,’ I scream. ‘I have to save my husband.’

  The man in the doorway doesn’t budge. He doesn’t move.

  ‘Hello?’ he says, looking at me
like I’m some ghost. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, his face perplexed.

  The fear, the sorrow turns to something else now. I feel the rage rising in me, a rage I have only recently felt second-hand through my memories. But now, the rage is fresh. How dare this man stand in my way. How dare he. I need to save Stuart. I don’t have much time.

  Tears well, but I push them down. And, shoving towards the dining room, I see something in the man’s eyes I don’t like. Something I recognise.

  I see pity. I see judgement.

  And, before I can see any more, it happens.

  The kitchen knife covered in rhubarb pie is covered in something else.

  Blood.

  The knife pierces the flesh, right through his shirt, and I stare into his face as shock and horror paint themselves on his expression. He moans, a guttural moan of shock and agony, and then he crumples against the wall, slowly sliding down.

  I pull the knife back out, blood oozing in patterns magnificent. I stare into his face, calm and collected.

  ‘I need to save Stuart,’ I announce, stepping over him, stepping towards the dining room.

  But when I get there, I don’t see Stuart. There is no noose, no rope.

  I don’t understand.

  Where is he? Why can’t I save him? I saw him. Right here. I know I did.

  I need to save him this time.

  I need to save Stuart. Am I too late? It can’t be. I can’t be too late. Not again.

  Tears whirl, mixed with sorrow and rage.

  I just don’t understand.

  I spin back around, staring at the man who sits in a pool of his own blood. He is sliding away from me, every inch triggering an agonising scream.

  ‘Where is Stuart?’ I yell, angering as I trudge towards him.

  ‘Please, don’t. Please don’t,’ he begs, tears on his greying face.

  He looks at me with a fear I recognise from another part of my life.

  I swipe at my face, shaking my head.

  I don’t understand. I don’t know why I couldn’t save him.

  I am angry. I am rage-filled. And someone needs to pay.

  I step towards him; his eyes are pleading. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Stuart,’ I murmur.