by Lindsey Hart
I’ve been watching the house like a freaking deranged hawk all day. This morning, the security company came. It took them the better part of the day to get the cameras up. Since I was in my studio room upstairs, pretending to be writing, I had the perfect vantage point of Mr. Mob’s house. His house is just a bungalow, but mine has an extra story, which means I have the height advantage and can see pretty much everything that happens over there.
At noon, a courier truck pulled up and stuck a package in the mailbox. I kept waiting for Mr. Mob to open the front door and snatch it out of the mailbox and slither back into his plastic-clad living room, but he never did. I watched. I waited.
Around five, the garage opened up, and his black car pulled out and went down the street. He never came back.
It’s just past eight now, and after I admire my new camera, I slip back into the house. I can’t stop myself from going to the side window in the living room, the one that offers a good view of Mr. Mob’s front doorstep and studying the mailbox. I can still see the flap of the package sticking out. The mailbox is massive. Whoever owned the house obviously either ordered a lot of shit or liked to compensate for something. Either way, it was a pretty big package, and the guy managed to stuff it into the mailbox except for that flap.
It’s sticking out, taunting me.
I need evidence. Right now, I don’t even have a name. I doubt calling the police and telling them a guy named Mr. Mob is killing people in his house will fly.
I don’t want to do it. I’m afraid he has cameras set up, which means he’ll see me. Then again, if that were true, wouldn’t he have seen the package get delivered and gone out to get it before he left? Maybe I’m just paranoid. All I have to do is sneak over. I’ll grab a casserole dish or something, so it looks like I’m bringing a peace offering after last night. I know he’s not home, but if he has cameras, he won’t notice anything suspicious.
No, that won’t work. I’ll still have to open his mailbox and try and get a peek at the name on the envelope.
I shut the blinds and flop down on the couch for a minute. I think hard, so hard that my head aches. Okay, maybe it actually aches because I haven’t gone to bed yet, and it’s nearly nighttime again. The evil spider is probably still taking up residence in my bed, which means it looks like I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight. Knowing I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t get a peek at the name, I continue thinking hard, and it takes me about seven minutes to come up with something brilliant.
I’ll write a letter—a note telling him I’m sorry. I’ll knock on the door, and when there’s no answer, I’ll put the note in the mailbox. The package is huge, so hopefully, I can rearrange it a little to get the letter in, and then I’ll be able to sneak a peek at the name on the front.
It’s so ingenious that I nearly fist pound the air.
I think about the spider being in the room, staring at me from the ceiling and offering me a fist bump back, and I shudder. I’m seriously going to have to do something about my eight-legged intruder. I can’t give up my bed forever. What if he really is heat-seeking, and he finds me on the couch? Is nothing sacred anymore?
I leave my spider worries for the moment and go instead into the kitchen, where I pull out a pad of paper and a pen from the drawer. I quickly scrawl a note about being sorry for the night before. I explain how I have an irrational fear of spiders, which is true. I sign the note with my first name only. I’m sure if he really wanted to, Mr. Mob could find out what my last name is, but I’m not going to just give it out, and not signing it would be weird.
When that’s done, I force myself to inhale a few deep, calming breaths. I keep that up as I open the front door, clear the porch, and make my way over to his house.
I keep on doing my deep breathing thing while I ring the bell. Of course, there isn’t any answer. I do a quick glance around for cameras. It’s getting dark out, and I don’t see anything—no lights giving anything away. There isn’t even a security light on the house.
I don’t know what possesses me, but whatever it is, it’s probably the same craziness that drove me to the guy’s house last night in a fit of spider hysteria. Instead of putting my note in the mailbox, I lift up the flap. The package is right there, and it’s just so tempting. My hands itch like crazy, and I just act. I snatch up the package, wrapped in its white protective courier bag with the logo on the front. Holding it and my note in my hand, I make a mad dash for my house. I slam through the front door like Mr. Mob himself is hot on my heels.
I do up all the locks and force myself to sit my ass down on the couch. I grip the package tight, though it’s pretty amazing I can still hang onto it at all, given that I’m shaking so violently.
I glance at the package, expecting to see a name, but there isn’t anything there.
No name? Who sends a package with no name on it?
There is an address, of course. It just confirms my suspicions that something isn’t right. No one sends a package without a name on it. No. One.
I leap off the couch and dash to the kitchen. I practically claw at the knife block as I try and unleash the scissors from the middle. I’m shaking so hard that I make a mess of the packaging, but it doesn’t matter. I pull out a strange flat package and stare at it in surprise.
There isn’t a bloody appendage or a murder weapon or a bottle of cyanide or chloroform or a set of leather gloves or anything “murdery” or outright creepy.
No, this is really strange.
Because right there in my hand is a blow-up sex doll.
Yes, that’s right. Compressed into clear packing, I can clearly read the label. It’s one of those prank dolls people take to stags all the time. The cheap kind that isn’t really meant for actual use. I’d think they had the wrong house, but there’s a note taped onto the doll.
Since I know you’re not going to be getting laid any time soon while you’re hiding out, here’s a friend for you. And yes, I know this crosses every line of friendship, so don’t really use it. Seriously. For real. Stop. Don’t even think about it.
That’s it. The note is actually kind of funny, and it’s not threatening at all. In fact, it seems like a joke.
Okay, there’s no way this was meant to end up at Mr. Mob’s house. No. Freaking. Way. No guy who wraps his living room in plastic and trots around with pry bars will have friends who would have a real sense of humor.
I fumble for the packing and stare at the address. It’s obvious this was supposed to end up at the house. The very same house it did indeed end up at. Maybe it was a mistake. The guy just moved in a month ago. Maybe it was actually ordered for the previous family who lived in the house. I didn’t know them well, but from what I knew, it was a young couple with a baby. Not exactly the kind of person who would need to receive a sex doll.
Then there’s the part of the note that mentions hiding out.
That’s the part that kind of creeps me out. It sets off all sorts of alarms. Hiding out. Mr. Mob could be hiding out. What better cover to commit crimes than suburbia where everyone least suspects it? But really, what kind of criminal sends their criminal friend a sex doll? Unless they don’t know why they’re really hiding out. Or maybe that was just an excuse that Mr. Mob gave to his friends before he came out here to commit all sorts of nefarious deeds.
I don’t know. I’m no closer to knowing now that I just committed a felony myself and opened someone else’s mail.
I set the doll aside, determined to think more about this before I react again. I need to talk to Leanne, but after my call this morning, I know it’s best to wait until tomorrow to call her or even text her again.
Determined to deal with my other problem, I slide open the kitchen drawer and dig around until I find what I’m looking for—a meat mallet. It actually belonged to my grandma. We didn’t do a full cleanout of the house. We just donated her clothes and gave away the things my family didn’t think were sentimental. I kept almost all of the furniture and dishes and stuff. They remind me
of her, and I like having them around.
What I don’t like is my uninvited house guest. I menacingly slap the mallet against my hand.
“Okay, Mr. Spider. Tonight, I’m not playing nice.”
CHAPTER 8
Lu-Anne
The great thing about being self-employed is that I get to set my own hours. But the shitty thing about being self-employed is also that I get to set my own hours. I guess the best way to explain it is to say that after I’ve slacked off for two days due to lack of sleep and my obsession with proving Mr. Mob is up to something, I have a butt load of work to do, and catching up sucks. I love being able to keep my own schedule, but if I’m not disciplined, I start missing deadlines, and that means not-so-happy clients.
Instead of fiddling around with my new camera system, I spend the rest of the next day catching up on sleep and cranking out travel articles about places I’ve never been to and have no hopes of visiting. Usually, I feel a little bit of longing while I’m doing my research. Today, I’m all business.
I do notice Mr. Mob’s car pulling into the garage at three in the afternoon. It catches my attention, and I stop my furious typing to give my laptop a rest before it spontaneously combusts. I glance through the open blinds, but there isn’t any movement inside the house. As usual, the blinds and shades are tightly shut.
Instead of fueling my obsession with Mr. Mob’s comings and goings, I fuel my still sleep-deprived self with another cup of coffee and get back to work.
I keep my ass rooted in my desk chair and type away for so long that when I finally take a break, I’m surprised to find that it’s dark out. I glance at the bottom right corner of my laptop screen. It’s ten. How the heck did it get to be ten already? I haven’t even eaten dinner yet, and since I’m now aware of that, I’m also aware my stomach is pinched like a tight little fist in there. I feel like my body has started to resort to cannibalism, eating itself in order to keep going.
Before I head downstairs, I can’t resist one last glance at Mr. Mob’s house. Of course, there isn’t anything going on. I crank the blinds shut with a sigh and march down to the kitchen. I hate cooking for myself, so I opt for my usual go-to: a bowl of cereal. I splash on some cream to liven it up, and after I add in some sliced bananas and strawberries, it’s not half bad.
I decide, after all my hard work, to reward myself by sitting in the living room in front of the little screen. It’s small, less than the size of a desktop computer monitor. I don’t know anything about inches and whatnot, but I do know it’s split into four so I can see what’s going on with every camera in real-time. The things can see in the dark, which is pretty cool. I get a strange x-ray looking image on the screen in blacks and whites.
I don’t know what I expect to see, but I sit down with my bowl of cereal anyway and keep my attention riveted. For a few minutes, nothing happens. The guys mounted the cameras at the high parts of my house, and as I requested, they faced two at my house and two at the backyard area and beyond. Every single camera angle captures a little bit of Mr. Mob’s property, which is just what I wanted without really having to even ask for it. I think the security company would have found the request odd if I had asked.
“Holy macaroni and cheese!” I nearly choke on an errant strawberry chunk when I see movement on the lower right part of the screen.
Mr. Mob appears, dressed in his usual black. He has his hoodie on and his ball cap pulled low so I can barely see any part of his face. As he is dressed all in black, it was hard to spot him. But what isn’t hard to spot is the giant rolled-up rug he has heaved over his shoulder.
“No way!” I stare in horror for a few seconds before I finally drop my bowl, splashing cereal and milk and fruit all over the place. I grab my phone, aim it at the screen, and record everything that’s happening, just in case.
Yes, that is definitely a rug. Mr. Mob sets it down on the ground in his backyard. He glances around after like he’s checking to see if anyone noticed. Of course, no one noticed. There isn’t anyone around to witness him taking out a freaking body.
No, it can’t be a body. He wouldn’t just drag a body out there at ten at night. He wouldn’t lay it right in his backyard, would he?
I guess he would if he thought there wasn’t anyone around to care, notice, or challenge him. Maybe he truly thinks he’s that untouchable.
I keep my phone recording until he sets the rug flush against the fence and goes back through the back door. It’s because my house is so much taller than his that I can see into his yard at all. After he’s back in the house, I shut the video off and quickly send it to Leanne. I wait for all of two seconds before I text her.
Lu-Anne: See? Do you freaking see? He had his damn living room wrapped in plastic, and he came to the door with a pry bar, and now he’s taking out a rolled-up rug? Like, what is going on?? If that’s not sketchy, I don’t know what is! (skull emoji, skull emoji, skull emoji)
For good measure, I tack on the clown emoji and gun emoji because I find clowns downright scary, and the gun just makes sense. If only there was a blood splat emoji. That would be more helpful.
I realize—after I send the text— that I dropped my bowl of cereal. I’m not even sure how it happened, but it looks like a cereal bomb just went off, and that shit is sticky as hell when it dries. So, I run to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towel to tackle the mess. I’m nearly done when my phone lights up. I grab for it with a hand that’s sticky with squished banana and milk.
Leanne: Okay, so the rug is weird, but that still doesn’t prove anything. Honestly, it just seems like he’s doing some renovations.
Lu-Anne: Why is he wearing black after dark then? Can’t exactly claim a sun allergy then!
Leanne: Maybe he didn’t change. Maybe he finds black comfortable. I don’t know. I can’t believe you actually installed cameras, though!
Lu-Anne: You suggested it!
Leanne: Still. Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit far? I mean, maybe the guy has a really sad backstory. Maybe he just likes wearing hoodies and black jeans and caps. It’s summer. People wear hats in summer. Maybe he doesn’t like the sun. And he’s probably renovating his house. All the places in your neighborhood were built in the ‘90s. It probably needs a refresher.
I grind my teeth and set my phone down on the coffee table. Like most of the furniture in my house, it’s antique. My grandma loved antique stuff. The only things that aren’t antiques are the couches, which are leather with recliners, and my bed because I do value comfort.
I let my hand linger on the table, running my fingers over the surface. My grandma had the table for years, and I have so many fond memories of us sitting in this same living room watching TV, playing cards, or doing crafts.
God, grandma, I miss you.
I always had Leanne, but my grandma was my other best friend. Losing her was hard.
I wish my grandma was here right now. She’d know what to do about the sketchy neighbor. She’d probably hatch a plan to bake him some chocolate chip cookies and bring them over just so she could check out his house and break in later.
“Oh!”
I spring up so fast that I nearly bang my arm on the coffee table. Instead, I get away with a warning graze. I stalk around the room—my phone and the spy screen in the corner completely forgotten.
That’s how I can get my evidence. I can prove Leanne wrong. I didn’t even get a chance to tell her about the weird blow-up sex doll, which is currently sitting at the bottom of my kitchen garbage can. I feel like I should have taken it out to the backyard and lit it on fire to get rid of the evidence, but I’m also sure plastic sets off some pretty toxic chemicals when it burns.
I give a little cry of triumph before I rush back upstairs to start gathering what I need to get a plan together.
That’s right. I’m not going down without a fight. I’m not going to end up in that plastic living room or rolled up in that rug. I’m not going to let anyone else go down like that either. I’m alread
y a criminal since I stole and opened Mr. Mob’s mail.
Yes, I know breaking and entering is a felony. Or something. But I don’t plan on getting caught.
CHAPTER 9
Wade
I didn’t plan to start stripping the carpets in the house until after I’d finished the cabinets, but I got bored with the tedious sanding and painting job and decided to take a break by stripping the carpets from the bedrooms and hallway, up to the living room.
After I pulled up the carpet, which was actually pretty disgusting and decrepit, I had no idea what to do with it. I rolled up a few pieces and put them in the backyard, but I figured it was just a waste of time and energy.
After I woke up, which was past noon, I called for a dumpster to be put at the end of the driveway. I know it will attract attention, but I plan to have the thing filled up and gone within a day. That means I should fill the garage with all that needs to go in the dumpster so I can just fill it up and make the call to get it removed.
Since my house is overflowing with demolition materials, it also means I should get the car out of the garage. I really don’t want to park it in the driveway as everyone will know it’s mine (yes, I know I’m getting extremely paranoid), so I decide to drive it down the block and park it in between others for the night. The dumpster will be here late this afternoon. I can fill it up and have it gone by tomorrow morning, and then I’ll get my car.
I quickly throw on my hoodie and hat and enter the garage through the house. I have no idea how it can be so hot out already. It’s a not so subtle reminder for me to get out my tools and take a look at the damn central air unit in the house. It’s clearly not working right.
I drive my car a good distance away and make the walk back. It takes me a good twenty minutes to get back to the house, and by then, my plans to start dragging shit into the garage have to be put on hold. I’m soaked underneath the heavy hoodie and desperately need a cold shower to stave off heatstroke.