The Man Next Door

Prologue :: The House

The house on Glenwood Avenue had taken on an air of darkness. Not simply because the previous owners had painted its adobe exterior dark gray and trimmed it with black, although that hadn’t helped. It was what had happened inside the house even before they moved in.

Elder abuse. Louise Hartman, who lived next door, had been the first to spot it. The single man rarely let his grandmother out, and he never let anyone in, no matter how many cookies they came with. He was the only unsociable person on the whole street. Louise had known early on that he was hiding secrets. But there were things you couldn’t hide from people who paid attention. And Louise paid attention. The curtains were always drawn, and the grandson rarely left the house. Neither did the old woman who had arrived with him, not even to care for the roses which were starting to wither from lack of attention. Lawn service had been stopped and weeds were popping up everywhere. Neglect! cried the house. Often old cars with nefarious looking drivers showed up after dark. Drug dealing, for sure, Louise thought. The place sent off keep away vibes and the neighbors all did. Including Louise. A woman living alone had to be careful.

One day the old woman in the house next door got out. Louise had been checking her mail and saw the poor soul. She was a wraith, wearing dirty pajama bottoms and an equally dirty oversized t-shirt. Her hair hung in greasy, gray strands, and when Louise hurried over to say hello she saw the woman had bruises on her arms. Yes, older people had thin skin, and they tended to bruise easily, but this woman had too many to have just bumped against a counter. When Louise asked about them the woman had looked mildly puzzled for a moment, then replied that little Sammy was strong. Louise had seen little Sammy. He was a mammoth. And obviously brutal. Louise had called the authorities, and it wasn’t long before Sammy was no longer around, and neither was the old woman. According to the rumor mill, a relative had stepped in and moved her across the country and put the house up for sale. Then had come the middle-aged couple with the dog, both working, but with time for an occasional chat by the mailbox. They had one daughter, married, about to give birth to the first grandchild. Perfect. They would bring back the happiness that had lived in the house when Louise’s daughter Zona was growing up and laughing children had run back and forth between the two homes.

But tragedy struck only a few months later. The wife died suddenly. Got sick, was all her husband would share. No one knew with what. The funeral was small and private, the wife cremated, and the man gone almost instantly. The house went on the market again, now under a miasma determined to cling to it. It huddled, waiting, like the neighbors, to see what would happen next. Potential buyers came and looked at it, but it remained empty. That was hardly surprising. The place almost moaned, haunted by its past. Louise could feel … a presence hovering over there, peering over the property line, whenever she went up her own front walk. Her daughter insisted she was imagining things. A house was just a house. It didn’t have a life of its own. And no, Zona hadn’t felt any creepy vibes since she’d moved in with Louise. Of course, Zona was dealing with so much in her own life she probably wouldn’t recognize a creepy vibe even if it came up to her and rattled her bones. Could a house absorb the emotions of the people who lived in it? Did bad vibes linger long after those people had moved out? Once infected, did that house become a magnet for more of the same? Louise shivered as she watched the realtor put a sold sign on the front lawn. Maybe the new owners would dispel the gloom. Maybe she would no longer pick up her pace every time she walked past the place. But what if this unsettled feeling she was getting was a premonition?

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