My Silly Neighbor

A woman confronts her strange neighbor.

Start your story with someone admitting a secret and end it with someone telling a lie.

“I have to tell you something,” Shelby said.

“Okay,” I shrugged, “Go for it.”

“Do you know my neighbor? That weird, old lady next door?” She asked the questions, I nodded. I could sense a hesitancy in her voice; she kept looking past my shoulder at her front door. I expected her story to be exaggerated and dramatic, like most of her other stories. But I, being a story-lover, always enjoyed hearing the drama of another person’s life, even if it meant them bending the truth.

I thought back to her story about getting kicked out of her parents’ house: I was only 13 years old! They packed all of my things into suitcases and left them on the front porch. When I came home from school, I got my things without even thinking about it. I went straight to my friend’s place and told them I was living there now. 

I knew Shelby’s mother well, so I asked her why she would do something like that to her own daughter. Her mother only stared in disbelief, claiming that it never happened. 

“I haven’t told anyone this yet,” she started again, “So please don’t judge what I’m going to say,” There was a shift in her tone, not like I had heard before. I let her continue.

“I’ve been living in this condo for nearly 4 years. Until six months ago, I had never had a conversation with that woman. I said ‘Hello’ in passing the few times I saw her, but never more than that. You remember what I’ve said about her before? How she will vacuum her condo at 3am and blast church choral music? I’ve been able to put up with that s**t.” She started shaking her head, slightly at first, then it escalated into a full swing; like she was actively trying to shake the thoughts out of her head. I grounded myself, knowing the history of her story-telling, but also unable to hide my curiosity. 

“What happened?” I pried.

“6 months ago,” She sighed, “I was walking to my car, heading for work, and I saw her standing in her doorway. So I nodded to her and said ‘Hello’. The lady said ‘Hi’ back, then gestured for me to come into her house. I told her I was late for work, but she insisted. I was late for work, and I’m not sure what compelled me to go into the house, but I did. 

“Walking up to her doorway, I didn’t notice before, but her hedges lining her walkway were covered, decorated I guess, with her pots and pans - from her kitchen! I swear to you, shiny silver pots and pans, like Christmas ornaments, hanging from the hedges. So I looked at these, then at her, and tried not to judge. I like to imagine I’m a genuine, wholesome person.”

“You are,” I interjected, knowing my slight deception with the statement.

“I walk in. All over the walls - I mean really, all over - were holes from what looked like a hammer. It’s the weirdest thing: I saw all of these holes, and should have freaked out and left, but instead all I could think was ‘How did I not hear any of this?’. I’ve heard this lady vacuum in the middle of the night, is there any way she could have done all of this without me hearing?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, though the question was rhetorical.

“I’m just standing there, looking at the holes, and she offers me a piece of candy like I’m a child. I took the chocolate and ate it. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I’m weirded out, right? But then, as I’m chewing, she takes her hand and just starts massaging my cheek. She’s grabbing and caressing, staring deep into my eyes. I’ve never spoken to this lady before!

“I ask her to stop, that it’s making me uncomfortable. She apologizes. Then, she smiles. This big, nasty grin that showed every single tooth in her mouth. I don’t know how old she is, maybe 60? But those teeth were too white for a dentist’s toddler. I thank her for the candy and start to walk away. This lady doesn’t move a muscle. Not to say anything, not to walk me out. She doesn’t move. Her smile sticks.

“I got outside and into my car. I pulled away without seeing her again,” She finished her story, clearly still reliving some of the trauma. I touched her hand and noted my disgust with this woman. The story has riled me, and I started to make some coffee to calm ourselves. I told Shelby how sorry I was that she had to go through that. 

“I would have sprinted out of there,” I chuckled.

“That’s not even the worst of it,” She said. 

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It gets worse. Maybe a week or two later, I’m outside again, leaving for work. And there she is, in her doorway. She’s got on terribly old pajamas, that were maybe white once, but had stained and worn into a musty-yellow. She’s just standing there, her eyes drifting into the clouds. Then I notice she’s moving, because I’m really not trying to look in her direction. I see her with a tube of chapstick. At first, she starts to apply it casually, then she just keeps spreading and spreading the chapstick, until she’s covering her entire body; she’s aggressive with it, I can see red marks left behind from the pressure. I got into my car and flew out of there.”

I thought about Shelby’s past fibbed stories, and if this was a continuation of those, I could accept it. I felt my neck hairs tingle and stiffen when she talked about the smeared chapstick. I poured the fresh coffee; I didn’t wait for it to cool before I took a drink. Shelby continued to stare at her front door, her foot tapped the floor repeatedly. She jumped when I set her coffee down in front of her.

“Do you think this lady is cracked? Did you tell anyone? Call the police?” I asked. She started shaking her head again and I feared for more.

“The day after that,” She stopped, took a swig of the coffee, inhaled sharply, then continued, “The day after that was the worst. And I know this sounds completely insane, but I swear to you, this is all real.

“I just got home from work. When I pulled in my spot, she wasn’t there and I was relieved. I grabbed my stuff and got out. And then she was in front of my car. I didn’t hear a peep of the door or anything. I jumped when I saw her. She asked if she could have my help moving something around in her house. I told her I would go put my things down and help her after. I was just going to come in here and lock the door and say I forgot. She insisted. She grabbed my hand with this ungodly strength and pulled me into the house. 

“I anticipated the hammer holes again. They were gone. All of them. I know it’s not impossible to patch holes in the wall, but hundreds? By this little old woman? I was shocked. I kept looking around at the walls for some sign, but I saw nothing. So I ask her what we need to move. She doesn’t respond, but she reaches out her hand and offers me another candy. Now I’m thinking I’m living in some fake reality. I told her ‘No, thank you’ and started to leave. She grabbed my wrist. Hard. Then she took this candy and pushed it into my mouth. She moved so fast; I was too shocked, too scared to move. Nate, this lady took her finger and stuck it in my mouth when she put the candy in. Oh my god, I can’t even talk about it,” She stopped once more to take a drink, attempting to clear the foul taste of the woman’s finger. Tears crept at the corner of her eyes; I motioned for the tissues. I couldn’t think of what to say.

“She started swirling her finger around my mouth; she must have had me in some type of trance. This lady was too strong. I don’t get it. I pushed her away - I mean I really shoved her back. She barely budged. Then she f*****g freaked. Her eyes got huge, her pupils dilated, I swear she grew an inch. She bolted to her kitchen and grabbed a hammer. I’m still right in the middle of her living room, and I’m backing away. This lady just comes up on me, hammer raised above her head, I honestly thought she was going to kill me. Then she just starts f*****g pounding the walls over and over and over. She was screaming. I don’t know if she said words. She was so fast.

“I don’t really remember how I got out of that. I know I screamed or yelled something, I think I pushed her again. I’m not sure. I came back here, locked the door, ran into my room, and locked that door.

“I’m laying on my bed, knees curled inside, staring at the door. I hear a tapping,” She took her knuckles and rapped the table. Slowly at first then she picked up rhythm, crescendoing into a pound.

“Of course, I think this lady is coming to kill me. But I hear ‘Hello?! Police! Anybody home?!’ So I fly downstairs and open the door. There’s two officers, brutish looking young men. And that little f*****g lady. ‘Ma’am, Mrs. Ystremski says she was just attacked by you.’ they say to me. Now it’s my turn to freak out. And I tell them everything I just told you in a single breath: the hammer, the candies, the chapstick, I lay it all out. They don’t believe me, that’s clear. So I tell them, ‘Let’s go look at the hammer holes, then. This just happened.

“We go next door - ” Shelby concluded her story, unable to say the words I had suspected.

“Nothing there…” I finished for her.

She shook her head once more, letting the story’s finale ring.

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

Very well written in the technical sense, and no nits to pick at all. No rambling here; this story is straight to the point. But, the story does not satisfy me. It wants an explanation, a proper ending that is revelatory and entertaining. Don't get me wrong, I understand the worth of an open ended tale, a story that requires the reader to determine the meaning of all the words preceding the last end stop. This wasn't one of those.
I'm not a big Stephen King fan because all too often he falls for his own rabbit in hat magic. I feel like a sap when I put the book down.
I don't have any investment in these characters, they aren't cardboard - they are better than that, but they aren't exactly the ink made blood and the paper made flesh either. Rabbit in hat, not grand illusion.