My Neighbor

By: Alec G. Thein

My neighbor. He’s doing it again.

I know I shouldn’t be snooping like this, but it’s hard not to notice.

Beeswax? Buckets of plaster mix? I was thinking about asking him if he needed help to carry any of that stuff in his house, though it might be a little suspicious. He’s only been in there for a couple months, and he’s been nothing but nice, though a little on the quiet side. Not bad looking either.

It’s just interesting, is all. The combination of materials… I would have guessed renovations, especially considering its age. I don’t know.

Something seems weird.

I’m paranoid. Working too much.

It’s going to be a muggy couple of months down here. Like always. Not sure if he and that beeswax are ready for summer down here in the swamps. We’ll see.

***

I passed out in the chair by the window, apparently drooling all over myself before the sound of clanking metal woke me up.

My neighbor is doing something outside. Again. At two in the morning.

He has his pickup parked out in front of his house, but he’s not carrying any wax inside this time, surprisingly. But he does seem to have something in the bed of the truck.

I need to get a better view from upstairs before he leaves the street.

I would hurry up the steps, but my damn back, which is in dire need of a good stretch and sleep in an actual bed, keeps slowing me down.

No one to blame but me. I feel like an old mannequin.

I’m not sure if I can sneak a peek out the window without moving these curtains.

Ah. That reminds me, jeez do I need to dust.

Where are those binoculars, anyway? Whatever.

It looks like there is something in the bed of his truck. A blue tarp just haphazardly thrown over the rear end; there looks to be a spade sticking out over the tailgate.

It’s just a shovel, but this early in the morning? It almost looks deliberate to me.

Stop it. It’s none of your business. Paranoia striking again.

Go back to sleep. In bed this time.

It’s Saturday.

Thank God.

***

I only got a few hours of sleep last night, as usual. Bed or not. Where I sleep doesn’t seem to matter much anymore.

Still, what a beautiful morning it is. I think I’m going to stop being so creepy and venture over to say hello to the neighbor. If he’s not stockpiling odd materials, that is.

And if he is, maybe I can lend a hand, if my back lets me.

It’s humid as the seven circles today. I could probably lay flat and cook on this sidewalk.

There he is. Is that a cardigan he’s wearing?

“Why, hello there, Miss!” He says from afar. “It is a mighty fine morning, now, isn’t it?”

He’ll hurt his cheeks, smiling that hard. His lips look like they’re stretching beyond a human’s normal capability. I can’t tell if that’s happiness, or a coping mechanism.

Now I’m projecting my overworked mind. His lips are fine. Though…

That is a magnificent smile.

“Yes! This weather is definitely something.” I say to him. “I see you’re still adjusting to it, huh? Aren’t you hot in that thing?”

His smile vanishes like it was just erased from existence with a snap.

“Adjusting just fine, actually.” He says.

Cue the awkward silence.

“So.” I break it. “You been doing renovations to that beautiful place of yours?”

His smile creeps back, but not as strong this time. Slow. Subtle. Cheeky.

“You could say that. Certainly planning for renovations, that is.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been snooping, but…I did notice you bringing in a heck of a lot of stuff, so I figured as much.”

His eyes begin a voyage of my body, scanning me up and down, leisurely. Smile is the same. A smile of my own pops up. Didn’t mean for it. It just happened.

“Say.” He says, locking eyes with me. “Think you could help me carry some things inside? It’ll only be a jiff. We’ll be done in two ticks.”

Perfect opportunity.

“Sure! I need to warn you now, though. My back has been pretty thrashed lately. But I’d love to help a great neighbor such as yourself.”

“I’ve noticed.” He whispers under his breath, though still with a tone loud enough to hear.

Did he really think I couldn’t hear that? Any louder and our other neighbors could hear him.

What is that supposed to mean, anyway?

“Come on! I’ve got some stuff in the back of my truck you can help carry in.”

Well, looks like I am helping. I’m too curious, anyway. Nebby. Nosy. And…probably creepy.

“Let’s do it.”

We walk to his truck. He has the blue tarp folded neatly, perfectly, into a square, resting under the rear window. On top of it is a cardboard box duct taped shut, labeled Organ in black marker.

That thing is really taped. Extensively.

Paranoia? Perhaps.

Expensive belongings? More than likely.

Body parts? Doubtful, though, that thought will remain in the back of my mind. Too late now.

I lunge myself into the bed of the truck and step to the Organ box, which is sitting next to a spade and a pickaxe.

“Organ, huh?” I yell back. “Do you play?”

There is a momentary pause from him while I carefully bend down to grab the box. Damn back.

“Y-yeah. Yes! Wait, what are we talking about? Play what?”

“The organ. This box. It’s labeled organ. I just assumed—”

“Oh, yeah! Not the organ, though. Well, I play the piano. I used to—well, I used to collect them. The movers mislabeled it when we moved. I know they just wanted to help, but I’m not sure why they wrote organ on there. Or maybe—hm. Yeah, I’m not sure, exactly. Organ is close enough, I guess!”

That was a lot.

“Why used to?” I ask him. “If you don’t mind?”

He clears his throat. “Ah. Well, my…previous love, it was our thing we did together. We loved instruments, specifically pianos. After she passed, it just wasn’t the same. I ended up selling some pieces and keep the rest in a storage locker.”

Pieces of a piano?

“Oh. I’m—I’m very sorry to hear that.”

I could see the grief rusted gears turning in his head. Maybe that’s why he’s so awkward.

“It’s alright. She’ll always be with me. In that box, specifically.”

“Wait, what? What do you mean in this box?”

He’s just staring at me with that reserved smile. He isn’t saying anything. I can’t even imagine what is going through his head right now. I’m not sure I want to know.

It’s starting to feel more like a doll’s eyes locked on mine than an actual human being looking at me.

Quit being judgmental.

“The things that I remember her by, of course. Little pieces we used to collect,” he says, as his reserved smile morphs back into a full-on teeth display.

Great. I’m terrible.

“I have some more things I want to bring in from the back. Just go ahead and take it in there. Set it in the room on the right.” He tells me.

“Oh, okay!” I say, uncertain of what just transpired. I don’t know what to think, other than this is my chance to see what’s happening in there.

Though, I will say, there’s no way he’d let me in if he was doing something sketchy, right?

Right?

I walk up his sidewalk. It borders his yard and shrubs, of course.

Though—I’m not entirely sure how I didn’t notice this before—the yard, bushes, flowers all professionally kept.

Professionally kept.

The grass, what little there is of it, looks as if a ballpark gardening crew took care of it.

The bushes are perfect boxes.

The flowers are glowing.

And the weirdest part is, I’ve never seen a landscaping crew do his yard.

I can’t help but stop and admire his immaculate balance of sweet olive bushes, gardenia, and hibiscus.

I got to say, I’m impressed.

Everything smells so fresh.

Maybe he’s just a pro.

I continue to the front door, propping his curio-filled, silver ladened cardboard box on my leg and reach for the doorknob.

I can feel it slipping.

“Oh, God. Please, no.”

I skid, trying to readjust and secure the box, but it starts to fall, and almost as if it came out of a pocket dimension right next to me, my neighbor’s hand steadies it.

“We wouldn’t want to drop this, now, would we?” He says, as the cheeky smile returns. “Let me get the door for you.”

“Oh my gosh. You scared me! I thought you were in the back.”

“Nope.” He says. “I’m right here.”

I step into the sight of a practically empty house. No boxes. A couch and chair in the room to my left, with a large TV resting on a stand with the fireplace sitting next to it.

There are pieces of chopped wood stacked up to the mantle that it rests below, hiding the fireplace’s mouth.

To my right is nothing but a stained wooden desk with a golden lamp accompanying it. His office, I suppose.

The house is empty. If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed he was moving out, not in.

“You can just set it in there. On my desk. Please.” He says. “Thank you.”

I walk the box over and get a peek past the office. There looks to be thick plastic hanging, covering the entrance to the room around the corner.

It’s fogged up. I can’t see through it.

“That where you’re doing the renovations?” I ask. Paranoia and curiosity striking again.

“Yes, ma’am, though…I’m not so sure it’s ready to be seen just yet. Barely started, ya know?” He says, hands on his hips.

“Well, I would love to see it when it’s finished! If you ever need any help, you know where to find me.” I say, trying to match the energy his smile radiated earlier.

I look back toward the hanging plastic and can make out boxes upon boxes of beeswax, plaster mix, and stacks of silk rags.

“I still see her, you know.” He says, standing by the front door. The breeze that flows in moves the plastic around, though not enough to get a clear look at the rest of the room. “It’s more like quick visions of her, but it never really looks like her. Her face always looks obscured just enough for me to not see it. It feels like something is in the way. A dark spot.”

I turn away from the plastic and walk over to him, resting against the archway outside of the office.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like.” I tell him.

“It scared me at first. I thought I was being haunted. I couldn’t handle it. I swear I would hear this noise… It reminded me of water boiling. A rolling boil. But there would be nothing on the stove. The other possible culprit, the hot water tank, would be silent. Eventually, I saw dark silhouettes all around the house. I’ve never believed in ghosts. It’s why I moved here, to continue living without being pestered by—whatever.”

“Have you seen or heard anything since you moved down here?”

The neighbor looks past me and my statement, into the office, like his attention broke off and ran somewhere else.

“All the time.” He says. “So!”

What just happened?

He continues. “I appreciate the help, but I’m going to get changed and get to work.”

“Oh! Okay. I’ll let you get to it then. Again, you let me know if—”

“If I need any help. You got it!”

I walk past him and out of the house, getting about halfway before turning around. He’s standing at the office window, looking out. That reserved smile plastered on his face.

I wave.

He waves back, twitching his fingers before walking away and into the shadows.

***

My doorbell rings.

What time is it? It has to be at least eleven at night.

I’m up anyway.

I get up from my office and head over to the front door, flipping the porch light on.

I creak the door open.

It’s the neighbor. He looks distracted.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you at this hour, but I wanted to give you a heads up. I’m going to be leaving for a couple of days. Family emergency. I was wondering if you could watch my house while I’m gone.”

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. Yeah—yes. I’ll watch your place. Gladly.”

“Thank you so much. You’re a doll. Here’s the extra key. Just give her a once over every day and night until I get back. Maybe turn a light on here and there. On at night, off in the morning. Something.”

“I absolutely will. I hope everything is okay with the family.”

“Yeah.” He says, walking away. He throws his hand up in the air. “See you in a few days.”

I shut my door and look through the window. The neighbor drives away, coasting underneath the streetlight, which reveals that blue tarp again, covering the bed of his truck.

What kind of emergency needs that?

***

After a full day of work, it’s probably high time I go check on the neighbor’s place. It’s already dark.

No snooping. Just going to flip on a light, make sure there aren’t any spooky intruders, and be on my way.

I walk in through the front and shut the door behind me. I can hear the plastic moving from the air flow. I’ll just turn on the lamp in the office for tonight.

Flicking it on, the sound of the floorboards creaking startles me.

“Hello?” I ask, knowing full well that there isn’t anyone here.

Or at least, no one here that should be.

I stand perfectly still in front of the desk, helming the golden lamp.

“Hello?” I ask again. The dangling plastic moves once more. I peek around the corner and see it lightly fluttering, like someone had just brushed up against it.

I guess I do need to snoop a little.

I walk over to the plastic, pushing it to the side as I glide through.

Everywhere. Covering every inch of the room. Plastic lining the floor and walls. Makes sense. Renovations and all.

Up close I can see that beeswax, plaster, and stacks of silk rags. Next to them, the box I carried in. The one labeled Organ.

I still don’t get the rags.

The urge to open the Organ box is growing.

I turned the light on. He isn’t here. What’s the harm in checking it out?

I carefully strip the duct tape off the box, ensuring that I don’t damage it or rip off any piece of the cardboard, so I can put it back exactly how I found it.

I open the box, partially bending one flap. No way he’ll notice that, anyway.

I look inside.

Piano wire. Lots of it. Wrapped up in a circle. Guess he wasn’t lying. There’s a mason jar inside too, with something written in black marker on the silver lid. It’s too faded to read.

Loads of duct tape blacks out whatever is inside the jar.

I’m already this far, might as well check this out too.

I give it a shake before twisting it open. Sounds light, maybe breakable. Fragile.

I open the jar and see what looks like large white marbles inside.

More floorboards creak. Someone’s watching me. I’m getting way too nosy. Time to finish up.

“Whoever is watching me, I’m sorry for snooping!” I yell aloud.

I close the jar and put it back in the Organ box. I press the tape back down in the exact same spot it was stuck before I opened it and left the plastic room.

Wait, I told him I would watch the house, the least I can do is finish that.

I walk upstairs and check out the three bedrooms. The first two are on the left.

Empty.

I then check out the last one, on the right past the hall bathroom. The master bedroom. Where he sleeps, presumably.

I walk inside the room to see a king-sized bed and brown dresser. Dated décor, but nothing out of the ordinary. No intruders, either.

My décor is ancient. I can’t judge.

There was another door as I left the room. Storage maybe?

I walk in to see another empty room, though not completely. A record player stands practically alone on top of a sound system that looks to be from a few decades back. It’s accompanied by a single wooden chair facing the window outside, toward my house.

I’m not really sure what to make of it. The man likes to sit and listen to music, is the only thing I can get from this. I’m not going to assume anything.

Let’s go home.

***

The neighbor didn’t say when he expected to come home. Another night to flick the lights on. No snooping this time. I swear. Turn the light on and go home. That’s it.

That’s it.

I go inside, head over to the light on the desk and turn it on. As I’m about to leave, the fireplace catches my eye. Why in the hell would he stack all that wood in front of the fireplace? I said no snooping, but this is just crazy.

The living room was calling my name, so I went in, past the couch, and over to the woodpile. I unstack the chopped wood that was up against the mantle, and I can start to see behind the pile. I can’t really tell, but something black and stringy looks like it’s sitting in there, though I’m not exactly sure what it is.

It’s resting on the concrete.

A couple more pieces of wood gone will give me a better look.

Wait.

Headlights.

Oh, no. He’s home.

I frantically start to put the wood back on the pile. I can hear his car door shut. His footsteps approaching. The front door opens.

My doom is here.

“Hey there!” I yell.

“Oh, hello. What are you doing over here?”

“I was just giving the place a once over. Making sure everything is good. You must have pulled in as soon as I flicked that light on!” I say with a light chuckle.

“Yeah.” He says. Straight faced. Dead eyed. “Thanks again. I’m beat. I’m going to hit the hay. I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure. Everything okay with the family?”

“It will be.”

“What does that mean? What happened?”

He stares at me for a few seconds. Emotionless. Did his soul poof away?

“Thank you for watching the house. Goodbye for now.” He says, as he puts his open hand out in front of me.

“Oh, the key. Sorry.” I placed the key in his hand. I was sweating up a storm holding that piece of metal. No way he won’t notice that moisture. He’ll think something suspicious.

Stop.

“And, uh—sure thing. Let me know if you need anything!” I say.

He rubbed the key in between his fingertips.

I give one last light chuckle to brighten the ending mood.

“I’ll see you later!”

I turn back once I leave, expecting him to be standing at the window, but he’s not. He’s walking toward the TV room. The woodpile.

Great.

***

Two days.

It’s been two days since I’ve seen him come out of that house. I’ve been extra snoopy lately. I’m just waiting for him to mention something about the woodpile, or even to tell me that I got into something that I shouldn’t have. Just. Something.

Something.

But no. He hasn’t so much as turned on a light since he got home.

Damn paranoia.

For all I know, he’s been throwing a party over there, but I just haven’t noticed.

No, I definitely would have noticed. I’m too nosy.

I think I’m going to go check on him.

Tomorrow. I’ll go check on him tomorrow.

I need to think of something to say.

Jesus. Listen to me.

***

No answer at his door earlier.

I haven’t heard a peep from him in days.

Now, it’s two o’clock in the morning and he just got home, parked in front of his house. What’s he doing?

Sitting by the same window in my office, I turn away for a second. I close my eyes and yawn. Figures. Yawning. Doesn’t matter how much I yawn and get tired.

I never sleep anyway.

The sound of crinkling thick plastic tickles my ear. It’s louder than the crickets and all their friends.

What is that?

More crinkling. It doesn’t sound like one of those plastic bags you get at the supermarket. Bigger.

What the hell is that?

The streetlights illuminate in front of his house.

I squint down at his truck and see him toss a large black garbage bag over his shoulder—at least—I think it’s a garbage bag.

Can’t find those binoculars again.

I move closer to the glass of my window to get a better look.

He stopped. Why did he stop?

The neighbor turned his head toward me. I quickly slide down in my chair so fast I give myself a wedgie.

Did he see me?

I’m too afraid to move back up. My heart is in my bladder. I know he saw me.

God damn it, I know he saw me.

I inch my way back up.

That black bag is on the ground. Where’d he go?

Three knocks on my door downstairs.

Please. No.

I swallow so hard I choke on the spit.

I wander down the stairs and open the door.

“Hello there, neighbor.” He says.

I rub my eyes as if I was sleeping. He knows I wasn’t.

“Oh, hey there. What are you doing over here at—what time is it?”

“Late. Very late. I saw you had your lights on. I thought I’d ask you for your assistance.”

“I—sure. Assistance with what?”

“You know, just carrying something in my house. It’s not too heavy, at least with the two of us. Just awkward to carry.”

What could it even be?

“Well, if it can’t wait until morning—let’s do it.” I say.

We stroll over to his sidewalk where the—now I see it—long black bag rests on the ground.

“Just grab it from the end there, and I’ll grab it from his end.”

I pick up the smaller end of the bag.

Are these…feet?

He picks up his end, and we start to walk the bag in the house. He’s walking backwards, staring at me. A gleaming grin is stuck on his face. Not a hint of reservation.

“If you don’t mind my asking.” I say, out of breath. “What do you have in here?”

He scoffs. “Oh, you must think I’m a psychotic or something.” He pauses with a chuckle. “You see, there’s a body in this bag.”

My heart bursts through my bladder and onto the sidewalk. I stop.

“There’s a what?”

“No! Not a proper body—or carcass, I should say.” He doesn’t chuckle, but snorts. “I’m a tailor. This here is Josie. My model.”

Either I’m sleep deprived, dreaming, or both.

I begin to step forward, hopefully cuing him to get a move on.

“You scared me there.” I say. I couldn’t find any other words. “I didn’t know you were a tailor. You never said.”

We reach the threshold of his house. Thank the heavens.

He props the bag on his leg and opens the door. We walk in.

“I’m fairly new at it. Started right before I moved here.” He says. “Just set her down over here.”

Beads of nervousness dripping from my forehead smack his floor.

We step right in front of the hanging plastic, directly before the beeswax room, and place the bag down.

“You’re fascinating, you know that.” I say, even though I shouldn’t have.

He stares at me. No smile. No reaction. Empty.

His eyes go down for another voyage of on body, scanning me once again.

“Thank you for your help at such a terrible hour.” He says, as he raises his hand to the door. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Sure. Yeah. See you soon.”

I scurry out the door.

I speed walk over to my house and hurry to the second floor. Any light that I had on upstairs, I turn off.

Back to my chair. I can’t help it. I need to look. Where is he?

Looking all around his windows, until…

He’s in that room. The empty one. With the chair.

I know that, because he’s staring right at me.

I wave.

He stands there for a moment. No reaction.

He doesn’t wave back. He just stares.

I close my curtain.

Goodnight.

***

I wake up in my bed. I actually slept, even after last night.

Today is a day off for me. No work. No snooping.

Just laziness.

Though, I am curious…

One peek out the window won’t hurt. Not literally, at least.

With my cup of coffee, I’m back in the chair. Just for a moment. Nothing longer.

I look over at the window.

In the frame, a still body. Long black hair drops down from the head, standing still. Perfectly still.

I can’t get my coffee down. I can’t stop looking at it.

He’s a tailor. I know that. He told me that.

Since when do mannequins have hair?

My coffee goes down. I need to brush my teeth. Get rid of the bitter caffeine stuck in my mouth.

***

Back to the window.

The body—er, the fake body hasn’t moved.

Though…something’s different. Arms wrap around it. Squeezing it.

Who else’s arms could they be besides his?

He’s a tailor. Remember? A tailor. He’s probably measuring.

The body gets ripped out of view. The black hair trails behind, both completely out of sight.

I can see the neighbor walk over to the record player. He gently places the stylus down, I assume.

I could really use my binoculars right now.

Taking periodic looks out the window, I hunt for the binoculars. Though, it’s not long before a peculiar sight stops me.

He’s dancing. He’s dancing with the mannequin. Whipping it around like he’s done it before. Danced with it before.

I need to find those damn binoculars.

Lightbulb pops in my head. Downstairs in the den.

I sprint down the steps, spot them sitting on the table next to the couch. I snatch them as quick as possible and hustle back up to my nosy spot.

My nosy spot. God. I need to get back to work.

Not yet.

I bring the binoculars up to my eyes. Right to the window. The body is still again. The dancing is over, though I can see the face of the mannequin.

Something’s off.

Really off.

The face. The mannequin’s face looks…real. Or it was real.

It looks rippled, not wrinkled. Waxy.

Wax. The beeswax.

Is that a homemade doll?

I don’t know what to think anymore.

Can’t help it. I continue my stare.

That black hair. I’ve seen that black hair.

Since when do mannequins have eyes and—

The neighbor moves into the window frame—or rather, his face does. He begins kissing the mannequin on its painted lips.

I pull the binoculars down, then back up.

Its eyes are wide, stapled open, if my imagination is anything to go by.

Looking closer, the eyes look more like white marbles that have painted on pupils.

He’s licking the mannequin’s lips.

Kissing its cheek.

Kissing its neck, and—

I drop the binoculars on the table.

That’s it.

I’m done.

Well…

I pick them up one last time.

The man is gone again, and whatever was on that mannequin’s face looks like some of it came off with his tongue.

That face. The material of its skin.

Something is really wrong here.

Where did he—

A fat smack across the mannequin’s face scares the living hell out of me.

I fumble the binoculars enough for them to smack the glass.

My eyes widen.

The neighbor turns to face my house.

His eyes widen.

I drop to the ground.

I’m done.

***

My curiosity overwhelms my paranoia.

It’s three in the morning. His truck is gone. I’m going in.

I need to see that mannequin.

I need to see that woman.

I go out through my back porch. Quietly. I never fixed the motion light facing the yard, so I should be in the clear.

There’s no fence, though I feel like the moment I step onto his perfectly cut grass, he’ll be waiting for me.

With one grand step, I push my foot into his one-inch grass.

He’s not behind me, is he?

I turn around to see my house. No neighbor.

I continue into his backyard. No motion light. Still in the clear.

There’s a door that leads to—yes. It should be the plastic room.

I go for the handle. Unlocked.

I probably should be terrified at this moment, with the main reason being the question, “why was his door unlocked?”

But I don’t really care. I need to get in and get out before my curiosity gets the better of me.

I open the door to hear the plastic sway in the breeze.

Empty boxes of beeswax. Empty buckets of plaster mix. No rags.

In the corner of the room lie containers of all three. Unopened and ready to go.

Whatever. I need to get upstairs.

I ease past the plastic hanging from the ceiling.

Home or not, I’m staying quiet.

The stairs are right here, but…the woodpile.

It’s gone. It’s been a few days. What the hell happened to the wood?

It doesn’t matter now. Upstairs. The empty room.

I press the balls of my feet into the steps, hoping to be as quiet as a professional thief.

Making it to the top, I dart down the hallway towards the room as quiet as I can.

I open the door and flick the light on.

Below the light, a woman in a white gown sits in that empty chair.

She’s facing me. Looking at me.

Her eyes are black and white. No color.

Her lips look pasted on or pasted over.

Her teeth peek through, though they don’t look like human teeth, but more plaster.

Her skin resembles a crinkled Paper-Mache.

The black hair was a wig, poorly placed staples sit atop her head.

I’m afraid to get closer. She’s staring into my soul. But I need to. I need to know what is going on.

I reach my hand toward the woman’s face. I just want to poke her nose. Pinch her cheek. Something.

So, I do.

I grab her plaster cheek with my thumb and index finger and pull.

With that pull, her cheek breaks off.

Underneath all that beeswax and plaster is a stench so horrid I could faint.

Something worse than a dead skunk that was eaten and vomited up.

That kind of smell.

Though the plaster underneath the skin wasn’t more plaster, or beeswax, but rags. Just silk fabric.

I moved her gown down just to confirm what the hell I was looking at.

At each joint was piano wire, wrapped and fitted firmly, keeping her limbs together.

In between those limbs was rotted flesh and bone.

She’s staring at me. Butterflies. Goosebumps.

I want to cry. I feel like I can’t move.

I’m getting out of here.

As I turn around, a creak springs somewhere in the hallway.

I don’t care. If he’s there, I’m blowing past him, sprinting to my house, and calling the police.

I’ll find some sort of weapon and wait for him.

I creep out of the room, but no neighbor.

I tip-toe down the steps and head back through the plastic room.

I scan around, thinking that he’ll be somewhere, but he isn’t.

I leave my neighbor’s house and can’t help but think he wanted me to see her; for me to study is immaculate creation.

I open my back door and head upstairs. Back to my chair.

I take a seat and snag the binoculars.

I peer into that window, though there’s no one there.

No woman wrapped in plaster or beeswax.

No neighbor.

I don’t understand.

“You will understand. Join us.” The neighbor says.

I scream for my life. It doesn’t matter.

The rag in his hand reaches over my mouth while he pushes the back of my head towards it. Hard.

The muscles in my neck pull and bend in ways they shouldn’t.

More rag.

I don’t think I’m waking up from this sleep.

***

“What a lovely day it is today.” The neighbor says, as he reaches down to grab the newspaper thrown on the sidewalk.

Wearing his sweater that does not belong in this southern heat, he flips open the newspaper, though what he’s looking for isn’t inside, but on the front page.

He turns back to the front, and spots a picture of a missing woman, and a smile appears on his face.

As he heads inside, he walks towards his plastic room and sticks the paper on a pile of newspapers, next to the beeswax, plaster, and rags.

He then walks upstairs to that empty room to see the woman in plaster sitting in the chair.