Thin Walls - A Novella

Chapter One

Nora

Nora Ellis met her next-door neighbor wearing nothing but a bath towel and the expression of a woman who had recently discovered homeownership was a scam.

Technically, she met him because her bathroom was exploding.

Not literally, although the distinction felt increasingly academic as water shot from somewhere behind the toilet, struck the opposite wall, and scattered across the tile in a violent horizontal spray.

Nora stood barefoot in the middle of it, gripping the knot of her white towel with one hand and staring.

"No."

The water continued.

"No, no. Absolutely not."

Apparently the house was unmoved by authority.

Thirty-seven minutes.

She had been a homeowner for thirty-seven minutes.

She had signed approximately nine hundred documents, transferred an amount of money she preferred never to see written down again, thanked the movers, carried three boxes inside herself because she had something stupid to prove, and rewarded herself with the first shower in her new house.

She had not unpacked her underwear yet.

She had not opened the champagne Sophie brought her.

She had not even figured out which kitchen cabinet should hold the coffee mugs.

And now her bathroom was attempting to become a swimming pool.

Something cracked behind the wall.

Nora screamed.

Not elegantly. There was no movie-star gasp followed by quick, competent action. It was a genuine horror-movie shriek that bounced off the tile and made her own reflection look startled.

"Great. That's great."

She stepped forward, slipped, caught herself on the vanity and glared at herself in the mirror. Her dark hair was plastered to one cheek. Mascara had somehow migrated beneath one eye. The woman looking back at her did not appear empowered by independent homeownership.

"You wanted this," Nora told her reflection.

Water began escaping beneath the bathroom door.

"You wanted a fresh start."

Another alarming crack came from the wall.

"Congratulations."

The shutoff.

There was a shutoff somewhere.

The inspector had shown it to her.

Probably.

Nora remembered nodding solemnly while he explained several things about the plumbing. She also remembered wondering whether the dining table she had already purchased was six inches too wide for the breakfast area.

Apparently this was why adults were supposed to pay attention during inspections.

She ran downstairs.

The hallway closet yielded a vacuum, several leftover tiles, a half-empty bag of grout and a paint roller but nothing remotely capable of preventing catastrophic water damage.

The basement.

Possibly.

Nora opened the basement door. A steep staircase disappeared into darkness.