The Genius Next Door

Prologue

Some say the local lake had been enchanted. The murky Porridge of Lincoln Creek was a source of spectacle for many residents as it held whispers of secrets and mysteries -  as well as tragedies. One might not stare for too terribly long into the loch, as its dismal eye will begin to taunt you; tempt you into falling in love with its misery.
The Porridge sat in its sunken throne within a clearing of trees, nestled nicely underneath an overhang that was consumed in foliage. A road ran along the ledge, carving a path through the dense trees like a concrete brook. If a vehicle were to drive along this road, a passenger overlooking the edge wouldn't find any foreboding body of water. Somehow, the Porridge was only something you could find if you weren't looking for it. The lake was a camouflaged creature with a mind of its own. By any means, it was not easy to find the lake, that is, if you are off on a journey to find a nice watering hole. The Porridge had a mind of its own, and was often elusive, even to some locals. If the Porridge did not wish to be disturbed, you would not find it. Not that many were in desperate search of the lake. It was left off of most maps for a reason.
No creek or river ran in or out of the turbid water, no mountain stream dared to creep near the tub of muck. All the Porridge had for replenishment was the rain, which happened as often as the storms were vigorous in Lincoln Creek. And every time it rained, the Porridge would fill and ooze with more sediment and forest debris, devouring any unfortunate prospect that so happened to slip under its surface. The ancient lake would sit and wait to be fed in the same way as a venus fly trap patiently awaits its next meal to come buzzing into its jaws. And each night, it would feast on whatever the trees and the wind and the rain could summon to the water. But, if the lake wanted dessert, the water always had a way to invite something to eat into the misty abyss.
Some chose to argue that the Porridge wasn't a lake at all, that it is more of an unfortunate mud hole; a silt filled crater that is but an ugly scar on the town of Lincoln Creek. But the vastness of the still, gray water held this town by the neck. It was too deep to be a pond, and yet the idea of calling it a swamp caused people to quiver, as if it were disrespectful. And quite frankly, it would have been disrespectful to the Porridge. The vastness of the water alone was enough to make one feel 3 inches tall. It seemed to get a little bit bigger with each passing year. With every slight expansion, the spell that the lake could cast upon you would become more and more powerful. One could not stare into the grayish brown reservoir for too many minutes before they would begin to realize that the lake offered no wakes, hardly a ripple. If you were to toss a pebble across the water, you'd find the Porridge would quickly swallow it, followed by three, maybe four ripples originating from where the pebble disturbed the surface. The ripples would seem to be devoured swiftly as well; any sort of movement was sustenance to the lake.
Once one realizes the absence of motion in the water, they then notice that their reflection is never visible upon the vacant face of the lake. Not even a shadow could be visible upon the surface. At least, not a shadow any human eye had ever laid on. The Porridge had this interesting habit of only wanting to be found on overcast or stormy days. Not a picture or even a memory of the Porridge in sunlight existed.
The more one stares at the glassy surface, searching for their nonexistent reflection, the more they come to realize that the lake is hiding something from them. Curiosity is a very powerful motivator, and the lake knew this. The more questions left unanswered by the Porridge, the more interested someone may become in fully submerging into the murky depths. Perhaps by immersing oneself into the thick, the answers would come flooding to them. Perhaps the feeling of unease that the lake would cast upon them might suddenly dissipate, should they become baptized by the feculence.
Thankfully, not many residents of Lincoln Falls have had such a twist in luck so as to end up at the edge of this dismal body of water.
The neighbors of the Porridge had lived along a wooded hillside, high above the road and the trees that were next door to the lake. Many residents of Greencliffe Drive had lived there for decades, and some for generations. The colonial houses that these citizens of Lincoln Creek had the fortune of residing in were positively radiant. Every home had a personality and quirks reminiscent of the person or families that resided within them. The properties were always manicured and pristine, no matter how many times it stormed in the town. Greencliffe Drive was an attraction for the town folk at any time of year to come and drive through.
The holiday season especially was the time to shine for the neighborhood on Greencliffe Drive. Everyone had their own, unique way of adorning their homes with brilliant, scintillating string lights. Winter themed blow ups of Santa and snowmen littered the lawns of the houses along the streets. Many families would bring their children up to Greencliffe for evening drives through the neighborhood, and spend time admiring the lights and Christmas caroling to the residents of the glorious homes.
One resident of Greencliffe had a particular affinity towards Christmas time, for he loved when the children of Lincoln Falls would come to sing to him. Karl Berkowitz of 706 N Greencliffe Drive was nearly in his 90s, and was a senior resident of the neighborhood, having lived there since the mid 1950s. He was going on his fifth year of being a widower, and his children had long since moved away. Karl spent much of his alone time, which seemed to yawn with no end, sitting on his back deck, overlooking the road leading up to the neighborhood, and the windy trees that blanketed the valley. He found solace in his next door neighbor, whom he seldom got to see, as this neighbor was quite a hermit. But, lucky for lonely Karl to have a hermit for a next door neighbor who loved to play music at any and all hours of the day. For Karl's talent was to be awake at any and all hours of the day, stirring up the most tragic and sorrowful thoughts a man missing his wife could conjure. It seemed to him, that whenever he would be out on his deck, whether clear skies or storm, and his thoughts were stirring into a maelstrom of despair, that the next door neighbor would begin the most sad and beautiful tune on one of his many instruments. As soon as the sweet notes reached Karl's ears, his thoughts would instantly ease, and he could swear that just beyond the road and the trees that lay beyond him, he would hear his wife's enchanting singing voice humming along with the neighbor's songs. Whispers of her voice would be carried to Karl by the wind, and for a few minutes, or even hours, Karl would be entranced by the music his neighbor and his wife would serenade him with.
Karl knew the music was over when he would look to his right, hearing the sound of his neighbor's back door open. In the darkness, his neighbor would strike up a match and light up his gourd calabash pipe. Karl didn't stick around on his deck for too much longer when his neighbor's late night ritual began, for whatever the man was smoking did not smell like tobacco. Karl never cared for the smell of whatever the man would indulge in night after night, and would swiftly return inside of his own beautiful, but quiet home.
In early November, Karl took a bath in his upstairs bathroom, which happened to be on the right side of his house. The night was rainy, as it was a near constant drizzle in Lincoln Falls come autumn time. Nevertheless, he still opened up his bathroom window, swinging it out on its hinges so he could hear the deep and gentle notes of his neighbor's viola. But as time grew, a few neighbors began to take note that Karl had never closed his bathroom window, even as the rain poured and poured.
By three days, the mailman had noticed that Mr. Berkowitz's mail had not been collected, and three newspapers sat in rain soaked plastic wrappers just below his front steps. The mail man walked up to Karl's front door and rang the doorbell a few times. He walked up to the windows of the bottom floor and put his hands up to the glass to take a glimpse inside. He already knew what it meant, the mailman had the misfortune of experiencing this kind of scenario before. Perhaps he would find Karl Berkowitz sitting in an armchair, or even worse, lying face down on the kitchen floor.
But the mailman couldn't see Karl Berkowitz anywhere, and decided to make the call.
When the ambulance showed up, the rain seemed to pick up intensely. Karl's body had been sitting in a tub of cloudy water for many, many hours, and the paramedics had to plug their noses as they lifted him from the tub and out of the bathroom. One paramedic looked back at the bathroom window and noticed the puddle of water that had formed underneath it. She took a towel that was hanging from the back of the door and set it on top of the water spot just before shutting Karl's bathroom window.
As they loaded Karl into the back of the ambulance, the paramedic looked behind her shoulder. Through the rain, she saw the solemn face of the next door neighbor peering through square framed glasses out of his upstairs window. He seemed disturbed by what he was looking at, hardly blinking. He didn't notice the woman in uniform looking up at him who was wondering why he didn't notice old man Karl's absence sooner, with the papers stacking up outside his home. He just looked at the taillights of the ambulance as the driver got ready to take off, a petrified expression in his eyes. The paramedic shook her head as she shrugged off the odd feelings his face had given her and hopped into the ambulance with her coworkers.
Karl Berkowitz was found to have his lungs filled with fluid, a case of acute pulmonary edema. He had drowned in his own bathtub, but had not drowned by the bath water.
His children and grandchildren flew out right away to come arrange his funeral and burial process. That part of processing his death was quick for them to get over with. However, all of Mr. Berkowitz's personal belongings would take a great deal of time for them to go through. Especially after the death of their mother, it was difficult for Karl to let go of many of his sentimental items. The house included an attic that was filled to the brim with newspapers and magazines that his wife loved, toys that they had bought for their children decades ago and other random trinkets the couple had collected over the years.
The Berkowitz children each took their time in their turns to come out to the house and clean it out. Many months of time, in fact. 706 N Greencliffe Drive was the house that they had all grown up in, and spent so many holidays after they had since moved out. The thought of parting with the house that they had spent so much of their lives in, and had made so many memories in, was almost too much to bear for them.
That year was the first year since the Berkowitz family had moved in, that the house was naked and bare for Christmas. Not even a tree in the window, as the family had already thrown away the cheap tree Karl had chosen to set up in the years after his wife's passing. Greencliffe Drive was lit up all along both sides of the street, but when passing address numbers 706 and 708, next door neighbors, you would find a dark void amongst the cheery splendor of the neighborhood. The black mark on the street that year certainly dampened the moods of the neighbors.
One night, the neighbor across the street at 707 heard a beautiful and sad rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen from the man who lived at 708. 63 year old Loretta Macallister had been finishing up walking her two dogs on a particularly chilly night, and stopped in front of her house to listen to the music from across the street. She knew the man was a musician, in fact, she had known the man himself very well at one time. He had grown up on the street, but at that point it had been years since he even greeted her. All she ever heard from him now was the sounds of whatever instrument he decided to play on any given evening. It was astounding that he could be heard on the other side of the street, as his windows were closed and the gossamer curtains were shut. She could see his silhouette through the yellow light cast onto the curtains, the bow moving elegantly along the viola strings as he played his sorrowful tune.
She became entranced by the song, and stood on her front steps frozen in place as she gazed at his window. Beyond his house, beyond the trees, she swore she could hear singing. It started with one, solitary voice and then was joined in by more and more until she swore that an entire ghostly choir was moaning in the wind along with the viola. She thought she was losing her mind until her dogs started barking at the direction of the sound, howling up towards the sky.
Loretta scurried into her house as the sounds began to overstimulate her senses, and clearly her dogs' senses as well. She slipped off her boots and  unhooked the leashes from the dogs' collars as they went bounding off into the Macallister's large house. With her brows furrowed but eyes still slightly wide, she slowly walked into the living room, where she found her husband, Henry, sitting in his recliner and watching a special about crab fishing along the Atlantic coast.
"Did you just hear all that ruckus outside?" she asked him with her voice steady.
Henry reached for the remote sitting on his arm rest and turned the volume down on the television. "What did you say, Loretta?" he replied as he hoisted his body around in his chair to face his wife better.
"All those voices," she said. "You didn't hear all of those loud voices?"
"Nope," he strained a drawl while he stretched himself to sit more comfortably in his chair, beginning to dismiss his wife's question. "Just yer damn loud voice." Henry reached for the remote and turned the television back up. Loretta scoffed at her half balding husband and started to walk off towards the kitchen.
"If yer hearin' voices, maybe it's time to get you in with some medication, eh Loretta?"
"Shut your trap," she snapped at him. "I wasn't imagining anything. You really didn't hear the dogs howling just before I walked in the door?"
"The dogs were howlin'? What the hell were they howlin' at?"
"You didn't hear them?"
"No, Loretta, dammit I didn't hear 'em."
"Well maybe it's time to get you some hearing aids."
Henry chortled. "I don't need no damn hearing aid; I can hear a mouse shit from down the street." He let out a long, melodic burp, courtesy of the Miller High Life he had been enjoying during his crab fishing program. "And I didn't hear no damn voices, and no damn howlin'!"
Loretta let out an exasperated sigh. "Whatever you say, dear. I heard it clear as daylight." She took a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the refrigerator, stole a wine glass from their upper cabinet and helped herself to a holiday pour.
"Well, the poor bastard Berkowitz died in his house 'cross the street not a month ago. Maybe yous was hearin' his spirit's moaning in the house," Henry suggested, now feeling bad for aggravating his wife.
"Didn't sound like it was coming from his house," she added before taking a nice gulp of wine.
"Well where the hell did it sound like it was comin' from, Loretta?" Henry turned around in his recliner again as his wife made her way back out into the living room with her beverage.
"It sounded like..." she paused and licked her lips. Henry gave her an impatient look. "It sounded like it was coming from beyond the house."
Henry's face dropped. "Shit," he mumbled. Loretta nodded.
Having lived along Greencliffe for decades, the Macallisters had witnessed and lived through some eerie and curious events, that all seemed to center very closely to the lake that lay just beneath the neighborhood. When the Porridge was hungry, its stomach would rumble loudly. The lake had been fed years ago, and the Macallisters had been around enough to know that something dreadful would soon strike Lincoln Falls.
Across the street, the Berkowitz children continued to take their time cleaning and refurbishing their father's stately home. After many months of nostalgia, sweat and tears, 706 N Greencliffe Drive went up for sale.
And by the end of August, the house had been sold.