Almost Left Unwritten

The Neighbors - flash fiction

It had been four months. Four months since Callie moved into her new house. It's beautiful: small, painted grey with white shutters. Not much of a yard, but Callie doesn't mind. For the price of the rent, only lacking a backyard is nothing to complain about in Callie's eyes.

One thing to complain about, though, is her neighbors. The older couple had apparently lived in the neighborhood for longer than Callie had been alive, and seemed to always be watching her. Every time she moved around her house, cooking dinner, vacuuming, cleaning laundry, even when she went to get the mail in the morning, she could feel their eyes on her, sending chills up her spine.

She'd only spoken to them once, they showed up on her first night in the house to welcome her to the neighborhood. They wore glued on smiles and matching beige sweater vests, their talk small.

"We're glad to have you here," Bertha, the wife, spoke. "Most folks don't stick 'round this neighborhood very long."

"Why's that?" Callie asked.

Bernie, the husband, shrugged, offering nothing more of explanation. They left soon after that, Bertha claiming she had a game of bridge to catch with her "girlfriends."

Callie never saw the pair outside after that. Never getting in their beige cadillac to head to the store, nor to get mail, not even to sit outside on the swinging chair on their porch and watch the cars go by. But she always felt their eyes on her. Staring. Waiting. Watching.

Sometimes Callie would catch sight of them in their house through the curtains. Their movements were stiff, jagged. If they saw her as well, they'd stare her in the eyes until she shrank away into another room.

Over time, Callie grew more and more paranoid, constantly looking over her shoulder to catch one of them in the act of stalking her. Well, it may not be stalking. Callie didn't want to believe the couple were actually creeps. Maybe she was imagining it, and they had nothing to do with her unease.

But she couldn't shake the feeling they were hiding something. Her paranoia started leaking into her classwork, her grades and productivity at her part-time job decreasing substantially. She had to know. She had to know what was in their house.

The house was the key. They never left it. Or at least Callie never saw them leave it. Maybe they only traveled at night, on purpose, so no one could see what they were doing.

Callie had found herself picking their back door's lock that night.

Sure enough, when she stayed up late that night, Bertha and Bernie's car left the garage around two A.M, giving her a perfect opportunity to hop their fence and sneak up to the back door.

She'd bought a lock-picking kit instead of a class textbook she needed for the next day. Her classes didn't matter anymore. This was more important. This was it.

The house was dark, the pale moonlight streaming through the window above the kitchen sink Callie's only light to navigate the house. In the living room, though, she pulled out her cell phone, turning its flashlight on.

The furniture was just as you'd imagine. Boring paintings on the walls, a small, outdated TV on a simple stand, a long couch decorated in a faded floral pattern. There was a rocking chair, and a reclining chair, and Callie began to notice all the furniture was covered in thick plastic.

The LED flashlight bounced around the furnishings, landing on a book stand against a wall to Callie's right. Framed pictures of probable children, maybe even grandchildren. A few trophies. A landline phone. All covered in plastic wrap.

Plastic lined the walls, as well as the floor. Questions circled Callie's mind. She knew older people tended to cover their furniture to preserve it, but this was excessive. Something was wrong, and Callie would-

A scream. Muffled and terrified, from behind Callie in the kitchen. She turned, her body growing tense. She'd seen a door in the kitchen she assumed led to the basement. The scream definitely originated there. What was down there?

Callie took a step towards the kitchen, gasping as someone grabbed her from behind. They wrapped their hand over her mouth, muffling her scream. Her worn sneakers slid on the plastic floor as she kicked, struggled, against her attacker. They pressed a cold kitchen knife against her throat, clicking their tongue, scolding Callie.

"So, so, curious, you new tenants," Bertha spoke into Callie's ear as she struggled, eyes bulging wide. "This is why folks don't tend to stay in this neighborhood long."

Callie screamed again as the blade dug into her throat, a clean cut carving deep across her neck. Her screams cut off abruptly, blood pooling in her lungs and throat, causing her to cough up bubbles of blood.

She was dropped to the plastic-covered wooden floor, her eyes glazing over as she watched Bertha walk by, clad in full plastic over her boring, beige, sweater vest. Bertha placed the knife in the sink, then pulled open the fridge. The last thing Callie saw was a severed head in a large tupperware on the first shelf, staring into the void with a look of pure terror.