Flights of Fancy

The Neighbor

I'm not a particularly paranoid person, but you can't be too careful in today's world. Granted, I have probably seen every suspense and horror movie ever made and do, from time to time, suffer from an overactive and slightly morbid imagination. This, however, played no more than an ancillary role in my initial reaction upon meeting my new neighbor. I inhaled a popcorn kernel and nearly choked to death. But I am getting ahead of myself, another bad habit which has haunted me and will undoubtedly continue to do so.

My name is Dante Tiresius Delacour. It can be no great wonder, with a moniker so laden with literary and classical baggage, that I deal in rare and antique books. I acquire them for various clients at a healthy profit and enjoy the added bonus of owning them, albeit for only short periods of time. But they are mine for those brief interludes between seller and buyer and I often delay transfer of the tomes until I have had the pleasure to study them in private. These interludes of my commerce provide me a level of contentment that nourishes my soul.

While I may sound rather dry and dusty, I am not without a certain joi de vivre and enjoy the company of charming women, the excitement of sports and gambling, good liquor, stalwart friends, and as I noted earlier, movies that frighten and thrill.

The evening I first met my new neighbor, I was not in my literary mode, rather I was on my way to a dinner event hosted by friends who felt inclined, as so many married friends do, to draw me from the ranks of bachelorhood to the more wholesome fellowship of the betrothed and mated. I was to meet a female acquaintance of theirs, whom, I was told, was the perfect girl for me. She was leaving tomorrow, and, I was told again, I would be a fool to miss this opportunity for happiness.

Though unaware that I was not happy, I relented and agreed to attend. A further warning was issued to the effect that if I failed to show up I might well regret it for the rest of my life. This warning was considered sufficiently dire to assure my attendance and further strong-arming ceased. Finally, I was simply told that the ball was in my court. It was as I was leaving my townhouse, carrying the metaphorical ball and eating some freshly popped salted popcorn, that I heard a commotion coming from the front door of the adjoining home, unoccupied since the rather noisy Mediterranean couple moved out last month.

A tall figure was fumbling with the front door, trying to insert his key in the appropriate orifice and hindered by the lack of light. He cursed softly in a husky voice. I couldn't help but smile and felt immediately guilty for my schadenfreude. I decided to assist my new neighbor in his quest and approached.

" Try turning on the porch-light...it's over there to your right." I suggested.

"Thanks," the figure responded, simultaneously flicking on the light and turning to face me.

It was at this inopportune moment that I chose to launch another handful of popcorn into my gaping yaw. When the light came on, I found myself confronted, eye to eye, with a face that could well stop the heart of a older man. One third of a face actually, with a single piercing eye. The remainder of his visage was covered in an ivory-colored mask, featureless, and lacking both eye and mouth openings. It extended from just above his left eyebrow, arching around his skull and down along the right side of his nose in a crescent, ending halfway across his mouth and wrapping under his chin all the way to his throat.