The Neighbour's House

House

I threw off the covers and darted to the window, where I yanked back the curtains and stared, squinting, at the house next door.
Yeah. That's where it's coming from.
Who's screaming? What's going on? Should I call someone? My tired mind was racing. As the screams faded, I remembered. This happens every day. There was a logical explanation, once I thought about it long enough. It's just the neighbour's dog. That huge Doberman trips his tired owner first thing in the morning, and he cries out as he falls down the stairs. The screams are always so loud, though. Can you normally hear a sound from another house?
I shook my head to clear the thoughts. Come on, Jasmine. Now you're just going crazy. Just forget it.
The alarm clock greeted me as I crawled back under the covers. I groaned, striking the off button with as much hatred as I could muster. I stumbled over to the closet, carefully selecting the clothes I had chosen for today. My favourite red-and-white striped v-neck called out to me, so I chose some black jeans and converse to go with.
I heard a low moan from the house again, and instinctively, I leaned back to look out the window again.
The house was as normal and innocent as ever, its polished white siding and crimson shutters making it stand out pleasantly from the brick homes that take up most of our block. When the lights are on, sometimes the insides of the rooms can be seen. They are well-decorated, with warm tan walls and beautiful wooden furniture. Truly, the house is amazing. Even the backyard, which I've only seen in glimpses through the shoddy fence, is the most perfect and beautiful place for such a large dog to run around in.
It's only the one room that I can see from my second-story bedroom that gives the lovely abode its one blemish. The window of that room has no shutters. There is no visible furniture, and the walls are a bright white. The only thing I can see from my room is one bare light bulb swinging from the ceiling. I've always wondered what that room was used for.
The house was every bit as normal as I anticipated, so I continued to prepare for the day. I cranked up the hot water for my shower, swirling my feet around in the tub as the water warmed. I barely used any cold water at all in my November showers. As I got into the shower, I turned the radio to my favourite pop station, and jammed until I lost track of time.
Hurriedly, I dried my long, dirty blond hair with my favourite teal towel and threw my clothes on. I glanced in the mirror. Eesh. I forgot how much this shirt made my freckles stand out. It was too late to change, though, and I finished drying and straightening my hair before running downstairs to breakfast. I hated being behind schedule.
Taking my place at the table, I heard my dad snicker “Somebody's running late.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I said, as my mom handed me some eggs.
“Jaz, what's the matter? Now you don't have as much time to enjoy my once-in-a-lifetime, specially prepared home-cooked breakfast!” she said, with sarcastic undertones to her voice.
“Aw, honey,” my dad said. “You didn't have to do this for me!”
“Did too! It's your vacation, and I want to make it special.” My mother had a slight pout on her face.
My dad chuckled and slid me the newspaper. “Alright, alright. Thank you. Now, Jasmine, what do you think of the headlines today?” He tapped the paper with a finger.
I groaned. My dad had this thing about always making me read the news headlines before heading to school. He says it should help be keep up with the times and stay informed, but I just see it as a pain.
I skimmed the first article. “Ooh, Ebola in New York. Shocking. Looks like everyone here in Nowhere, Virginia is gonna die.”
“Charleston is not nowhere!” my dad interjected, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Might as well be,” I replied, finishing my mother's well-intentioned but terribly burnt breakfast and placing the dishes in the sink. I grabbed my backpack and keys from the hallway, and cast one last look back at the kitchen. “See you,” I added, almost out of obligation, and walked out the door.
As I got in my black pickup, I cast another glance at the neighbour's house. I couldn't erase those screams from my head, or how they were woven into last night's weird dream.
While I stared into space, I heard a door open. Two people walked out of the neighbour's crimson door. They walked, in step, out and onto their driveway. The neighbours, a middle-aged married couple, stopped and stared at me. I jolted, then waved, to be polite. Almost perfectly in sync, they gently waved back. I flinched a little. I had forgotten just how close those two were—It was almost as if they were the same person.
I leaned back in the grey leather seat, ready to turn on the radio, when an image flashed across my mind, like a vision in the night. A face, a familiar face with messy brown hair and black eyes like onyx and piercings in his lip, eyebrow, and ears. I held his hand in mine, and he looked afraid. He pulled away, and I thought I saw faint shadows of pale scars on his wrist. I called after him, I called his name...
I blinked and the vision was lost. My hand was on the dial of the radio, and my favourite song was blaring through the car's speakers.
I drove away, and I forgot.