The New Neighbor (26 page)

" ... fucking splinters ... like picking hairs from a goddamned caterpillar ... shit-eating reporters with their fucking vans and fucking microphones ... goddamned
window
, what the fuck happened to the goddamned
window
... "
 

 
– and grew steadily angrier, moving faster, as if he were pressed for time. He was, in a way; George knew that if he did not finish the tedious plucking soon, he was going to put his hand through the medicine cabinet mirror, just slam his fist through the glass,
that
ought to take care of the fucking splinters,
that
ought to cut the little fuckers out, by god, then he wouldn't have to –
 

"Want me to do that for you?"
 

The voice was so soft, it almost failed to penetrate George's intense concentration, and it was only when he realized he was no longer alone in the room that he knew he'd actually heard it, but he still wasn't sure what the voice had said, so he looked up, frowning.
 

Jen stood in the doorway smirking, wearing a tight blue crop-top and panties, her eyes half-closed, blonde hair a medusa-like tangle around her face.
 

"
What
?" George barked. "Oh, uh, yeah, I've just, um ... got some ... splinters, is all."
 

"Want me to do that for you?" she said again. She wasn't staring at his hand.
 

Suddenly, George became aware of his nakedness again,
crushingly
aware of it, and he dropped the tweezers into the sink to reach for a towel, but Jen stepped in front of him and took his hand.
 

"I promise I won't hurt you." Her eyes darted between his face and his cock, lingering below his waist a bit longer each time.
 

George said, "Just go on, okay? I'll do it, just go –"
 

She reached out casually and wrapped her fingers around his erection, "It's a lot bigger and harder than Robby's."
 

George blanched and slapped her hand away, stepped back abruptly and blurted, "
Robby's?
You've – you mean you've – Robby's been – what have you –" His fingers curled into hooks and his jaw worked, clacking this teeth together, "Oh, yeah," he hissed, thinking,
There's a sickness in this house all right, but it ain't the fuckin'
fluuu! "Get out!" he roared. "Go on, get out, I'll deal with you later. And Robby, too. Where's Robby?
Where the hell is Robby
?"
 

She stumbled backward, her eyes opening to their full size and a little beyond. "He's ... in his ruh-room."
 

"Well you tell him to
stay
there because I'm gonna be
coming
for him in just a few minutes, you understand? Now
get your ass out of here!"
 

Jen backed out of the bathroom and pulled the door closed.
 

“Son of a
bitch
!" George rasped, pacing the bathroom. "I've got a seventeen-year-old son who's – my
god
, what's happening? What the fuck is –"
 

He stopped. Stood in front of the mirror, his chest heaving. Stared at himself for a moment.
 

He was pale, thinner than usual, and the creases in his forehead seemed to be deeper than ever before.
 

And his cock was pounding ...
 

... tingling ...

... echoing the touch of Jen's cool hand ...
 

"Sshhhit," he groaned, sitting on the toilet, his right hand stinging.
 

The tingling. It wouldn't go away.
 

He touched his cock, rubbed it as if he could wipe the feeling away, but he only leaned his head back, closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing it again. And again. And
again
, squeezing out its thick fluid and slicking it over the shaft as he thought about Jen’s hand ... her smooth, cool hand ...
 

"God," he whispered, and it sounded a little like a sob, a dry, sickened, miserable sob. "My ...
god
."
 

When he came, George moaned behind closed lips and collapsed against the side of the sink, pressing his cheek to the cold surface of the counter and drawing long, deep breaths.
 

* * * *

Robby sat on his bed in his robe, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clenched together. The local news station, KQMS, was playing on the radio and Robby rocked back and forth, tapping a knuckle to his pursed lips as he waited anxiously for the story. He'd heard a teaser earlier, but nothing more.
 

It would come soon enough, he was sure.
 

Pastor Quillerman had told him to leave Prosky's car parked at the curb outside –"It won't be the first abandoned car on this street," he'd said – then he'd driven Robby home and told him to get some sleep. But that had been impossible, so he'd just gone to bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn. He had not even wanted to come home.
 

"You should be there, Robby," the pastor had said. "You should all be together now, you need one another."
 

Robby had been surprised by Pastor Quillerman's reaction to his story, by his immediate acceptance of it as truth.
 

After collapsing in Quillerman's doorway, Robby awoke several minutes later on the sofa with Quillerman kneeling beside him, waiting with a cup of hot tea and an encouraging smile.
 

"I think you're going to be okay, Robby," the pastor said. "But you look like you've been through one very unpleasant experience. Want to talk about it?"
 

Robby sat bolt upright, swung his legs off the side of the sofa and leaned toward Quillerman.
 

"Pastor, you've gotta help me, you've gotta help my family, all of them, my whole
neighborhood
, th-they're ... something's
wrong
with them."
 

Quillerman frowned, handed Robby a tea and sat on the sofa beside him. "Exactly what is wrong with them?"
 

Robby didn't know how to tell him. "I don't know, they're all so ...
angry
. Everyone is fighting or yelling all the time or not talking at all and ... and ... " Robby closed his eyes a moment, embarrassed. "There's a lot of, um, sex going on in my neighborhood these days."
 

"Do you know what's
causing
all this?"
 

Robby nodded. "The new neighbor."
 

Quillerman released a long, heavy sigh as he looked down at his maimed hand. "Tell me, Robby. Everything."
 

So Robby had done exactly that, although he choked on the word "succubus," certain the pastor would think he was on drugs. But Quillerman nodded slowly and listened. When Robby was finished, Quillerman was silent for a long time. Then he looked Robby in the eye and said, "You were right to come to me. You should have come sooner. You're sure your friend is dead?"
 

Robby nodded.
 

"Pity. Sounds like he's been on quite a crusade."
 

"You mean ... well, you ... you
believe
me?"
 

He stared at Robby thoughtfully a while, then held up his injured hand and said, "This –" and pointed to his glass eye, " – this –" and to the scar on his forehead, " – and this –" to his leg, " – and this ... I got them all when I was just a little boy. I was ... running from my parents, both of whom wanted to kill me." His voice trembled when he said it. Robby had never heard that voice falter before. "We had a new neighbor then, too, Robby. Right next door. So, yes. I believe you. I know exactly what you're talking about, I assure you. And I think I know what to do about it."
 

He'd listened to a brief outline of Quillerman's plan, then had followed the pastor's instructions to go home.
 

"In the morning,
talk
to them," Pastor Quillerman had said. “Tell them everything, whether they believe you or not. If you have to, tell them again and again. They may call you crazy, but deep inside, they'll know you're right. I'll get over there as soon as I possibly can.”
 

Robby heard the Cuisinart whir to life in the kitchen.
 

On the radio, a local chiropractor was listing the many benefits of making an appointment with him today.
 

The bedroom door burst open suddenly and Robby nearly fell off the bed as his dad rushed in and slammed the door behind him.
 

"What've you been doing with your sister, Robby?" he asked with quiet menace.
 

"What?"
 

"Your
sister
!" George moved in on him quickly and Robby flinched. "What've you been
doing
with her? Making out with her?
Fucking
her, maybe? Couldn't you go out and find yourself a
real
girlfriend?"
 

Robby stood and backed away from his dad, his face sagging with fear.
 

"Dad, you don't – I haven't – let me explain what's –"
 

"You'd fucking well
better
explain!" George shouted, rushing toward him until their noses were almost touching.
 

The doorbell rang.
 

"Well? I'm waiting, Robby. I'm
serious
, boy, I want to know what's –"
 

It rang again.
 

The Cuisinart did not stop.
 

"Son of a bitch," George hissed. He spun around, opened the door and leaned into the hall. "Karen!
Get
that!"
 

No response.
 

The doorbell rang again.
 

He murmured, "Me. Everything falls on
me
around here.” He turned to Robby and aimed a rigid forefinger at him. "I'll be right back. We are
not
dropping this." He pulled the door closed hard as he left.
 

Robby could hear him stomping down the hall. He waited a few moments, then quietly followed. He peered cautiously around the corner at the end of the hall and watched his dad go to the door.
 

George opened the front door to find the mail carrier smiling at him. He was a short, bearded man with thick glasses and a toothpick dangling from his lips. Behind him stood the reporters and cameramen he'd seen outside his bedroom. They rushed in as if attacking, stabbing their microphones toward George and vomiting questions all at once.
 

"I told you people to stay away from my house!" George barked, waving his arms toward the street. "Now get the hell out of here! I answered enough questions yesterday and I don't –"
 

The blonde woman stepped forward and asked quickly, "Could you explain the writing on your front door, Mr. Pritchard?"
 

"
What
writing on my –" He stopped and stared at the black circle with three odd names written inside. "I don't know what –"
 

"Did you know Ronald Prosky?" another reporter asked.
 

“
Who
?”
 

Robby's breath caught at the mention of the name.
 

As if on cue, the other reporters moved forward.
 

"Is it a religious symbol, Mr. Pritchard?"
 

"What happened to your window, Mr. Pritchard?"
 

"Do you think the murders were cult related?"
 

The mail carrier said, "Um, Mr. Prosky? You haven't been getting your mail for a few days. It's gotten pretty wet."
 

George stared at the stack of soggy mail in the man's hand while the reporters kept asking questions. He raised his arms and shouted, "Hold it, okay? Just
hold
it a second and let me get my mail."
 

The reporters were quiet, but did not move.
 

George frowned at the soaked mail as he took it. "Why'd you keep delivering our mail if it was getting
wet
?" he snapped.
 

The carrier shrugged and spread his arms. "Hey, if you're gonna be gone, or something, it's your responsibility to put a hold on it. Otherwise, you gotta walk to the box and get it, okay?"
 

George pointed to the circle on the door and asked, "Did you do this?"
 

'"
Course
not,
jeez
. Look, I gotta go." Annoyed, he turned and headed for his red, white and blue Jeep idling at the curb.
 

A moment after he left, the reporters began firing questions again. George interrupted them with a shout.
 

"
Okay
! Look, I don't know what this thing is –" He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the door. " – and I don't know who put it there, probably some neighbor kid, okay? I
don't
know who Ronald Whoever is, never
heard
of him, and I
don't
want to answer any more
questions
. I'm sure there are
other
people in the neighborhood who knew the Garrys a lot better than
we
did, so why don't you go bother
them
!"
 

He slammed the door. “Who drew on the door?" he growled, turning around. "Who the hell drew on the front –"
 

"I did." Robby stepped from the hall looking ill.
 

"
You
did? Well, what the hell is it?"
 

Robby looked over his shoulder, all around him, then gestured for George to follow him back to his bedroom. There, Robby told him everything.