Ray Garton - The New Neighbor

"I have a vibrator, George. I'd like you to fuck me in the ass while I stick the vibrator in my cunt." She sounded as if she were telling him what color she'd like to repaint her house. "Won't that feel good, George?"

His mouth moved, but he didn't speak.

"You think about it, George. But I don't like to be kept waiting. I'll leave the candle in the window. When it burns out, you've missed your chance. It's a short candle, George."

She hung up.

George paced the kitchen, poured some more rum, and finished it off. It burned in his belly and spread over him like a hot flash as he rubbed his temples, thinking… thinking…

George turned and Monroe hissed at him from the kitchen doorway. When he stepped forward, growling an obscenity as he pulled his leg back to kick the cat, anticipating the pleasure of his foot's impact with the animal's small head, Monroe spun around and disappeared.

Taking one more quick drink, he went to the hall closet to find his jacket.

Too many souls to eat… too many souls to eat… too many souls -

– Robby was ripped from his sleep for the third time that night, his sheets soggy with perspiration. It was a few minutes after four in the morning.

He'd sneaked a Thermos of vodka into his room earlier that evening, hoping to drink himself numb, but it hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped.

The man was a lunatic, that was all. Had to be. He wasn't talking about Lorelle, he was just… babbling . But that didn't make him – or his words – any less disturbing. The whole encounter had been so surreal, so much like something out of a bad horror movie, that Robby couldn't bring himself to tell anyone about it, although he knew he probably should. But who? Dad was in no mood to listen to him, and Mom had looked even worse that evening when she got back from Lorelle's. When Robby asked her if she felt all right, she'd dismissed it as the flu and said she'd take some aspirin and go to bed early.

Robby had gone to bed early, too, hoping to drink himself to sleep. But he kept waking suddenly, covered with sweat, from one nightmare after another. He'd opened the window earlier, hoping to cool himself off, but it hadn't worked because now the top sheet clung to him like a second skin and his chest heaved as he stared wide-eyed into the darkness of his bedroom. Groaning, he reached over and flicked on his lamp and -

– Lorelle leaned over him and whispered, "Hello, Robby."

"Jesus Chrrr – where did you – how did you get in – “

She placed her fingertips over his mouth and hissed, "Ssshhh," as she slid one knee onto the bed. She was naked and her breasts swayed above him as she ran her hand over his sweaty chest. Leaning forward, she licked his belly and chest, murmuring, "Mmmm, I love sssweat .” She took his cock into her mouth and silenced all of Robby's questions.

It made no sense. She couldn't just walk into their locked house at four in the morning, not without someone hearing her… unless -

– I'm dreaming , Robby thought, that's all… dreaming …

He forgot about the man with the cane and the strange things he'd said. In a few minutes, he even forgot that Lorelle shouldn't be there. He knew he wasn't dreaming because dreams just weren't this vivid, didn't feel this good . He lost himself in what she was doing.

Robby came three times. He even cried out once or twice, certain someone had heard him, but no one came to his door. The fourth time, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and didn't wake until just before noon.

The Flu

It was the cold and flu season, as the television commercials continued to remind their sniffling viewers, so it was not odd that the flu was going around on Deerfield. But this year it seemed to be hitting everyone at once, and this particular flu was a more frustrating strain than usual. It was not accompanied by typical flu symptoms. It came, instead, as a simple but overwhelming feeling of fatigue. Jen was the only one in the house with any energy. Robby and George spent most of Sunday dozing in chairs, on the sofa, or in bed, while Karen, like most mothers with sick families, tried to go about her normal activities, but with little success. They moved around the house sluggishly, with long pale faces, looking exhausted and annoyed.

George came to life only once all day, when Monroe, curled up on the sofa, hissed at him, then tried to dart out of the room. He kicked the cat against the wall and growled a few curses, sending Monroe screeching into the kitchen, where Karen, angered by George's treatment of her pet, shattered her coffee mug in the sink, splashing coffee on the wall and counter.

Robby was not so far under the weather that he could not feel the tension in the house and, by mid-afternoon, decided to get out, no matter how bad he felt. He called Dylan to see if he wanted to go for a walk, or something. Anything.

"Sorry, Robby," Mrs. Garry said, "But Dylan's in bed." Her voice was tight, as if it were holding back anger. "I think he caught your flu. He doesn't have a fever and he's not really sick, but he's very pale and shaky and can't seem to get out of his tracks."

"Oh?" Robby said. "Yeah, we've got it here, too. Guess it's going around."

"I guess so. I'll tell him you called." She hung up without saying goodbye.

Not interested in going out alone, Robby stretched out on the sofa and fell asleep watching television.

Karen, too began to feel a bit claustrophobic, and trudged down the street through the rain to visit Lynda, but things were not much better in the Crane household. The twins were in the living room watching television, but they stared at the screen with cold, angry faces and didn't look up when Karen came in. The atmosphere in the house was thick with tension. Lynda was chain-smoking as she sorted through a stack of old magazines in the dining room.

"I kept all of these for one reason or another," she said, puffing smoke, "but now I can't remember why."

"Where's Al?"

"In bed. He's… not feeling well." Bitterness shaded her voice when she spoke of Al. "Neither are the twins. I think they've all got a flu bug, or something. And I'm… well, I'm just… not in a good mood."

"What's wrong?"

She shook her head and, for a moment, seemed near tears. "Al and I've been fighting. I think."

"What? Why didn't you call me? What's going on? What do you mean, you think you're fighting?"

“I don't know. Things were fine until Friday night and… then he just seemed to be somewhere else. He wouldn't talk to me, he was grumpy. I woke up late that night and he wasn't in bed. I found him sleeping in the spare room. When I got up yesterday morning, he was in the front yard talking to that woman who moved into the Huitt place. She was out walking her dogs. He seemed friendly enough, talking and laughing, so I figured whatever was bothering him was gone. Then he came inside and it was… more of the same. He wouldn't speak to me.

“Well, you know we've never been that way, we always talk if something's wrong, so I sat him down and suggested we do something that day, just the two of us. I figured I'd leave the twins with you and we'd go out to the flea market like we used to, or have a lunch together and I'd talk to him, find out what was wrong. He wasn't feeling well – I mean, he looked bad, too – but he went along with it, sort of like he really didn't want to, but just to shut me up, you know? And about that time, the twins saw that woman walking back down the road, and they were fascinated by her dogs and Al took them out to introduce them. I went out and met her, too, and she seemed nice enough. When Al told her we were going out, she suggested we leave the kids with her, so they could play with the dogs, and Al said sure, fine, and the kids were crazy about the idea.