The house next door to us had been on sale as far back as I can remember. It was a creaky old thing, no matter how many times the real estate agents tried to play it up, an old house with peeling paint and a dead garden. The For Sale sign was old and weathered, and every Monday morning the realtor had to paint the sign again to make it look fresh and brand new.
For years I had scoffed at the idea of someone moving in next door, but one morning the For Sale one was replaced with Sold in red. I stared at it for a few minutes, and then I heard the beeping of a truck. I turned to find a line of men carrying in furniture to and from the house, marching up and down like an orderly line of ants. By 5pm they finished, got into the truck and left.
There was no sign of my new neighbours.
By the evening the house still looked dark and abandoned. All the lights were turned off; the blinds were closed. I mentioned my new neighbours to my family and they suggested I introduce myself. So I went over with a plate of cookies my mum had baked for us for dessert.
I knocked.
No one answered.
I knew there was someone inside though by the creaking of floorboards and somebody breathing. There was also a strange sound like the scraping of paws against wood. Perhaps they had a dog or something. That would be nice. My mum wouldn’t let me have pets.
I waited for an hour, but figured they were early sleepers so I went home.
When I got home from school the next day, they were on the porch. They had tried their best to make it look pretty—the wood had been replaced and the floor and walls were slick with new paint. There was a teenage boy around my age leaning against the wall and an older man in his late fifties sitting on a rocking chair. The man flashed me a toothless grin as I approached. He was quickly balding, and his remaining hair was wispy like smoke.
“Hi!” I said to the boy.
He looked up and my first thought was that the goth kids in school would’ve welcomed him with open arms. He was skinny, with a droopy, pale face and black circles under his eyes. He was wearing a plain hoodie as black as the night sky and he stared back at me dead-eyed with his hands deep inside his pockets.
“My name’s Pete!” I said, trying to ignore the shivers crawling down my spine. “I live next door.”
“Parker,” he said. More like whispered, actually. His voice sounded so fragile, like it could be blown away by the wind any moment.
“Would you like to come over?” I asked brightly. “Play some games?”
The boy—Parker—nodded mutely. As he followed me back to my house, I heard once again the creaking of that rocking-chair and I turned to see the man grinning back at me again. His eyes rolled back into his sockets.
Another shiver crawled up my spine. The kid seemed alright I guessed—but his guardian gave me the creeps.
Parker was impressed by my house. His face lit up like a kid in a candy store as his bony fingers danced on the buttons. He fired off question after question about the microwave, the refrigerator, the toaster…
“Your family is very lucky,” he concluded dreamily.
At that exact moment, my older sister Abby came down the stairs. She just celebrated her eighteenth birthday, and she made sure everyone knew it. Right now she was dolled up in makeup and looking pretty for another disappearance at the mall.
Parker grinned at her, his face lighting up even more. He skipped over her and grabbed her wrist. “I’m Parker!” He said brightly. “I—”
Abby shoved him off, disgusted, making a break for the door. Parker watched her leave with a goofy shark smile on his face.
For some reason I never understood, she forgave him afterwards, especially when he came back more and more often. Parker really enjoyed coming over and hanging out here, watching movies with me and playing video games. Still I noticed, the door to her room was always kept tightly shut.
Summer turned into fall, and even though school had started, Parker still came to my house every afternoon, or morning on the weekends without fail.
But one Saturday Parker didn’t show up at my house, so I went over next door to look for him. The sun hung low behind the trees even though it was midday, and everything was bathed in red and gold.
His house was a dim shadow against the riot of colour, exactly the same as it was the other time. The old man was still there in that rocking-chair. This time he slumped all the way down, his breath coming out in short gasps. What was left of his hair had vanished and his creased hands were shivering.
“Hey mister,” I said politely. “Has Parker been around?”
His eyes shifted around me, as if wondering whether I was there. He muttered something incomprehensible, dribble sliding down his chin.
It sounded something like: “Yawa yats.:.”
Then his hand suddenly shot around my neck. Tightened.
Stars appeared before my eyes. Everything was going black.
The next thing I heard was a yell; and when I next opened my eyes Parker was wrestling him away from me. He did not resist; an air of resignation crossed his face and he sank back in his chair.
“Are you okay?” asked Parker, helping me up.
“Yeah.”
In my peripheral vision I saw my sister standing on the sidewalk, a goofy grin on her face like she found the whole scene funny.
“Forgive my old pops,” Parker said flatly. “He’s a bit…eccentric.”
“Let’s play Mario Kart.”
He grabbed my hand before I could say anything, dragging me back to my house. I glanced back at the old man, whose head jerked forward once again. He flashed me another toothless grin, but his eyes glared.
A warning.
But I never got to find out what that warning was, because news came the next evening he was dead. Parker said nothing; his face was stone as he dragged the shriveled corpse out of his house. He dug a quick grave and dumped him inside, covered it up and went back into his house.
I went over the moment his door closed to pay my respects even though I never really knew him. It was a quiet evening; the wind whistled through the trees but that was it. I knelt at his grave and even then I could still hear his throaty whisper:
“Yawa yats…”
It followed me into my dreams, where I saw in my mind’s eye his wrinkly old hand pushing out of the grave, followed by the rest of him, and he sat there for a few minutes with his toothless grin and glowing red eyes.
And the throaty whisper echoing round and round my head:
“Yawa yats…”
I sat up in bed in a cold sweat and glanced at the clock. 3AM.
I also heard movement downstairs.
It was my mum and sister sitting motionlessly around the dining table, the pale fluorescent light beating down on their faces. My heart stopped when I noticed they each had a knife in their hands.
“For Parker…”
The blades flashed in the light for a split second, then it swiftly came down onto their stomachs, splitting it open. Blood gushed out and spilled onto the floor.
Part of me wanted to rush forward and ask what the hell was wrong with them, but I was paralyzed. My hands were clammy.
At that moment, as if sensing I was watching, they creaked their heads around. Their eyes were glowing red.
I couldn’t watch. I bolted upstairs and slammed the door.
Both women denied what happened that night, but I knew they were lying by the strange stitches on their bellies. Furthermore, they seemed a lot more…distracted. Like they were going through the motions of the day, not really aware of what was happening. I heard Parker’s name spilling out of their lips, and for the rest of the week they kept on glancing over at his house next door.
I didn’t know why. After the old man died, Parker never showed up at my house any more. The house remained silent and still, abandoned like before.
I still remembered that big night. The exact time, burned into my memory, the clock ticking away into my brain.
Eight o’clock on a Friday evening. Five days after the old man had passed.
We were having dinner. Roast chicken with apple purée. It sounded delicious on paper, but no one felt like eating. We pushed the food around the plates.
Suddenly my mom and sister stood up.
“We have to go.”
Their voices were completely flat and in complete unison; their faces were vacant. Their eyes flicked somewhere to my left.
“Where?”
“To see Parker.”
They stood up and moved to the front door, jerkily, as if controlled by invisible strings. It flew open on its own and they walked together to his house next door.
Eight’o’three on the clock.
I wanted to follow them, to scream for them, because something didn’t feel right, but I was pinned down to my seat, my jaw slack. The only sign of life was the ticking of that clock.
Tick. Tick Tick.
It was exactly an hour later that I unfroze. My dad continued on eating like nothing had happened, but there was that same vacant look in his eyes, the same jerky, robotic movement of his limbs. Despite my mind screaming at me to do the same I forced myself over to Parker’s.
The first thing I noticed was that the normally-locked door was open. Cockroaches were scrambling out—quickly—as if terrified of the horrors within.
I knew it was a bad idea, but I went in anyway, calling for Abby and mom.
I had never been into Parker’s house before. He had never invited me inside and the door was always locked and the curtains were always drawn. However, I was not expecting it to look like a hospital with all the lights off. Beds lined the halls, a sliver of moon shining down on every occupant.
A woman. Every woman on the street.
They looked peaceful. Elegant. It was like they had died in their sleep, but their chests heaved up and down. Their stomachs had the same patchwork stitches I had seen on my family that night. Remembering that gave me the chills.
The further I went down the hall, the older they looked. I swear no one besides that old man was above sixty in my neighbourhood, but these women looked like they were old enough to be at death’s door. Pale, sweating, mumbling like they were having a nightmare—a gash slicing their throats. They were also sweating buckets.
I couldn’t help it. I sprinted further down that hall, past more beds and more older women…until…until I saw them.
Mom.
Abby.
A figure was bending over the latter, almost blending into the darkness. I could hear excited slurping sounds, like he was enjoying a soda or milkshake. As I watched, Abby’s hands were shaking, then shrivelled up like prunes. His skin glowed radiantly in the moonlight.
I was frozen in place again, yet I was shaking. The figure casually looked up. His face was stained crimson.
Parker.
“Game’s up, mate,” he said, as casually and cheerfully as congratulating me for beating him again in Mario Kart. He nodded at my family on their deathbeds.
“Your family tastes good!”
I wanted to retort, but the words were stuck in my throat.
“Looks like I once again have to move town. Do you want to come with me?”
His eyes flashed red as he said that, and I didn’t want to do it, I wanted to run, run far away from this place as possible and tell my dad, tell the police, tell somebody, but my head jerked up and down as if it had a life of its own.
“Yes,” I said robotically. Tears welled up in my eyes.
“That’s the spirit!” Parker exclaimed. He cocked his head, indicating another moving truck trundling down the street. “Help me load up these girls and let’s get cracking!”
Then I felt myself move over to my sister, and my brain wasn’t in control of my body—not any more. I grabbed her and tossed her into a crate nearby—and she did not even moan.
I’m glad he doesn’t know I have Reddit.
We have been on the road for several days now. After the first day Parker had persuaded someone to drive us across the state. His eyes are now permanently on the road. He hasn’t looked back to check on us at all.
Parker is lying down beside me, his eyes closed. He is smiling, content with his latest meal. A ring of dried blood crusted his mouth.
It has been two days since he finished his last girl. I’ve seen the whole process now, how he drains every last drop from her, how her body turns gray and withers away. The van is rancid with death.
I have been very careful not to let him know I have been writing this. But I fear I don’t have much time.
Because every hour I sit near him, my hands have been wrinkling up.