The Neighbours from Hell
I’ll never forget the day the Devil bought the house next door.
There I was, sat on the porch, shirt sleeves rolled up, trying to
cool down as I drank some of the homebrew that I had made two months ago.
The summer heat wave had persisted into December. Weathermen used it as
evidence about their claims of Global warming; others put it down to freak
weather conditions. Whatever the cause, it was too hot to sit indoors – too
blasted hot outside, too.
Due to the unusual weather, my poppies had bloomed again. I don’t
think I’ve ever known it happen before, mind, but they were a remarkable sight.
A red wave of colour. Whenever I looked at them, they reminded me of the graves
of those brave soldiers and friends buried in Flanders fields. Here,
I cultivated them in my own little memorial garden.
Even though it hadn’t brewed long enough, the beer tasted good. I
took another swallow, and as I set the glass down, a large, black lorry
trundled up and parked outside my house.
It was so huge that it blocked out the sun and gave partial
respite from the heat, which was a blessed relief. The driver revved the
engine, and black smoke spurted from a funnel on the cab.
The lorry’s windows were blacked out, so I couldn’t see how many
people sat in the cab, but I had the strangest feeling the occupants were
staring at me. The hairs rose on the nape of my neck, and despite the heat, I
shivered. The lorry had no insignia on it that I could see, but it was a giant
beast of a thing. An eighteen-wheeler. The damn wheels were almost as tall as
me.
After a moment, one of the lorry doors opened, and a broad figure
climbed out and dropped to the ground. He held two large suitcases, which he
promptly dropped. Dressed in a long, black coat, the figure spun round and
fixed me with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.
“Good morning,” the man said, bowing slightly.
I was a little nonplussed. No one had ever bowed to me before.
“Yeah, it’s a great morning if you like it hot,” I said, tipping
my glass in his direction.
The man grinned. I swear I’ve never seen teeth so white and
perfect. Actually, everything about him was perfect, from his neat short black
hair to the perfectly manicured fingernails. He had this strong bone structure
that gave him a square jaw, and if I didn’t know better, I would say he was one
of them gay folk, not that I’ve got anything against people of that persuasion,
mind.
But that assumption was blown out of the water as a beautiful
woman climbed out of the cab and put her arm around the man’s waist. She had
long black hair and fingernails painted as red as blood. Her eyes were almost
black, her lips bloodless and thin, and she had the pastiest looking skin;
almost transparent like fine china.
Her red dress emphasised her cleavage. I couldn’t take my eyes of
her bosom, and I felt myself going red with embarrassment when I looked up and
saw her smiling at me.
“You must be our new neighbour,” she said. Her voice sounded like
a songbird.
I coughed to clear my throat and looked at the weather-beaten ‘For
Sale’ sign hammered into next doors lawn. The house had been up for sale for
nearly six years. Since the murder, no one wanted to live there. Folk were
funny like that. It’s not as if the murderer was still around as they caught
the sonofabitch. Last I heard, he died in jail. Committed suicide by all
accounts. It’s only in folks heads that the problem lies. If they didn’t know
about it, they wouldn’t be bothered. But the crime had been so notorious, I
doubt if anyone in the whole country wasn’t aware of it. Those poor kids. Both
of them butchered, their body parts strewn around the living room like dirty
laundry. And the parents. Mike and Lisa. I had only spoken to them a couple of
hours before they were killed. It was a damn shame. Such nice, quiet
neighbours.
Since then, the house has become a shrine to those queer folk that
think serial killers are some sort of heroes. When it goes dark, I always nip
out and remove the tributes they leave. There are all sorts, from messages to
flowers. I know the flowers aren’t for the family, because no one leaves black
roses for dead folk. It’s just not right. Strange thing is, even those people
that worship the house don’t want to live there.
I was wondering whether these folk knew the history of the house,
when the woman said, “It was a shame about the Jones’. Did you know them?”
I nodded.
The woman smiled and leaned forward. She looked almost eager to
hear more, but the man pulled her back.
“That’s enough of that, Darlene. I’m sure mister …”
“Arnold P Butterworth, at your service,” I said, nodding.
“I’m sure Arnold doesn’t want to be reminded of what
happened here.”
I shrugged. It was no skin off my nose. A veteran of two world
wars, I had seen enough atrocity to become almost immune to man’s inhumanity.
“Is this it?” a little boy said as he clambered down from the cab.
The man nodded and placed a hand on the boys shoulder. “Home,
sweet home,” he said.
I don’t know why, but something about the way he said it made me
shudder.
Darlene tussled the boys black hair. “Mr Butterworth, this is our
son, Lance.”
The boy looked about nine or ten years old, but he had a face that
looked much older. His eyes were blue, like his father’s, and he had his
mothers pale skin. He looked at me as if I was something irritating, something
he had trodden in, and although it’s not in my manner, I took an instant
dislike to him, mind.
“And this,” Darlene continued, “is our daughter, Cherry.”
I watched as a young girl about the same age as the boy climbed
down from the cab. Her black hair was tied up in bunches, and she was holding a
headless plastic doll. On closer inspection, I noticed that in fact, the doll’s
head had been melted. I cringed inside.
“Children, say hello to Mr Butterworth,” Darlene said.
The two children stared at me with such intensity that I felt
intimidated. Christ, I was old enough to be their grandpa, and yet they scared
me. I took a sip of beer to wet my throat, and then spat it out. The damn thing
was boiling. It hadn’t even been in direct sunlight as the lorry was shading
me. It was sure peculiar.
Lance kicked at the floor, sending a stone over my fence and into
the poppies. A number of petals fell off and I winced. “Hey, mister, you burn
yourself?” he asked, grinning.
I pursed my lips.
Cherry sniggered.
“Now, now, children,” the father said, “we shouldn’t laugh at
other people’s misfortune.”
Despite usually giving people the benefit of the doubt, I was
taking a dislike to the family from hell. I was quite happy when the house was
empty. Sure, it was rundown and attracted rats, but it had character. The
windows were all smashed, the door hanging from its hinges, but you just got
used to these things. It was growing old gracefully, but now I imagined these
new folk were going to do it up. That’s when it struck me. How on earth were
they going to move into the house in its present state?
“Come along children, your father will get your things. Mr
Butterworth, if you can show them where they’ll be sleeping.” She started
herding them toward my gate.
I stood up so fast, you wouldn’t believe I was nearly ninety.
“Just a God damn—”
“Mr Butterworth, not in front of the children,” Darlene said,
covering her children’s ears. She scowled at me.
“Now then,” the man, whose name I didn’t yet know, said. “I’m sure Arnold didn’t
mean it. I can call you, Arnold, can’t I?”
I nodded, perplexed.
“Surely you don’t expect us to move into the house in that
condition.” He pointed at the ramshackle abode next door.
“Of course not, but you can’t just—”
“I know it’s your house. And sure, you don’t know us from Adam,
but I can assure you we will pay for bed and board.”
“I’m not bothered about the money. You can’t just waltz in here
and expect to move into my house.”
“So you would prefer that my family and I sleep on the street? Or
in a house unfit for human habitation, is that it?” The man glared at me, and I
took a step back.
“No, of course not, but—”
“Well, there we have it then. Darlene, take the children inside.”
Darlene opened my gate, and I just stood there, open-mouthed,
unable to believe what was happening. I wanted to reach out and bar the way,
but the children glared at me, and the mother smiled a vitriolic smile. It was
turning into the weirdest day of my life.
Pain shot along my arm as my arthritis flared up and I winced.
The young girl skipped along, the headless doll cradled in her
arms. When she reached me, she looked up. There was coldness in her eyes, and I
took a step back. She skipped past.
Flabbergasted, I stood and watched them enter my house.
Why the hell hadn’t I stopped them? Jesus, this was insane.
I walked toward the open front door, and for the first time in my
life, I was afraid to enter.
I stood at the threshold, hesitating. The last time I felt like
this I was about to charge a German gun emplacement. Actually, I think entering
my own house now seemed scarier. I could hear the children playing; their
shouts and screams sounded more as though they were in pain.
One deep breath to summon courage, and then I walked inside.
The heat was stifling. It had never felt this hot before. Sweat
beaded on my brow and back as though I was melting. It felt decidedly
uncomfortable.
As I walked along the hall, I heard the boiler. Someone had turned
the heating on. I couldn’t believe it. When I reached the thermostat on the
wall, I reached out to turn it down.
“Don’t do that.”
I looked toward the kitchen door where the man was standing. There
was more than a veiled threat in his voice. It was an outright order.
He was still wearing his long coat, and I was surprised that he
hadn’t taken it off. How anyone could walk around in this heat wearing a long
coat, I’ll never know.
I felt myself trembling. This was too unreal.
“I like it hot,” he said.
“What do you want?” I asked.
The man looked at me, his blue eyes almost incandescent. “I
thought that would be obvious. I want somewhere to stay.”
I shook my head. “You’ve invited yourself into my house; made me
feel like I have no choice in the matter. I could call the police, you know.”
The man nodded. “Yes, Arnold, you could. But you won’t.”
“Now just a God damn minute, you are not going to tell me what I
can or can’t do in my own blasted house.”
The man smiled. He looked almost beatific. Then he unbuttoned his
coat and slipped it off. He was naked underneath, and as he spread his arms, a
set of red tipped wings unfurled from his back.
I gagged. What the bloody hell was he? The wings looked leathery,
their tips pointed and sharp.
“Allow me to introduce myself. You may have heard me referred to
as the fallen angel, the Devil, Satan or Lucifer, but I prefer the name, Bob.”
I couldn’t breathe. My shirt collar was choking me, and I tugged
it. A button popped off and rolled across the floor.
The devil was standing in my hallway.
“Don’t worry, Arnold. You are quite safe. We’re neighbours,
remember.” He laughed. It sounded like explosions going off in his throat.
My heart was beating fast. This couldn’t be real. I must be
dreaming.
Bob walked toward me and I felt the hairs on my arm prickle. As he
got close, the hairs began to smoulder. I was burning up.
“All I want is somewhere for my family and I to stay until the
house is repaired. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“So why pick next door to move into when it’s falling down?” I
couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice.
Bob smiled. “I like places with character. And after Mitchell
hacked the Jones family to pieces, he imbued the place with more than enough
character.” He looked almost wistful. “Mitchell was such a good man before I
came along. That’s my job you see, to lead you into temptation.”
“Well, you’ll not lead me into no temptation, that’s for sure.”
Before Bob could reply, Cherry came out of the kitchen. She was
holding a cup of water that was steaming hot. In fact, it was boiling.
“Daddy, can I have the big room at the front of the house.”
Bob looked at me and I nodded. It was my room, but how could I
refuse?
Cherry took a gulp of water and little wisps of steam drifted from
her mouth.
Bob bent down and kissed her forehead. “Now run along, there’s a
bad girl.”
She ran back toward the kitchen. Lance was standing in the
doorway. In his hand, he had my Victoria Cross and Military Medal. The little
bugger had been going through my things. I watched as he threw them away like
rubbish.