Night Terrors Vol. 3: Short Horror Stories Anthology

The Old Man’s Neighbor

By Gordon Dunleavy

“Hey Margie,” Morris, a thin-framed man residing on the back eighth of the bell curve of life, calls to his wife who’s having a snack in the kitchen. “The new neighbor is moving in. You care to watch with me?”

“No, thank you, honey.”

“You suppose this one will stay more than a week?”

“I doubt it, Morry. The last ones didn’t even stay the night.” Marge is ten years Morris’ junior, but anyone who’s met them would tell you it’s got to be at least thirty. Marge has Top Ramen hair and a way about her that makes anyone around her feel special. Morris is always impressed with how she carries herself, both in life and when she walks. Even sitting in a recliner, you can tell she has perfect posture.

The U-Haul truck beeps as it backs into the driveway next to Morris’. The old man watches, rocking in his chair. The Monday newspaper in his hands goes unread due to the orange and white truck distraction. He pushes his glasses down his nose to inspect the goings-on. The porch boards creak below him as his blue house with the blue door stands behind him.

Neighbors have come and gone over the last forty-odd years. Most have stayed for ten years at a time, but over the last year, none have stayed for more than a month, and more than a handful have left overnight in the predawn hours of the morning.

Here today, gone tomorrow.

Morris has always done the neighborly thing by introducing himself and the love of his life, Marge, for the past six decades to all the newcomers. He always tells them all about the great nearby restaurants over a batch of his family-famous macaroons he has baked for them.

Marge has stopped the visits nine neighbors ago.

Morris has stopped after six.

When the last three he’s introduced himself to leaves without so much as a head-nod goodbye, Marge tells him to give the new neighbors time to settle before introducing them to the community.

“If they last three months,” Morris tells Marge after a neighbor leaving overnight has gotten him riled up, “then I’ll do my due diligence as the community leader. But if they don’t last that long, then I’ll save my time and cholesterol from all those extra macaroons I will make for us.”

Morris has watched thirty-two neighbors come and go in the last two years. His macaroons have never left the kitchen.

This neighbor is different. There’s something about him that makes Morris think he’ll break the curse.

The man sits alone in the truck, nobody there to help him. There are no kids running around yelling, no old friends in athletic shorts and white t-shirts helping with the heavy things. There’s only the driver who sits like a gargoyle in the cab of a truck that’s big enough to hold the contents of a three-bedroom house.

Morris never makes eye contact with the man behind the wheel, he can’t. He wants to, but the man won’t take his eyes off the nothingness he’s staring at. The welcome-to-the-neighborhood wave Morris holds at the ready goes unused.

The early-evening breeze cools Morris’ glistening forehead. He goes back to reading his newspaper on the porch when the man finally gets out of his truck and begins unloading. Morris wants to keep watching his new neighbor and catches his eye for a quick hello, but with the truck butting up against the garage, Morris can only listen to the new neighbor moving their things inside.

“Morry?” Marge calls from the living room through the screened window. “What’s got you out there on the porch so long? Don’t think anything in that paper can be that gripping. Come back inside and join me for a while.”

“I’ll be in soon. Just trying to figure out if the new neighbor is good people or not.”

“You and those neighbors, Morry. You might be a little obsessed.”

“Just concerned is all, honey.”

As the day moves on, the rocking chair rocks slower and slower as Morris’ head bobs with tiredness. The newspaper falls to his lap when the steady, even breaths of sleep take over. He’s almost all the way under until he jolts awake from the noise of the sliding back door of the moving truck slamming shut, and the lock thunking home into the latch. The paper he’s been reading falls to the boards of his porch. His heart beats faster than it has had in thirty years, and the sweat that has been whisked away from the crisp breeze appears once more.

When Morris’ mind catches up to reality, the big truck is still parked in the driveway. And as still as a statue, the neighbor sits in the same spot Morris has last seen him. Though this time he stares, not at the nothingness, but directly into Morris’ eyes.

How long has he been staring at me? Morris isn’t sure if he wants his question answered because seeing the man’s face straight on has him worried for both of their souls.

The skin on Morris’ body shrinks with gooseflesh as the glare from the neighbor refuses to relent.