Synopsis: A woman begins investigating her mysterious neighbor after an odd encounter. She must then come to terms with the dreadful outcome of her actions.
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Moira is a cunt. I try not to use that word when I can help it, but she really is. We’ve gone in and out of friendship for years. She’s single, lives in my building, loves animals (hers) and likes to drink. It took me at least two years to realize that she’s a duplicitous whore. Now a pregnant, moody one at that. When she slowly lowered her hand at a recent HOA meeting, signaling to the room of nearly a dozen homeowners that she was still on the fence about my Presidency, that was the last straw. No more fucking around. No more playful email exchanges or small talk in the lobby. No more pretending I give a fuck about her old, dirty faced dog that limps because of some unexplained tendonitis. So the good news is that I can now use this newly freed up energy to focus on my neighbor who really is a fucking weirdo. Richard.
Richard moved into the building about a decade ago. When the unit across from me sold to an elderly attorney with conservative leanings and right wing values, I couldn’t have been more thrilled. The couple that had lived there for two years fought loudly and fucked even more loudly. They added no value to the place and couldn’t be bothered to pick up their own fucking newspaper. I actually watched them walk over it on their way out of the lobby more than once, letting the ancient Asian lady recovering from ovarian cancer pick it up with great effort. Fuckers. Richard seemed wise, like an old respected owl that was protected by some hipster forestry service. He moved with purpose, his eyes lazy with one that never focused on any one person or object. A conversation with him often entailed looking at his nose because one eye was somewhere else and I could never figure out which one to look at.
For years this wise old owl flew under the radar, helpful when needed but otherwise silently watching from a faraway place. He provided careful legal advice to the building and like a tired but trusted barge, worked silently behind the scenes to deliver on his charter. He updated the CC&Rs when some assholes moved in with two enormous dogs. Section 11.2: Pets to not exceed a maximum of 2 dogs; 40lbs in weight. Thanks, Richard. He added meaningful rules to the Bylaws, like “Please observe quiet hours that begin at 10 PM each evening and remain in place until 8:00 AM the next morning.” No more fucking and screaming. Richard, you’re the best. These good deeds aside, Richard was taking great care not to be noticed. I noticed this.
Richard lives on my floor. There are two units on each level of the six floor building. We share a common foyer. His kitchen has been under remodel for nearly a year and a half because he chose to serve as the general contractor on the job and had sourced all of his appliances from some fucking faraway place and then hired day laborers to install them. Error after error left his home in shambles for EVER and our shared foyer a tragic mess of dust, debris, random cogs from refrigerators that didn’t fit his space and water stains. Unexplained water stains.
I took such care in selecting a neutral woven rug that would hide common foot traffic. I also found a side table that blended seamlessly into the space and served as a stand for the random orchid or potted plant that only I ever picked up at Trader Joe’s as an afterthought. I emailed Richard to let him know that the shared cost of sprucing up the space was $232. I never heard back. I phoned but was dumped right into a voicemail system that made it sound as if he had an office teeming with employees. Press 1 for the operator. Press 2 for George Stevens. Press 3 for Richard Malin. Etc. What the fuck? I pressed 3 and left a short, polite message. My call was not returned. I knocked on his peeling, dilapidated front door warily. I wasn’t going to ring the bell. The echo created by that chime could add to the mass of superficial cracks on the façade of our building, amounting to further monies appointed to waterproofing services.
His door opened. Now more like a blue whale than an owl, his movements had slowed significantly. He’d become much older in the years that he’d been living here. Donning a short white robe like the ones loaned at moderately priced day spas, it barely reached his knees—an odd sight for an aging man with legs like newly unearthed carrots. Knees wobbly, veins exposed through thinning skin; I only had a moment to take this in because my eyes immediately fixed on the blood covering the entire front panel of his nubby cotton covering. The blood pattern did not suggest a shaving cut. Nor was his face newly shaved. I quickly looked him up and down searching for a gaping flesh wound but saw nothing that would suggest a recent incident with a sharp blade. I focused on his eye that looked at my face and as casually as I could, asked if he’d seen my email. “Ah yes. I saw the mail. I will cut you a check...” he said nonchalantly. “Okay,” I mused. “I think I also left you a voicemail.” Obviously I KNEW I left him a voicemail but that was my passive aggressive way of asking if he’d received it and if he had, why the fuck he hadn’t called me back. To this he simply replied, “Huh. I’ll have to check that.”
In the days that followed I noticed more and more unusual activity coming from his apartment. Perhaps the bloody robe was a gateway that made me far more sensitive to Richard and his comings and goings, but now I was highly attuned to all of it. I remembered that Moira had once pointed out to me that Richard had young visitors that would stop by at odd hours…men….who she then never noticed leave. Her swollen belly had her up at odd hours and far too interested in other people’s shit. I hadn’t witnessed this and I live on his floor for chrissakes. But now, I was watchful. More aware. And when I heard the rumble of the old elevator pause on our floor, I looked out of my peephole. Richard had opened his door for a young stranger and closed it quickly. There was no sound. Perhaps it was a bike messenger? Maybe another day laborer? I couldn’t be bothered ruminating the possibilities…but I was curious.
The days and nights became an exercise in investigative journalism. I began tracking his activity and noting his varying states of agitation. I would wake in the middle of the night to hear his door open and close softly. How had I not heard this before? Why was I suddenly so aware of his every movement? Sprinting from my bedroom to the front door to catch only a glimpse of his short robe as he closed his door again. What the fuck was he up to? He seemed to avoid me at all costs. The money he owed me was slipped under my door in a moment I’d let myself escape my vigil apparently, but outside of that, he was avoiding email and phone calls. And not just from me, but from others. Moira was swift to send an email to the members of the board asking if ANYONE had heard a peep out of Richard. She was “worried.” Another neighbor on the fourth floor asked if I’d smelled anything awful coming from his unit. Attempt at humor noted but I’d already been on hands and knees smelling under his door for signs of rot and could only smell old books and dust.
Whatever Richard was up to was now feeling like no good. One night I heard what sounded like a scuffle outside my front door. I silently launched from my bed like a dog that had seen a cat 100 yards off in the distance and assumed my post. Squinting through the nearly obstructed peephole as I kept forgetting to adjust my “Lose the shoes” sign, I saw him. There he was. Standing quietly with a new young man that seemed too relaxed. He slumped against Richard and Richard quickly (expertly) dragged the limp body into his apartment and closed the door.
WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. That was not okay. Not okay. What do I do? Call the police? Explain that my aging, well-respected neighbor wearing a bloodied robe had just dragged a limp body into his home? I couldn’t think straight. I hadn’t slept in weeks and I began to wonder if I was hallucinating this last bit. Maybe the young man was inebriated? Maybe he was really tired? Maybe he was hurt and Richard was being helpful? The last thing I wanted to become was Moira, the overzealous gossip with an imagination that always ran amuck and nearly as often got her into trouble with friends and neighbors. Shit. Maybe I’d call Moira. Fucking bitch.
“Moira? It’s me, Carrie. Are you awake?” I could hear her struggle to sit up in bed and her groggy reaction wasn’t lost on me.
“I’m awake,” she said. “What’s happening?”
I wasn’t sure I should continue but something in me wouldn’t let it go. “I think Richard is up to something. I don’t know what exactly. But I’m worried,” I explained. I went on to share some of the recent events and before I could finish, she was at my door, cell phone in hand, saying good bye to my face as she hung up with me. She had become really large since I’d last seen her. Her pajamas were strained around her middle and she looked too fucking old to be having her first kid. “Shhh! Quiet!” I pleaded in hushed tones. “He’s right in there!” I managed, pointing nervously at his door. “Come in.”
I couldn’t stand this bitch but I also knew she was the only person who would buy into my bizarre biography of a man who may or may not be a murderer at worst, flesh eating alien at best.
“Listen, let’s just ring his bell and ask him to his face who’s in his apartment,” said Moira.
“You think he’s going to open the door??” I exclaimed. “And, if he opens the door, who’s to say he won’t drug us and drag us in there too??” I nearly screamed.
“That’s ridiculous. He won’t kill us. We’re his neighbors. It’s too obvious,” she said. “Let’s use your fire escape to see what’s going on over there. He won’t see us and we can find out for sure that nothing fucked up is going down,” she explained.
“I doubt that’s a good idea, but if you’re going with me, we can try,” I offered reluctantly.
The fire escape was fucking old. It complained when I placed one foot on its rickety landing. “This thing is not going to hold both of us,” I said. “I doubt anyone’s been on it in 50 years.”
“Well, then you go first, tell me what you see and if it’s nothing, we’ll call it a night,” she said.
“Why me?” I asked.
“Because, it’s your fire escape. And, I’m too pregnant,” she concluded.
Fucking bitch. I continued onto the fire escape, waiting for the entire structure to give, sending me down 25+ feet to the icy sidewalk where I’d either be dead or have to explain myself to EVERYONE.
I peered into the first window available to me and was staring straight into his unfinished kitchen. That bastard had said he was nearly done at the last HOA meeting. So now he was a liar, too. I moved silently on to the next window, paused to look back at Moira and gave her a quick shake of the head to indicate I hadn’t seen anything yet. The second window looked right into his second bedroom, the one I use as my entertainment room. We shared a nearly identical floor plan, though you wouldn’t know it since his is unfinished and frankly, fugly.
The room was subtly aglow, a faint blue light coming from the closed door of his closet. I had the same blue light in my bedroom from a power indicator on my Power360 unit – the circle of protection that proves there are no power surges in play. Had to be that. We both had protected electronics. Phew.
Then I saw Richard. The outline of his slightly hunched figure, the white robe that seemed to glow in the darkened room. His feet illuminated by the blue light at the closet entrance. I looked back at Moira and gave her a look that I hoped indicated something was up in a big way. She looked tired and unamused. I turned back to the scene unfolding behind the glass and inside that closet was not just the body of the young man I’d seen entering his apartment earlier that evening. There, in the space the size of a Subzero, were at least 8 bodies stacked and interlaced like a thriving game of Jenga. But, they weren’t dead. They were connected by an intricate set of cables that attached to one massive USB port in the wall. The port that was glowing stronger now that the door was open. The bodies were pulsing, vibrating as if powering some enormous unseen piece of equipment. I turned to look at Moira. She was straddling the window sill, wanting desperately to see what I’d seen. The fucking bitch needed to know for herself what was happening in there. I motioned for her to stay the fuck back. I was trying to get to the escape so I could move away from this horror but her weight shifted and she lost her balance. She screamed and fell, clumsily, all the way to the street.
OH SHIT. OH SHIT. OH SHIT.
I scrambled to get back inside my apartment. I knew that Richard had heard the scream. He’d sensed the fall. He would be there in a flash. He would know what we were doing.
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