Hi, mom. I’m home. These words echoed throughout an empty house three weeks ago. After that, it was like I never left. Part of me screamed to go, but it finally died down. Then, days just rolled on by, and time was spent under a sunny porch. The only strange thing in such a quiet, beautiful neighborhood was the man living across the street.
He was like clockwork. At eight a.m., he left to do his morning jog. He returned an hour later with a newspaper tucked under one arm. He went inside and would emerge forty-five minutes later. He hopped into his car, and I’m guessing he went to town. He would return within two hours with groceries and supplies. Then, he would disappear down into his cellar and not emerge until hours and hours later. By then, it was past dinner, and I was ready for bed. But I knew that he was still awake, a busy bee inside that house.
9:15 a.m. I knew this man a long time ago. He chased me around the yard, lifted me up into his arms, and laughed this enormous laugh. He was not the same man. His wife died a few years back. After that, people said he went crazy. His O.C.D. led to a full psychotic breakdown, and everyone avoided him. He should be locked up, my mother would say and then follow with, “Stay away from him.” But curiosity got the better of me.
The front door was left ajar. I could hear movement inside. Still a busy bee, one to be disturbed by a series of loud knocks. No response. I hesitated and then stepped inside, bumping into a clutter of cardboard boxes. The place was a mess. Litter everywhere, and calendars. So many kinds of calendars and calendar books, and I reached for one, flipping it open to this month. Strange. He had viciously drawn a red circle over a day later this week, and then I noticed that all the calendars mirrored this one.
I moved into the kitchen. Dishes piled high up in the sink. Flies buzzed around food on the table, food not touched for at least several days. The windows were newspapered, and I wondered about all those groceries. Was he eating in the cellar? Did he live down there? I backed away but then bumped into the dirty refrigerator. In red marker, he scribbled that date, followed by 9 a.m.
“Get out,” he hissed from behind me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Get out!”
He didn’t have to say it again. I bolted and flew across the street. I was ready for the door to be slammed closed behind me, or maybe he was crazy enough to chase me with a kitchen knife in his hand. Instead, he stood there by the front door, glaring at me, angry that I disrupted his routine, but a few minutes later, he was back in full swing. It was like I never intruded on his life, and maybe, it was better that way. But that date and that time now haunted me. Was he crazy, or did he know something that we didn’t?
“I told you to stay away from him,” my mother scolded me, but her words fell on deaf ears. We ate breakfast, and she glared at me like he did. But my gaze was on the basement door. We never used it except in bad storms. Now, it was crowded with junk, junk that I would later ask to get rid of, and with reluctance, she agreed, grateful that I was distracted away from our crazy next door neighborhood.
More time passed. I had followed his routine. I went for jogs, slowly haunting him. I gathered food and supplies, things that I would need, if the power ever truly went out. Maybe, I was going crazy. Maybe, he was driving me crazy, but I couldn’t get that date out of my mind. It was tomorrow, and when I thought about tomorrow, a knot turned in my stomach. 9 a.m. What was coming at 9 a.m.?
8:45 a.m. My mind screamed like a blaring alarm clock. Part of me snapped awake, but a smaller part begged to sleep. I shushed it quickly. It was easy to say that the man next door was crazy and then allow myself to fall back into a deep sleep, but that knot in my stomach turned and tightened. Instead, I threw my clothes on and rushed into my mother’s room, pulling her out of a deep sleep.
“What is wrong with you?” But her words once again fell on deaf ears. I grabbed up some of her clothes and more or less forced her down to the basement. She was reluctant, fearful, and she looked at me as if I had gone crazy. “What is wrong with you?”
The answer was muffled out by something that sounded like an explosion. We both fell away from the stairs as the basement door shattered. The concrete floor echoed with the thud of two bodies. Glass shattered to screams. Then, nothing. Nothing but darkness.
My vision was a blur. I must’ve been out for some time. Not days, but hours. I found my mother lying beside me, stroking my hair with tearstains down her face. She was cut with glass like me, but the cuts were not bad. But she was afraid to move, and so was I.
I forced myself up to my feet. I almost fell over. My ears were ringing badly. I never heard such a sound. Was it a storm? Was it a bomb? Did they really just drop a bomb on us, on this town? I held my hand out to my mother, forcing these questions to be silent, and she took my hand in hers. But she was thinking the same thing.
We emerged outside. Debris surrounded us. The house was gone. The neighborhood was gone. The cellar remained, and he was now standing outside too, glaring at me, almost annoyed that we had survived. We had survived because of him, and then we looked around and realized that we were standing in the heart of a crater.
“Well,” he said loudly, catching my and my mother’s attention, “since we’re neighbors, you may as well come inside and get some food.”
“We have food and supplies too,” but my words now fell on deaf ears as he disappeared back into that damn cellar.
Melissa R. Mendelson is a published short story author and self-published poet, who has been featured in The Outreach for Breast Health Foundation’s Anthology: Beyond Memories; Names in a Jar: A Collection of Poetry by 100 Contemporary American Poets; Espresso Fiction: A Collection of Flash Fiction for the Average Joe; Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine. She also has written several fan fiction stories, which can be found at fanfiction.net.
