The Neighbours From Hell

 

I’ll never forget the day the Devil bought the house next door.

            Sat on the porch, shirt sleeves rolled up, drinking some of the homebrew that I had made two months ago, I was trying to cool down. The summer heat wave had persisted into December. Some weathermen had used it as evidence that their claims of Global warming had come true, 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 was holding 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, and her lips were bloodless and thin, and she had the pastiest looking skin; just like fine china, it was almost transparent.

            Her bosom was small, but 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 she was smiling at me.

            “You must be our new neighbour,” she said. Her voice was like that of a songbird.

            I coughed to clear my throat and looked at the weather-beaten ‘For Sale’ sign that had been hammered into next doors lawn. The house had been up for sale for nearly six years. Since the murder, no one had 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 childrens 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 a downright 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.

            Bob smiled. “Kids. They can be such little devils.”

 

Over the next few days, I felt like a stranger in my own house. Bob and his family took over. They went through my things, with no regard for privacy. Bob joked about my acts of valour; he called me a little hero, but he always said it sarcastic, mind. I think he liked having a dig at me whenever he could to show who the chief was.

            I had an inkling that the prolonged heat spell was down to Bob, too.

            Work on the house next door went ahead, and in a few days, it was finished. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but then if you have the Devil for a boss, you aren’t going to mooch around.

            On the fourth morning after the devil and his family arrived, they finally moved into 63, Grove Crescent.

            I thought that would be the end of my problems, but I hadn’t bargained on the kids. They were forever throwing stones through my windows and banging on my front door in the middle of the night. It’s not as if I could complain.

            But then I woke one morning, opened the curtains and looked down to see my precious poppies strewn across the garden. The stems had been snapped, and the petals scattered like confetti.

            Enough was enough. This had gone too far.

            Even though I was an ex-soldier, I’ve never thought of myself as a violent man, but something in me just snapped. My garden was a symbol of remembrance, because some things should never be forgotten, and those kids from hell had desecrated it, and the memory of everything it stood for.

            The trunk containing my old uniform had sat beneath the bed for years, and as I pulled it out, the courage I used to feel when wearing it, surged back into my body.

            This was war.

 

When nightfall fell, I crept outside and through the garden of petals. It angered me to look at what they had done, so I kept my eyes averted.

            The lights were on next door, and I could hear the familiar shouts and squeals of the Devil and his spawn.

            The petrol I carried sloshed in its can. If you listened real close, it almost sounded like a phlegm filled voice, urging me on.

            But I didn’t need no urging. I was mad as a March hare.

             

After dousing the house in petrol, I set it alight. It was a remarkable sight. The screams of those trapped inside could be heard three or more streets away, or so I was told.

When the police arrived, I was stood in my field of poppies, watching the house burn. Dressed in my uniform, I felt proud. The medals the kids had thrown away were pinned to my chest. This was my last, great act. My final stand against the last great evil.

Sat here in my cell, awaiting sentence, I don’t feel any remorse. People just don’t realise what a great service I’ve done for them. They showed me photos of the bodies, their skin bloated and red, popped in places with weeping sores. They gave the people names that were unfamiliar to me, but none of it was real. I know who it really was, you see. You can dress it up any way you like, but I know I did something good.

They were the neighbours from Hell, and I’d sent them back.

The cell door suddenly opened and a tall man stooped to enter. He stood and stared at me for a moment. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

“Looks like we’ll be sharing a cell,” he said.

I nodded.

“I’m sure we’ve got plenty to talk about.” The man sat down opposite me. “You can call me, Bob,” he said with a grin.

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