yachiru

Title: Next Door
Prompt: Uncanny Valley
TW: Death


Cindy discreetly moved her front curtain out of the way so she could spy on her new neighbor. He was in his twenties, she thought. At least fifty years younger than Siph.

He had spiked hair, blonde at the tips, and thick green glasses wider than his face. His pants were disturbingly tight. She wished she’d bought those opera glasses Louise had been trying to sell after Harold died.

His eyes widened as he noticed her small one bedroom cottage across the street. He smiled, revealing crooked white teeth, and waved at her.

She sniffed and retreated. It was only fun if they didn’t know she was watching.

Cindy had been through four neighbors in the ten years she’d lived in the neighborhood. The house across the street never seemed to keep people for long. It sort of repelled renters. The owner’s had tried to paint it a cheerful yellow two years before but it had faded to a sick looking puce that her great grandniece called pustule yellow.

She had almost fallen asleep on her ancient flower patterned couch while watching a Survivor marathon when she heard a knock at the door. She opened her blurry eyes to check the thick clock on top of her tube television.

Seven fifteen. Whoever heard of visiting at seven fifteen at night?

She grumbled, straightening to her full height in a series of painful maneuvers. Her fluffy slippers were right next to the couch so her feet didn’t get cold on the hardwood floor.

“Who is it?” she shouted at her closed door. You could never be too careful with thieves and murderers about.

“I’m Harley, your new neighbor. I brought you some cookies.”

She frowned but opened the door. The young man was there, wearing those tight pants.

“Your pants are too tight,” she said.

He laughed nervously and looked down. “I guess they are but they look nice.”

Cindy did not feel like laughing. “It’s late.”

He looked down at the container in his hands. “Sorry, I’ve been in loading mode all day. The time must have slipped my notice. I made you some oatmeal cranberry cookies. I thought you’d like them.”

He held out the cookies and she took them, not knowing what else to do.

“I’m Cindy Rockwell,” she said, unable to say much else. She wasn’t happy with any of this and felt sleepy. She wanted to go back to the couch and sleep curled up with her pillows.

“Harley Patterson,” he said. “Sorry for the disturbance.”

She sniffed and closed the door on him, waiting until she heard him walk away to open the container and tip the cookies into her garbage can.

Cindy woke with a mouth full of cotton. She stretched her jaw and made her morning tea, a bitter black leaf that reminded her of coffee. She watched the morning news. Apparently murders were on the rise in her town.

“It’s never good news,” she said, to hear herself speak.

Dorothy knocked at around eleven. Cindy was dressed in a new yellow pullover and green slacks. She wanted to look good for her Romance Book Club which met weekly at one of the member’s houses.

Dorothy might have been older than Cindy. Her face was more wrinkled, set in a permanent scowl not unlike a bulldog.

“We’re gonna be late,” Dorothy said.

Cindy sighed as she got in the passenger seat. “Those old women will wait for us.”

They were meeting at Nancy’s house that week so Cindy had brought some toast with avocado smeared on it. She knew Nancy would hate it.

Lucinda and Louise were already there, sitting at the dining room table, sipping tea. They were waiting for Susan, who was always the last to arrive.

Cindy sat down gingerly.

“Have you read the one about the door yet?” Louise asked Lucinda.

“Where she falls in love with a door?” Lucinda asked. “One of my grandchildren bought it for my Kindle. It was strange but good.”

Cindy sniffed. “In my day we just read books about dukes and duchesses. They were classy.”

“You mean rape-y,” Nancy cut in.

Cindy rolled her eyes. “They got married after.”

“Oh so that makes it legitimate,” Nancy said, hiding a smile behind her hand.

Cindy scowled. “Still a better plot than falling in lust with a door.”

Susan finally showed, sweating and carrying a tin full of muffins. The muffins were so good no one complained about the forty minute wait.

They discussed books for an hour or so, snacking and discovering the fine plot points of an arachnid erotica. Cindy couldn’t stop thinking about Harley though.

She interrupted towards the end of the meeting, asking the girls what they thought.

“Skinwalker,” Lucinda said.

“What the hell?” Dorothy asked.

“No, I read a romance once with a skinwalker, they come from Native American folklore, no?” Susan asked.

Lucinda nodded. “My grandfather was Cherokee, he told me about them. Strangers who approach and want your skin so they can shift into it. Animals too. You should watch for animals going missing in your neighborhood.”


Nancy laughed. “Ya’ll read too much weird romance. No such thing. He’s just a nice boy who gave you cookies. You always see the dark side of life, Cindy.”

Cindy thought there was precious little light left. She wondered how Nancy would feel with blurry vision and creaky knees. Some days Cindy couldn’t even get out of bed, she just stayed in, reading and knitting hole covered blankets.

She saw Harley outside, mowing his lawn on the drive back.

“He seems nice,” Dorothy said. “Don’t let the girls scare you. You could use a friend close by who could help you if you fell.”

Cindy sniffed. “As if I would ever.”

Dorothy shrugged and helped Cindy inside.

It was dark when Cindy heard a knock again. She didn’t want to answer it but felt compelled to.

Harley was at her front door again.

“Could I have my container back?” he asked.

She hadn’t bothered to look at the clock but she knew it was much later than when he’d come before. She opened her mouth to tell him to go but the words wouldn’t leave her. She turned around to get him the plastic container.

She felt a pulling sensation, it didn’t hurt or wrench. All she felt was pressure and then she was staring at her own face with Harley’s smile.

“What?” she asked dumbly.

“I’m a skinwalker, though you probably guessed that. I take faces. Or souls, to be particular.”

“Why would you want mine? I’m old,” she said. Her lips were numb. She felt her knees collapse as she sank onto the floor.

“Collectability,” he said, snapping the consonants at the end.

Her last thought was that she should have put on the red lipstick. Oliver had always liked her in it. Said she looked murderous.