The
scream in the dead of night woke Vickery, his introduction to the neighbors. It
was dark with a half moon as he got up and cautiously went into the living
room, creeping to the sliding glass doors that looked out on his entry patio.
To
his surprise, the outside patio door was open. Had he locked it? Usually he
came in through the garage, rarely using the door to the patio. The trees
rustled as a night wind swept through the development.
Vickery slipped through the sliding
glass doors, went to the ajar patio entry and stepped outside into the complex’s
cul-de-sac. He was startled to see his neighbor standing in her drive across
from him. She had introduced herself as Annabelle when he had moved it a few
days ago. Staring at him, she called softly, “Must be the wind.”
Vickery wondered if his neighbor meant
the scream or the opening of his patio door. He was about to ask when he saw
movement to his right and a tall, slender man appeared and called to Annabelle,
saying: “There are leftovers if you’re hungry.”
But Annabelle waved her hand back and
forth indicating she was not interested in a snack. Vickery recalled it was
almost three when he got out of bed. Was it a late night party and the noise
just a shrill laugh at hilarity, someone dancing with a lampshade on his head? He
raised a hand to Annabelle and nodded at the man to his right, then went to bed
curious about his neighbors.
The next evening Vickery again awoke at
three in the morning, still not adjusted to the time change of three hours from
the east coast. He was determined to go back to sleep when he heard something
and sat up. It was low murmuring, like the soft buzz of a cocktail party.
Getting out of bed, Vickery went into
the living room and slowly drew the curtains on the sliding door. He stepped
back with his mouth open as he saw his patio was full of people, maybe twenty
bodies jammed into the small space. With their hands to the glass were
Annabelle and the man from next door.
The hairs on Vickory’s arms stood up
and he wanted to draw back, but a magnetism pulled him forward and he slowly
opened the glass door, and then stepped out into the milling crowed.
Vickery’s screams bounced off the patio walls and into
the night.
Melba
Rae, a tall, professional southern blonde, scanned the lease, tuning out the
manager who was droning on: “…convenient, great location. You can even walk to
Flo’s Chinese and AJ’s Market.”
Melba held up her hand, cutting off
the spiel as she looked around at the adobe, red-tiled roofed units with a Mediterranean
flare. The complex was only 10 minutes from the Tucson Aeropark where she was
the new public relations person. “And the other tenants?” She asked the
hovering man.
He bobbed his head. “Professionals,
upscale, very quiet. Trust me,” he added with smarmy smile, “you’ll love the
neighbors.”
