The Demon Next Door

Lila Hart

For at least fifteen minutes, I had been standing on the sidewalk, clutching the key to my brand new house. My heart fluttered every time I thought about how I was going to decorate this little treasure, and what color I was going to paint the living room.

Four months ago, on a whim, I had pulled over after seeing the for-sale sign buried in the overgrown hedges.

I had done multiple double takes after researching the asking price because in today's market it was simply unheard of.

A five-bedroom, two-story house with a bay window going for forty thousand dollars was some kind of unicorn.

And I had jumped at the opportunity because I simply wasn't making what others were, considering I was just a receptionist at a pediatrician's office.

Every vacation I hadn't taken, every happy hour I had skipped, every sad little packed lunch I had eaten at my desk instead of going out with coworkers had quietly added up to this moment. This key. This house.

Mine.

I finally pulled in a deep breath and marched up onto the covered porch. The door gave way with a slight creak and I smiled. "Honey, I'm home!"

Of course no one answered me back, but I giggled just the same.

Stepping inside, stale air hit me, and I immediately wanted to crack a window and get some fresh air moving through the place.

Dust floated through the slanted light and I added a deep clean to my mental checklist, right under buy curtains and figure out why this place was forty thousand dollars.

I closed the door behind me and locked it into place, easing across the room. A floorboard creaked beneath me and I paused, listening to the sound travel through the quiet house like a ripple.

It was old and creaky. But baby…tt was mine.

And if I didn’t get a strong grip, I was going to cry,

Three hours earlier, I had been sitting across from my realtor in a beige conference room, holding a pen like it weighed forty pounds.

"Congratulations." Sandra slid the final page across the table with a smile. "You are officially a homeowner."

I laughed, and it came out slightly hysterical. "Please don't say that out loud."

She blinked. "Why not?"

"I'm afraid someone from the bank is going to realize they made a mistake and come running back through that door."

Sandra laughed. I signed my name before anyone could stop me.

The drive to Blackthorn Ridge had taken just over two hours, which I spent talking to myself and singing along to a playlist I had titled I Did That specifically for this occasion.

"You own a house," I told my reflection in the rearview mirror somewhere around mile marker forty. "You, Lila Hart, own an actual house."

My reflection looked cautiously optimistic.

The Welcome to Blackthorn Ridge sign appeared around a gentle curve in the road, nestled between two enormous pine trees like it had always been there.

The lettering was old-fashioned and slightly faded, and below the town name, in smaller script, someone had added: Established 1743. Population: 412.

I slowed down just enough to read it properly.

The town itself was the kind of place that belonged on a postcard.

The roads were narrow, and lined with maple trees.

There was even a small main street with a bakery, a hardware store, and what appeared to be an extremely serious bait shop.

Flower boxes were on the windows of some of the houses.

A hand-painted mural on the side of the post office.

Genuinely, deeply charming. The kind of charming that belonged on a Hallmark movie set, if Hallmark believed in ghosts.

I kept on driving till I reached my destination.

When I pulled into the driveway for the first time as the actual owner, I sat in the car for a long moment before getting out.

The house was beautiful standing at two stories, white clapboard siding that needed a fresh coat but still had good bones, a wraparound porch.

There was a bay window that caught the late afternoon light and threw it across the overgrown front yard like something out of a painting.

The hedges were wild but the flower beds needed some major work.

The porch railing also seemed to be leaning like a pair of work boots worn by a heavy construction worker.

Holy shit, it was perfect.

It was also very, very quiet. Not peaceful quiet.

Something closer to held-breath quiet, the kind that made you aware of how loud your own heartbeat was.

There were no birds in the yard, no squirrels in the oak tree at the corner of the property.

The air sat completely still even though the trees on either side of the street were shifting gently in a breeze I couldn't feel from where I stood.

I looked up at the house and it almost seemed as the curtain in the left handed window moved. I stared at it and when nothing else shifted, I shook it off feeling silly.

I pressed my lips together, picked up the first box from the back seat, and told myself it was an old house with old curtains and there was absolutely nothing strange about any of this. I carried the box to the porch and absolutely did not look at that window again.

I was on my third trip from the car when I felt it, that distinct specific sensation of being watched. Finally, I set a box down on the porch railing and turned around slowly, scanning the quiet street.

Across the road, leaning against the porch post of a dark craftsman-style house with his arms crossed and a coffee mug in one hand, was the most absurdly attractive man I had ever seen in my entire life.

He was very tall, with dark curly hair that fell across his forehead like he had no particular feelings about it either way.

His broad shoulders filled out a plain black shirt with the kind of effortlessness that should have been illegal.

Even from across the street, his eyes caught the light in a way that made me think of amber, of something warm and burning underneath.

He was staring at me like I had personally inconvenienced him by existing.

I straightened up and gave a holler. "Can I help you?"

He didn't move. "You bought that house?"

I felt my eyebrow raise, “Yes?"

Nosey ass…

He fired off another question gruffly, “Why?"

I blinked, then laughed, because what else was there to do with a question like that. "Because I enjoy making questionable financial decisions."

He looked at the house and then back to me, before sipping his coffee, "Apparently."

Whatever, grumpy ass, I thought before shaking my head, grabbing my book and heading inside.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Tall Dark and Fine as Fuck in a T-shirt walked over.

I was on the porch with a second load of boxes when I heard footsteps on the gravel and looked up to find him crossing the street with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never been in a rush in his life.

He stopped at the edge of my driveway and looked at the house the way a doctor looks at an x-ray.

Their way he stared was almost as if he could see something no one else could.

He stared at me before speaking, “You should have bought literally any other house."

I set down the box I was holding. "I'm sorry?"

He shrugged, “In town. There are other houses. Available ones."

I bit at my lip, starring at his fine ass. “I’m aware of how real estate works."

"Then why this one?"

"Because I liked it." I crossed my arms. "Also, and I really want to stress this, I have already signed the paperwork."

He mirrored my movement and crossed his arms as well. “It isn't too late."

I smiled sweetly, “It’s absolutely too late. I own this house. My name is on the deed." I pointed at the front door. "That is legally my door."

He looked at the door before his gaze drifted back to my own. Something moved across his expression that I couldn't read.

"Unfortunate," he said.

Then he turned around and walked his fine ass back across the street.

I stood on my porch and watched him go, because there was nothing else to do. He was, I decided, extremely hot. He was also, without any question, completely unhinged.

By seven o'clock I had unpacked enough to find my coffee maker, my favorite mug, and my fuzzy socks, which meant the house was essentially livable.

I made myself a cup of coffee and stood in the middle of the living room, looking around at the stacked boxes and the bare walls and the dust still settling in the corners.

I felt something so big and warm and terrifying rise up in my chest that I had to take a slow breath to keep it from turning into actual crying.

I had done it.

I had actually done it.

The floorboard near the kitchen doorway groaned under no visible weight and I looked over my shoulder and found nothing there. Just the empty hallway and the late evening light coming through the window at the end of it.

"Old house," I reminded myself, taking a sip of coffee. "Old floors."

I turned back to the living room.

That was when the cabinet above the kitchen counter swung open on its own.

Slowly, I turned around to see what I’d heard. It was open, fully and completely open, with no breeze, or a vibration. Absolutely nothing.

“If you're paying rent," I said carefully, "you can open cabinets all you want. Otherwise, we need to establish some boundaries."

The cabinet stayed open and I felt stupid talking to myself.

An hour later, the lights in the hallway flickered twice and went out for three full seconds before coming back on. I found the fuse box, checked every breaker, found nothing wrong, and made a note to call an electrician Monday morning.

Babe, I thought. This house is old, of course the wiring is weird.

I fell asleep on my air mattress at ten o'clock with a cozy mystery open on my chest and every light in the bedroom on, which was absolutely a personal choice and had nothing to do with the whispering sound I had heard drifting up from somewhere beneath the floorboards just after nine.

Old pipes, I told myself again as I drifted off. Just old pipes.

Outside, the street was completely still.