CHAPTER 7 — THE NEIGHBOR
The following afternoon, George decided to stop looking at Blackwood Road through documents and start looking at it through people.
Newspapers could disappear, records could contain mistakes, and property files could be altered, but people who had lived in a place for decades often remembered things that never made it into official history.
James Carter had already made it clear that he didn't want to talk, so George asked him whether anyone else nearby might remember the Kant family.
James had hesitated before mentioning an elderly man named Arthur Bell, who lived on a small property several minutes beyond the village.
“He's been there longer than anyone,” James had said.
“If you want answers, he might have them.”
But there had been something unusual in James's voice when he said the man's name, something that made George wonder whether the warning was less about Arthur's knowledge and more about what Arthur might be afraid to remember.
Arthur Bell's house stood at the end of a narrow dirt lane surrounded by overgrown fields.
It was smaller than Blackwood House but appeared well maintained, with freshly painted window frames and a vegetable garden behind a low stone wall.
George parked outside and walked toward the front door.
Before he could knock, an old man appeared behind the glass.
He was thin, perhaps in his late seventies, with silver hair and a face marked by deep lines.
He stared at George without opening the door.
“Can I help you?” he asked. George introduced himself and explained that he had recently purchased Blackwood House.
The old man's expression changed immediately.
His eyes moved past George toward the road, as though he expected someone to be standing behind him.
“You live there?” he asked. George nodded.
Arthur remained silent for several seconds before finally opening the door.
“You shouldn't have come here,” he said.
George frowned. “Why?” Arthur looked at him carefully.
“Because people who buy that house usually don't know what they're buying.”
Inside, the house smelled of wood smoke and old books.
Arthur led George into a small sitting room and pointed toward a chair without offering him anything to drink.
Several photographs covered the walls, but unlike Blackwood House, these had not been removed.
George noticed that most showed the same stretch of countryside in different seasons.
Arthur sat opposite him with his hands resting on the arms of the chair.
“What do you want to know?” he asked. George told him about Daniel and Helen Kant, the newspaper clipping, and the property records showing Daniel had apparently sold the house in 2001.
Arthur listened without interrupting. But when George said the name Daniel Kant, something changed in the old man's face.
His fingers tightened around the chair arms.
The color seemed to drain from his cheeks.
“Where did you hear that name?” he asked quietly.
George stared at him. “From the newspaper. And the property records.”
Arthur looked toward the window. “You should stop digging.”
George leaned forward. “You knew Daniel?”
Arthur didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside by a few inches.
He looked toward the distant trees before closing it again.
“Daniel wasn't the first,” he said. George waited.
“The first what?” Arthur returned to his chair.
“The first person to disappear.” George felt a familiar tension settle in his chest.
“How many?” Arthur shook his head. “Don't ask me that.”
“I've found several cases already.” Arthur looked directly at him.
“Then you know enough.” George placed a copy of the newspaper clipping on the table.
“What happened to Daniel and Helen?” Arthur stared at the photograph for a long time.
“They asked questions.” George frowned. “About what?”
Arthur's eyes remained fixed on Daniel's face.
“The house.” George waited for more, but Arthur said nothing.
“What did they find?” George asked. Arthur's expression hardened.
“Nothing they could prove.” George remembered the repaired floor, the brass key, the calendar, and the word RETURN.
“Did Daniel know about the basement?” Arthur suddenly looked at him.
That reaction was enough to make George's pulse quicken.
“You know about the basement,” he said. Arthur looked away.
“Every old house has a basement.” “Not every old house has a repaired section of floor.”
Arthur's eyes returned to him. “You went down there.”
It wasn't a question. George nodded slowly.
“Yes.” Arthur stood and walked toward the fireplace.
“You need to leave that house alone.” George followed him with his eyes.
“Why?” Arthur didn't answer. “Did Daniel find something down there?”
George asked. Arthur's jaw tightened. “Daniel found things he shouldn't have found.”
George leaned forward. “What things?” The old man turned around.
For the first time, there was unmistakable fear in his expression.
“Names.” George stared at him. “What names?”
Arthur shook his head. “I can't tell you.”
“Can't, or won't?” Arthur said nothing. George realized then that the old man's silence wasn't stubbornness. It was fear.
George stood and walked toward the door.
He had expected Arthur to provide answers, but instead he had gained something more disturbing: confirmation that someone in the village knew far more about Blackwood House than they were willing to admit.
Before leaving, George turned back. “One last question.”
Arthur looked at him. “Did Daniel sell the house in 2001?”
Arthur's face became completely still. Then he shook his head.
“No.” George nodded slowly. “Who did?” Arthur looked toward the floor.
“Someone using his name.” George felt a cold sensation move through him.
“Who?” Arthur's eyes lifted toward him. “That's the question you should stop asking.”
George opened the door, but before he stepped outside, Arthur spoke again.
“If you find something in that house, don't show it to anyone.”
George turned. “Why?” Arthur's voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“Because once people know what you're looking for, they'll know what you've found.”
George stepped outside and walked toward his car.
He had almost reached it when Arthur called his name from the doorway.
George turned around. The old man stood beneath the shadow of the porch, one hand gripping the doorframe.
“George.” “Yes?” Arthur looked past him toward the road leading to Blackwood House.
“You shouldn't have bought that house.” George stared at him.
“Why?” Arthur didn't answer. He simply closed the door.
George remained standing beside his car for several seconds, trying to understand what had just happened.
Then he noticed something on the passenger-side window.
A small piece of paper had been tucked beneath the windshield wiper.
He pulled it free and unfolded it. There was only one line written on it.
STOP LOOKING FOR DANIEL KANT.
George looked back toward Arthur's house. The windows were dark. And for the first time, he realized that someone might already know exactly what he was doing.