Short Stories

The Woman Next Door

By Alice Dawson

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I am afraid of the woman next door.

 

Though, not for reasons you’d expect.

 

She isn’t frightening. Far from it, actually. She’s tiny and elderly, and wears these floral smock dresses that could have been cut from my mother’s curtains. She wears large silver glasses which magnify her eyes, and I suspect she wears dentures, just like me. She is, in every sense, the embodiment of innocence. You couldn’t imagine a more harmless looking neighbour.

 

But that’s not why I’m afraid of her.

 

The woman next door is watching me. She's always watching me. And I don’t know why.

 

It all started six months ago. No. Four months ago. Or was it five? Ugh, anyway, it doesn't matter.

 

I was washing dishes when I felt it. That uneasy prickle between your shoulders. The subconscious feeling when you know you’re not alone. When I looked up, she was there, staring at me from her kitchen window, standing perfectly still. Not waving. Not smiling. Just watching.

 

I remember waiting for her to flinch when our eyes met. For her to retreat behind the curtain, embarrassed. But she didn’t. She simply stood there, her head tilted slightly, not curious…concerned. As though she were waiting for something I had forgotten to do.

 

I shut the blind and told myself it meant nothing.

 

But then she started speaking to me.

 

“Good morning, Arnold.” She would say cheerfully, as I was out collecting the post. "Beautiful day today, isn't it?"

 

But we’d never met before. How does she know my name?

 

I froze, letters slipping from my fingers. We had never met. I was certain of that. Or was I? Yes, I was certain.

 

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

 

But she only smiled. A small, careful smile. Then she turned, walked back down the street, opened her garden gate, and went back into her house.

 

That should have been the end of it. But it wasn't.

 

She began appearing at my door with food. Always at four o’clock. Always on Sundays. No. Tuesdays. Or was it Fridays? Ugh, it doesn’t matter. What matters was that it was always four o’clock. Isn’t that strange?

 

Roasted potatoes and carrots glazed in honey. Crispy chicken with that golden brown colour. Lemon rice with juicy salmon, made exactly the way my wife used to make it.

 

The first time, I didn’t open the door. I watched through the peephole as she stood on the step, holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil, her arms trembling slightly with the effort. After a while, she set it down, slowly knocked three times again. Taap, taap, taap, and left.

 

The second time, I took the dish and threw the food straight into the bin. The woman could be trying to poison me, for all I know?

 

A screeching sound from the kettle screams from the kitchen, steam crawling up the walls, the sound clawing at my ears. But I don’t turn it off.

 

Because it’s four o’clock.

 

And at four o’clock, the woman next door comes to knock on my door. I wait for the three slow taps. Taap. Taap. Taap.

 

Standing in the hallway, my heart is hammering. I stare at the wood as though I can see through it. I tell myself that today will be the day I confront her. That today I will ask who she really is. Why she watches me. How she knows my name. Why she keeps leaving food at my door.

 

My hand grips the cool metal of the doorknob. It makes a click as I twist it open, peering through the narrow gap.

 

My eyes drop to the casserole dish. The smell of garlic, rosemary, and... what's that other scent? It's on the tip of my tongue. Basil? No. Mint? Yes, definitely mint.

 

It must be roast lamb.

 

My stomach tightens. I can’t remember the last time I had roast lamb. I peer out further. The woman stands by her gate, hands clasped in front of her.

 

I take the dish. Close the door.

 

I don’t remember sitting down at the table, but when I do, the foil is gone. The lamb is warm. The plate beside it is already set with cutlery. How very odd?

 

There’s a piece of paper folded neatly next to my glass.

 

My handwriting. Is it my handwriting?

 

It takes me a moment to recognise it. Longer to read the words. The ink is slightly smudged, as if the words have been read many times before. Or perhaps rewritten.

 

If you’re reading this, Arnold, you’re confused again. The truth will feel so close, but still just beyond reach. Please don’t be frightened by that.

 

A lump forms in my throat.

 

The woman next door is not a stranger. She is your neighbour. She is your friend.

 

I read the line twice. Three times.

 

You asked her to watch you when things started slipping. You asked her to make sure you ate. You asked her to be patient.

 

My hands shake as I reach the bottom of the page.

 

Please be kind to her. She’s doing this for you.

 

The kettle is screaming in the kitchen now. It always seems so angry.

 

Outside, through the window, I see the woman next door standing by her fence, her small frame outlined against the afternoon light. Watching. Waiting. As though she has nowhere else she needs to be.

 

Then something shifts. Clicks.

 

My neighbour’s name is Margaret. Of course it is. Margaret, who checks on me. Margaret, who makes sure I eat. Margaret, who is my friend. We’ve been friends for years.

 

I smile at her, and nod my head. She smiles back, and I wonder how often we do this... and whether I will remember doing it tomorrow.

 

Sadness washes over me. How could I forget? But then the delicious smell of rosemary, garlic and mint draws me back towards my dinner. I sit. And then I look towards the beautiful meal prepared for me by Margaret.

 

I smile sadly, knowing she will still be there when I forget again.