Bad Neighbors

I was jolted awake by a scream. Sweating and confused, I turned quickly to turn on the light beside me. 3am. It wasn’t a scream I heard, it was a nightmare. I quickly remembered where I was. My new townhouse in Maryland, a place that felt like a lifetime away from the nightmares that often plagued my dreams. I did some breathing exercises, calming myself enough to fall back asleep, remembering I'm in Peterson Park now, nothing bad happens in a community this perfect.

Monday, May 12th,

7am. I woke up to the not so subtle tap tap tap of my dog Link signaling that it was time to wake up. I’ll take this over the deafening ‘missiles inbound’ sirens I've been accustomed to for the last 20 years. I rolled out of bed, Link close at my heels. We headed outside for a quick walk, the brisk morning air took my breath away as the door opened. Mindlessly, I scrolled through my phone, I looked up to see Ricky the gardener. Early riser, I thought to myself. I sent a neighborly wave in his direction only to be met with a blank stare. He stabbed his pruning shears into the ground, and mumbled something about too much iron, continuing his early morning shrub maintenance. Guess not everyone is a morning person I thought as Link tugged at the leash. I turned to follow him as I put the somewhat unsettling incident behind me.

830am. I sat on my couch, window shades slightly open, with a piping cup of coffee in hand. My eyes unconsciously glided from the local news to the foot traffic that passed by. People-watching become somewhat of a new hobby of mine. With how Link had been acting, he must have considered himself the unofficial neighborhood watch, barking at every person, squirrel, or leaf that passed by.

12pm. Time for Link’s afternoon walk. You can take the man out of the Navy, but you can’t take the Navy out the man. Still a creature of habit with a set schedule. We walked by a row of impossibly lush gardens, dominated by Mary Peterson’s award-winning hydrangeas and peonies, as stated on the embossed gold plaque in front.

My career had me so stressed that I often felt like a robot, on autopilot, just existing. It didn’t hit me until just then that I’d literally “stopped to smell the roses.” If my colleagues back in Virginia could have seen me. I was taken out of my midday fantasy, when Link pulled on his leash. A sudden breeze had rustled up something out of place, litter, a candy wrapper.

I rolled my eyes at Link, thinking, you're descended from wolves and you’re afraid of a candy wrapper? I fought the wind bending down to pick up the wrapper as it drifted through the wind along the prize winning flower bed. Just as I was about to catch it, a sensible grey slip-on Sketcher shoe stomped firmly on the wrapper.

Like a ghost, that shoe came out of nowhere. I guess in my daydream I hadn’t noticed an older woman walking along the flowerbed's edge. “Mary Peterson” the woman introduced herself, the smell of lavender hitting my nose as she reached to shake my hand. “David” I replied. “I just moved to Peterson Park a few months ago.”

She studied Link and I intently, her eyes darting between the “Keep Dogs Off Grass” sign and Link as I finished introducing myself. “Mary Peterson… Peterson, like the park?” I said.

“Yes, I am the founding member and Homeowners Association President” she replied, a proud tone resonating in her voice. “We are looking for new members, you should stop by our next meeting.” She insisted. “I have some chocolate chip cookies baking so I should be going now. I’ll see you there, 7pm sharp!” She said, as she turned on a dime walking in the other direction.

For such a sweet old lady, the vibes felt off, the coldness of her hand lingered on mine. I could tell Link didn’t care for her either. I was being paranoid again, I needed to start networking. I thought to myself.

7pm. After a productive day of binge watching what seemed like every show on Netflix, it was nice to get out of the house and around other people. The homeowners association meeting was in the community center, just behind the rows of prize winning flower beds. The scent of fresh baked cookies and coffee had hit me as I walked in. They were on a table to my right, four rows of chairs flanked either side of a podium. A schedule of events laid atop each seat, most had already been filled by the time I arrived. I found a seat toward the back as Mary Peterson took her place at the podium.

830pm. An hour and half later, I was leaving the Homeowners Association Meeting as a newly minted volunteer. After all, my days had me more of a Netflix zombie than a productive member of society. Also, in Mary’s defense she had, in less colorful words than I’d been used to hearing, relayed her dismay at the falling standards around the community. A piece of trash here, an overgrown yard there. Nothing earth shattering.

Tuesday, May 20th,

Even with my new duties, days had gone by and I was starting to think I’d been starring in my own version of Rear Window. Link and I sat on the couch every morning, coffee in hand watching as the neighbors went about their day. Other days our observations even went into the evening, coffee changed to bourbon, but the plan was always the same.

I started a journal. The Johnsons in 6215 left their garbage bins out a day longer than permitted, the Cramer family in 7002 painted their front door against the color pallet regulations, and the Smith family in 5110 had weeds overrunning the cracks in their driveway. I got good at noticing all the violations, it became an obsession.

12pm. Link and I patrolled the neighborhood, on the hunt for more violations. We ran into Mary Peterson during our rounds. I showed her my journal filled with all my observations. She was elated! “David, I'm impressed with your initiative!” “I think I can trust you with the next task, being my assistant in the garden.” she gleamed as she described my new duties as her assistant landscaper. “Sign me up!” I replied. “It's hard to get good help around here, unfortunately I had to let my last one go.” she lamented, her eyes darkening as if remembering the moment her last assistant was relieved of their duties. “Let's meet up tomorrow in the garden, 10am sharp!” she demanded as she walked toward her house, her eyes lighting as a smile spread across her face.

Wednesday, May 21st,

945am. The sun was just starting to get high in the sky, but the air in the prize-winning flower bed had felt strangely heavy. I eagerly arrived 15 minutes early as the Navy had made me habitually earlier for everything, to my dismay Mary was already there, standing perfectly still among the hydrangeas. I’d come to realize that when she said "sharp," it wasn't a suggestion; it was an order.

"Good morning, Mary," I called out, my voice sounding too loud for the morning air.

"Good morning," she replied without turning, her focus on the soil.

I looked around, the absence of the usual groundskeeper finally clicked. "I haven’t seen Ricky in a while," I observed. Usually, his blank stares and unsettling vibes were a part of mine and Link’s daily patrol.

"He’s no longer an employee of Peterson Park," she said. Her eyes darkened, a shadow passed over her face. "Enough about Ricky. Let's focus on organic supplementation. It’s my own secret proprietary blend. It’s quite good at keeping the weeds out of the community. Weeds are like bad neighbors, if you don't pull them out by the root, they ruin the whole garden.”

9pm. Mary’s words about pulling weeds by the root echoed in my mind for the rest of the day. It seemed she may have been talking about something other than the garden. I really need to stop overthinking, I thought as I took a swig of bourbon and pressed play on the next episode of Unsolved Mysteries.

Thursday, May 22nd,

10am. Another shift in the garden. I had taken to really enjoying the solidarity of gardening. Yes, I know in my late 30s I shouldn’t have found that much joy in the zen-like experience of gardening, but after the trauma of the last 20 years of active duty, I would take the smell of Mary’s secret fertilizer over jet fuel any day. Just as I finished daydreaming about how care-free I felt, the sun glinted off of something metallic partially buried in the soil. A watch. How strange I thought to myself, someone must have dropped this. I dug the watch out of the ground and noticed an inscription on the back of the watch. “To Ricky”, it said. I wondered if Mary had a forwarding address. I put the watch in my pocket and went about my daily routine.

12pm. Link and I patrolled the neighborhood as we did everyday. 100 steps to the playground, 20 steps to the prize winning garden, another 15 steps to the bird baths. Just as we were about to head home from yet another mundane afternoon walk, that’s when I noticed it. Since our walk yesterday, there had been three new for sale signs up, 6215, 7002, and 5110.

9pm. This was all my fault, I thought, as I took a big gulp of bourbon. I reported every one of them within the last week. The trash bin, the unauthorized door, the weeds! I thought I was just being paranoid. No one just up and moves in the middle of the night because they got hit with an HOA violation.

The guilt of those 'For Sale' signs followed me to the liquor cabinet, I thought, maybe a night cap will help.

Friday, May 23rd,

3am. The bourbon hadn't helped. My insomnia jolted me awake. I did some breathing exercises, trying to calm myself enough to fall back asleep, which didn’t work. I headed downstairs to get a class of water, sluggishly clambering down the stairs in the dark.

Through the kitchen blinds, the streetlamp flickered, a technical violation I would have entered into my journal yesterday. But as the bulb strobed, I saw her.

Mary Peterson stood in the center of her award-winning garden. With every flash of the bulb, she seemed to glitch closer, moving with a speed like a creature from The Conjuring movies.

She wasn't pruning flowers. She was dragging a tarp toward a freshly dug trench beneath the hydrangeas. A limp hand flopped from the tarp. The streetlamp caught the glint of a distinct, gaudy ring. One I had seen before, one worn by the neighbor who played loud music. The same one I had logged into my journal last Tuesday.

My breath hitched, fogging the glass. Mary froze. She looked up, her eyes locking onto my silhouette in the window. There was no neighborly smile this time. Slowly, she lifted her spade, pointing the dirt-covered tip in my direction.

Adrenaline, familiar, like the feeling just before battle stations on the ship, flooded my system. I scrambled to the foyer, my fingers fumbling to ensure the deadbolt was engaged. I was barely a second too fast.

THUD.

My front door shook. Mary had crossed the lawn faster than an eighty-year-old had any right to. She wasn't knocking. She was hacking at the wood with the sharpened edge of her spade.

"David!" she yelled dramatically. "You’re awake past quiet hours!"

Link, usually the type to bark at the slightest sound, backed into the corner of the kitchen, emitting a growl, almost a simper I had never heard before.

The spade punched a jagged hole through the door frame, almost like “Here Johnny” in The Shining. Through the now ominous hole in my front door, I saw her eye-wild and furious.

At that exact moment, I had realization that gave me goosebumps, I hadn't been keeping a journal. I had been writing a hit list, and I was next. Every neighbor I’d reported, every violation I’d obsessively documented. I had marked them … for her.

I retreated into the kitchen, putting as much room between me and the front door as I could. My hands shook as I punched 911. In that moment realizing, this wasn’t a drill and my life was in actual, imminent danger.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"She's burying the neighbors," I scream as my eyes stay locked on the front door, the wood which began to give way. "My neighbor is breaking in. She’s armed."

"Sir, I need you to lock yourself in a safe room," the operator said, her voice calm.

"There’s no time!"

The door jamb shattered with a final, deafening crack. Mary stepped over the threshold. She looked at me with disappointed grandmotherly eyes, the smell of her lavender perfume and secret fertilizer filled my nostrils as she sped toward me.

"Falling standards, David," she smirked. "I expected better from you, my best recruit.”

I dropped the phone and grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet from the drying rack, my Navy training screaming at me to engage. "You're killing them, Mary! You're burying people in the garden!" I shouted, my voice cracking.

“Weeds are like bad neighbors, remember?” she said, almost as calmly as the first time she said it, she lunged, the sharp tip of the spade came ripping through my forearm, the pain white hot, sending a shock through my system.

She raises again to strike a second blow, only for the room to erupt in red and blue light. The sound of sirens cut through the silence. Mary froze, the spade hovering inches from my face. Outside, the "Welcome to Peterson Park" sign was lit like a Christmas tree in the strobing police lights.

It was over, she’d been caught. Mary lowered the spade, smoothing her apron as if she’d simply been caught baking cookies too late at night.

"Sir?" the operator’s voice barely audible from the phone on the floor. "Officers are on scene."

I slumped against the counter, look over at Link shivering in the corner, “I need a dog for protection, I thought” staring at the splintered ruin of my front door.

"This," I whispered to no one, "is not what I signed up for."