Story code: ST-000914
Part 2: The Neighbor’s Watch
Mr. Harrison’s rubber-soled boots squelched against the damp grass. He was a retired actuary who treated the neighborhood watch like a full-time military commission. “Elena,” he called out, his voice a booming baritone that shattered the quiet morning. “I saw Brenda storming off. She tag you again?”
Elena squeezed the crumpled pink notice in her fist and shoved her hand deeper into her jacket pocket. “Just a routine check, Arthur. Everything is fine.”
“Fine?” Harrison stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, planting his hands firmly on his hips. He gestured sharply toward the street. “That rusted-out eyesore has been sitting there since Sunday. Smells like a backed-up sewer every time the wind shifts. My wife is threatening to withhold her HOA dues if Brenda doesn’t get it towed immediately.”
“It’ll be gone soon,” Elena lied, her eyes darting anxiously toward the street. Where was the delivery driver? The app had said three minutes, and that had been two minutes ago.
Harrison stepped up onto the first wooden step, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Look, I know you live alone here. Maybe you’re intimidated. You don’t have to confront this lunatic yourself.” He pulled a silver smartphone from the belt clip on his jeans. “My nephew is a dispatcher at the precinct. I can have a black-and-white out here in five minutes. They’ll run the plates, drag that junk heap to the impound lot, and toss whoever is squatting inside straight into a holding cell.”
The blood drained from Elena’s face. “No!” The word erupted out of her, too loud, too desperate.
Harrison blinked, his thumb hovering over his phone screen. “No?”
“I mean,” Elena stammered, her mind racing for an excuse, “I already spoke to the non-emergency line. They said there’s a mandatory waiting period before they can tow an occupied vehicle on a public street. Calling them again will just tie up their resources.”
Harrison frowned, a deep crease forming between his gray brows. “A waiting period? I’ve never heard of that in this county. Let me just text Jim-”
“Please, Arthur, don’t.” Elena took a step down the porch, physically blocking his view of the street. “It is being handled. I promise you.”
A low, rhythmic grinding sound cut through the tense silence. A faded sedge-green hatchback turned onto the cul-de-sac, its muffler rattling harshly against the pavement. The delivery driver.
Elena’s breath hitched as the hatchback rolled past Harrison’s pristine mailbox and slowed to a crawl directly beside the rusted van. The driver, a teenager wearing an oversized hoodie, threw the car into park and grabbed two bulging plastic grocery bags from the passenger seat.
Harrison turned his head, squinting. “What’s this now? You ordering groceries for the street?”
“They’re mine,” Elena said, her voice cracking. She practically threw herself down the remaining porch steps, her sneakers slipping on the slick grass as she sprinted toward the curb.
The teenager was staring at his phone, then looking up at the van’s front passenger tire, clearly bewildered by the highly specific drop-off instructions. He took a hesitant step toward the rotting metal side panel.
“Wait!” Elena shouted, waving her arms.
The teenager jumped, nearly dropping the heavy bags. “Uh, delivery for E.M.?”
“That’s me,” Elena said, arriving breathless at the curb. She grabbed the handles of the bags, but the teenager didn’t immediately let go.
“The app said to leave it by the tire of the creepy van,” the kid said, his voice easily loud enough to carry across the quiet yard.
Behind her, Elena heard Harrison’s boots crunching on the driveway concrete. He was moving closer.
“I know, I made a mistake on the app,” Elena said, yanking the bags hard. The teenager let go, shrugging, and turned back to his hatchback.
“Mistake?” Harrison asked. He was standing less than ten feet away now, his arms crossed over his chest. “Why would you tell a delivery driver to leave your food next to that biohazard?”
Elena hugged the grocery bags to her chest. The sharp edge of a soup can dug painfully into her ribs. “I was… going to be working out here. Pulling weeds near the curb. I wanted them handy so I wouldn’t have to keep going inside with dirty shoes.”
It was a pathetic, nonsensical lie. She knew it. Harrison knew it.
The retired actuary stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. His eyes dropped to the heavy grocery bags, then shifted to the opaque, grime-covered windows of the van. The dots were connecting in his mind.
“You’re feeding them,” Harrison stated, his voice flat and cold.
“Arthur, please-”
“You’re supplying that… that vagrant.” Harrison took a step back, a look of utter disgust washing over his face. “Brenda is slapping you with fines, ruining your credit, and you’re buying them groceries? Are you out of your mind, Elena? What kind of trouble are you mixed up in?”
“It’s not what you think. I just need a little more time.”
“You don’t have time,” Harrison snapped. “I’m not waiting on the HOA anymore. I’m calling Jim right now. The police can sort out whatever sick game this is.”
He turned his back on her, marching furiously up his own driveway with his phone pressed to his ear.
Panic clawed at Elena’s throat. She had maybe ten minutes before a squad car rounded the corner. If the police knocked on that van door, if they forced their way inside, everything was over. The secret she had bankrupted herself to protect would be exposed, and the consequences would be far worse than a five-hundred-dollar fine.
She spun around and hurried to the side of the van, staying out of sight of Harrison’s windows. The stench of metallic decay and stale sweat was overpowering here. She dropped the grocery bags roughly against the front passenger tire.
She stepped close to the filthy side panel, pressing her mouth near a rusted vent. “You have to leave,” she whispered fiercely. “The police are coming. I brought you the food, just like you asked. Now start the engine and get out of here!”
Silence.
“Please!” Elena begged, tears of frustration pricking her eyes.
There was a harsh scrape of metal. The heavy side door of the van slid open exactly two inches. From the pitch-black interior, a hand shot out. The skin was impossibly pale, the fingernails ragged and dark with grease. It hooked its fingers into the plastic loops of the grocery bags and yanked them inside with terrifying strength.
Before the door could slam shut, a crumpled piece of fast-food wrapper was shoved through the gap. It fluttered to the asphalt, landing by Elena’s shoe.
The van door slammed shut. The lock clicked heavily into place. The engine remained dead silent.
Elena knelt on the wet street, her hands trembling as she picked up the greasy wrapper. Scrawled across the paper in thick, black marker were just a few words.
*Not enough. Three thousand cash by tonight, or I show them the pictures.*
Elena stared at the demand, her lungs forgetting how to draw air. In the distance, the faint but distinct wail of police sirens began to rise.