I have to go inside now.”
She didn’t even pick up the shovel. She just walked away, fast for a woman her age, like something was chasing her.
That night, I told Karen everything.
“SHE LOOKED TERRIFIED, KAREN. NOT ANNOYED. TERRIFIED.”
“Of you?”
No. Of something in the house.”
Karen sighed and set down her book.
“Honey, she’s 72. She lives alone. Old people get strange. That’s just life.”
“She dropped the shovel like I’d caught her doing something illegal.”
“Or maybe she’s embarrassed. Maybe she’s lonely. Maybe she doesn’t want the whole street gossiping about her.”
Karen—”
“PROMISE ME YOU’LL LEAVE IT ALONE.”
I didn’t promise. I just nodded.
Around two in the morning, I heard it. A scraping sound, slow and deliberate, coming from her side of the fence.
I got up and walked to the window.
There was a figure in her yard, and it seemed too tall and broad to be her. It was moving something heavy under a blue tarp toward her side door.
“Karen,” I whispered. “Karen, wake up.”
What?”
“THERE’S SOMEONE IN HER YARD.”
“Probably her son or something. Come back to bed.”
She doesn’t have anyone visit her. Ever.”
“Then call the police if you’re so worried.”
I picked up the phone. Then I put it down. Then I picked it up again.
What would I even say? That my neighbor’s gardening made me nervous? That I saw a shadow?
IN THE MORNING, I WENT OUTSIDE TO GRAB THE PAPER.
There were muddy footprints leading from her backyard to her side door.
Big boot prints. Definitely not hers.
I knocked on her front door. No answer.
I knocked again.
