Killer Next Door

'Beautiful day, eh?'

Clarence raised his eyes to those of the smiling, fifty-something man who greeted him from over the front garden. The bushes were rather overgrown – between work and hobbies, he couldn't seem to find the time for any housekeeping nowadays. Nonetheless, his neighbour, Wilson, never complained, even when the ivy started creeping into his driveway.

'Gorgeous,' Clarence agreed. 'Warm for October, isn't it?'

'A bit, yeah. Still, it's nice.'

Wilson then went about his business, and Clarence went about his.

There was nothing odd about this. Clarence, who had moved into this 'hood just two months ago, was getting used to Wilson's friendliness. While a full conversation had never been had, the initial polite introductions had quickly turned into cheerful exchanges almost every morning. Clarence wasn't a particularly outgoing man, but found himself somewhat enjoying the warmth his neighbour exhibited. It made him feel a little more... at home.

The next day was a Saturday, and he had no work. However, he decided to dedicate the morning to getting some sorely-needed gardening done, and waded into the shrubbery armed with a pair of rusty shears. Barely five minutes later, Wilson came shuffling down the driveway.

'Lovely day, Clarence. How's things?' he asked, cheerful as ever.

'Good enough. Just trying to regain some control over these bushes.'

'Good, good. I'll give you a hand if you like. Got some spare tools in the garage.'

Assuming that this was meant to be a request, Clarence stuck his shears in the ground and starting walking towards Wilson's garage. However, he was abruptly stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder.

'Oh, no, you don't 'ave to get them. Just give me a sec.'

'You sure? I don't mind,' said Clarence, trying not to make it obvious how much the grab had startled him.

'No, no, it's alright,' said Wilson, already moving.

He returned moments later with a pair of shears – much cleaner and sharper than Clarence's own – and without a word, began to cut the bushes nearest his driveway. For a while, neither of them spoke. It was awkward; though Clarence appreciated the help, he was fairly certain that he was being rude by not talking.

Everything here was unfamiliar. He couldn't stop thinking about how he'd left his life in another town. He always wondered what his ex and kids might be up to right now, whether they missed him, and what they'd talk about next time he came to visit.

It wasn't his fault. Wasn't Noelle's fault either. They had parted amicably. But after living a certain way for so long, it was hard to understand how he was supposed to make things work now. Walking around his empty house and seeing all the little memories of the past eight years made homesickness rise up like bile.

He normally hated it when strangers got too friendly with him, but maybe he tolerated Wilson's behaviour because it made him feel a little less lonely in these uncertain times. Wilson was at least ten years older than him, and though it wasn't much, Clarence sensed a grandfatherly sort of wisdom in the man.

He should make more of an effort. After all, who else in Gooseberry Avenue had tried to welcome him?

'So, uh... You live on your own?' he asked.

A hint of surprise flickered across Wilson's face. 'Oh, yeah. Well, apart from my cats. Got two of 'em. Black cat called Sandy, ginger cat called Sootie.'

'Oh, right,' said Clarence.

He spent the next few minutes pretending to be interested while Wilson rattled on about his cats. By that point, the front garden was trimmed well enough that he didn't see a reason to stay out here any longer.

'I think that's enough for now. Thanks for helping.'

'No problem at all,' said Wilson cheerfully. 'Let me know if you need any more help, alright? I could use a way to pass the time. Gets boring now that I'm retired, you know?'

Smiling, he plodded off to put his shears away.

Wilson couldn't help but notice that he only opened the garage door partway and slammed it shut as soon as he was done.

---

Sunday was mentally tiring, a day of half-faked smiles and awkward conversations that veered towards anything and everything mundane. His kids had been happy to see him, but they were young and just couldn't fathom why Mummy and Daddy didn't live together anymore. Clarence knew that breaking up had been the best choice for their family, knew that Clark and Harry would understand when they were older, but it grated on his nerves to have their innocent little voices asking every ten minutes why he had moved out.

Talking to Noelle had been easier – mostly because she was in on the big secret. It still hurt to look at her and see the weight of knowledge hanging behind her eyes. She didn't want to leave him, and he didn't want to leave her. But staying apart would be better for all of them in the long run. Their relationship had once been... not perfect, but workable. Now they just weren't compatible, and not for any of the reasons their nosy relatives thought.

That night, as he sat in his living room with a glass of drink in one hand and a remote in the other, Clarence heard something. A distant yell, dull thuds, a clang of something hard striking metal. None of the noises were loud, but they caught his attention over the low murmur of the TV.

At first, he was just curious. But then he recognised one of the raised voices as Wilson's, and his curiosity shifted to a sudden, unexpected concern. It was nearly nine PM – who could the friendly old man be yelling at? And what were those other sounds?

He peeled back the curtain, gingerly gazing down the street. In the dark wash between two streetlamps, he saw a pair of figures seemingly grappling against each other. It was hard to make out any distinct features. But he thought he caught a gleam of reflected light near the hand of the shorter figure: a knife blade?

He should have been scared – most people would be – but he felt nothing but a rising concern and a hint of annoyance that these hooligans would interrupt his quiet evening. It was unlikely that anyone would call the police; the people around here didn't seem to give a damn about anything that didn't directly involve them.

Without picking up any sort of weapon, Clarence headed outside.

'Hey!' he shouted. The scene before him froze, both combatants halting mid-motion. 'How about you shut the hell up, some of us want to relax!'

'Mind your own business!' snarled the shorter figure, turning to face him. Now that Clarence was closer, he could make out the angular features of a black-haired, twenty-something man. There was indeed a gleaming knife in his fist. But that wasn't the thing that made Clarence rock back on his heels in shock. The man's eyes – though narrowed in annoyance – were clearly the colour of fresh blood.

Contacts, he thought. But that wasn't it. Something about this man screamed of both familiarity and danger. As the two stared stupidly at each other, he realised that he wasn't the only one experiencing such feelings.

'You shouldn't be interfering,' the man hissed, his eyes going a bit wider.

Clarence straightened his back. Take responsibility, he told himself.

'You should leave people alone,' he replied. 'You'll only get yourself in trouble. What you want isn't worth it.'

They gazed at each other for a moment longer, and then – without another word – the dark-haired man whipped around and ran down a nearby alley. His form melted into the shadows as he went, until Clarence couldn't see even a hint of movement anymore.

Now he was standing on the street with the very person whose cries had alerted him.

'God, these hooligans, I tell you,' Wilson rambled. 'I swear, this neighbourhood's full of crazy people. Thanks for stepping in, Clarence. I owe you.'

His voice didn't sound quite right. Clarence looked him over, wanting to make sure the old man was unharmed. Wilson stood slightly hunched, his arms behind his back in what Clarence interpreted as a gesture of humble gratitude. 'You OK? Do you want me to walk you back to your place?'

'Ah, I'm good. You go on home, son. I'm sorry this little scuffle disturbed your evening.'

Wilson shuffled backwards, smiling and nodding expectantly. Clarence waited for him to turn and walk off, but he didn't. He just kept nodding and smiling. Unease stirred in Clarence's chest. As he hurried back to his own house, he glanced over his shoulder to see Wilson finally beginning to move, but still with his arms behind his back in that strange position.

He didn't dwell on it, assuming that Wilson was rightfully shaken by the incident. He was more disturbed to find another man like himself. At least Noelle and the kids weren't here.

---

If Clarence had thought Wilson's previous behaviour strange, it was nothing compared to what he saw over the next few days. His morning exchanges with Wilson all but stopped, and the one time their gazes happened to meet, the old man had swiftly turned away and gone back inside without a hint of a smile on his face.

Had Wilson been traumatised by the attack that night? He'd seemed fairly normal – if a little off – at the time, but Clarence knew how easy it could be to hide things. Maybe Wilson couldn't stop dwelling on the attack. Maybe just seeing Clarence was enough to trigger unpleasant memories.

He found himself missing their friendly exchanges, but he did not try to approach Wilson. If the man needed space to recover, then that's what Clarence would give him. Most importantly, he hadn't seen the black-haired man again.

Five days after 'that night', Clarence returned from work to see Wilson outside, washing his car in the hazy autumn sun. The car in question was a rusty little VW Beetle that no amount of cleaning would ever bring a shine to. The garage door was ajar, but not enough for anyone to actually see inside; despite this, when Wilson noticed him approaching, he hurried to the garage and slammed it shut.

'What've you got in there? Bodies?' Clarence joked.

For the first time in nearly a week, Wilson spoke to him, but not in the way he expected. 'Nothing that concerns you, son.' His voice was distant and cool, without the jovial touch Clarence was used to hearing.

'OK. Sorry to ask.' With a shrug, Clarence went inside. That Wilson didn't even say anything in return rubbed him the wrong way. The old man always liked to have the last word.

What the hell was going on? It was almost like Wilson hated him now. Clarence almost wanted to march back, get in his face and demand to know why saving his arse had caused this rift between them, but that would never happen, except in his imagination.

He turned his sights onto something else: the garage. Wilson was clearly hiding something in there. Clarence was pretty sure that spite drove him to find out the truth, rather than concern that Wilson actually had corpses in his garage, but either way, he was going to do it.

---

Clarence waited until he knew he would be undisturbed in his mission. As it turned out, Wilson didn't leave home very often – and as of late, he had seemed even less inclined to do so. Stranger still, he continued giving Clarence the cold shoulder over the next two weeks, and only his ingrained British politeness stopped Clarence from demanding to know what the problem was.

One cold Sunday, he learned – by eavesdropping on the local chatter and one phone conversation – that Wilson was planning to visit family tonight and likely wouldn't be home until late. He watched through a gap in the curtains as Wilson's rattly car turned the corner at the end of the road. Now was his chance.

Under the cover of dusk, he approached the garage that Wilson was so secretive about. He quietly checked the door – locked, of course. But the garage itself looked old. There were cracks around the door and the edges of the roof, too small for anything but a mouse or insect to enter.

Now came the risky part, and Clarence could only hope nobody was watching as he closed his eyes and focused on something in the recesses of his mind. He imagined the cold hardness of concrete beneath his bare feet, and a wave of scents coming from every direction. He imagined grass brushing up against his sides and the shadow of a building looming over him. The sights and feelings sharpened in his mind, reaching a clarity akin to reality. And then he felt his body fall.

When Clarence opened his eyes, it was the sight of tiny clawed paws that greeted him first. Looking up, he saw the garage, now as tall as an office block, but fuzzy and desaturated in colour. His vision might be underwhelming, but the smells and sounds of the dusky street assaulted him on all sides.

Moving instinctively, he scurried up the wall, chasing handholds that had once been invisible. When he reached the roof, a crack veiled by cobwebs met his gaze. It was a tight fit, but Clarence pushed all the breath from his body and squeezed inside, dropping into the dark, musty space beyond.

As soon as he hit the garage floor, he changed back into his old self and began to investigate. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the almost total lack of light. When they finally showed him the contents of the garage, Clarence was stunned.

Sharp wooden sticks were hung up along every wall. They weren't just branches, either; they had been purposely carved into something that could only be a weapon. Dark stains clung to the tips of many, showing use. Less prominent but still taking up a lot of the wall space were knives, daggers, chains, and a few old-fashioned pistols. His eyes fell on the wooden stakes.

The bane of my kind.

He must have stared at them for several minutes, piecing together the only explanation in his head. Wilson was a slayer. There was no question about it; what ordinary person would have such a macabre – and distinctive – collection? But he would never have expected the kindly old man to be a killer of his kind. He needed to leave, now. Clearly, Wilson already suspected what Clarence was, judging by his recent behaviour...

There was a sudden bang on the garage door and Clarence whipped around, falling into a defensive posture. Heart racing, he watched the sliver of light near the floor slowly widen.

'Knew it! I knew it! You scoundrel – bloodsucking parasite--'

Wilson's barely-coherent rage spurred Clarence into a sudden anger of his own.

'Why do you have all this?' he demanded. 'Are you some kind of serial killer?'

'You know damn well what I am, and I know what you are, too! I figured it out as soon as you showed up to confront that guy the other night. Only a vampire could chase off a vampire like that! Smart to hide your red eyes with those contacts, but I recognised you in the end!'

Wilson stalked through the garage, glaring at Clarence the whole time. Without looking away, he snatched up a long, thin stake and twirled it in his hand.

'So you're a slayer,' said Clarence, letting pretences drop.

'Damn right I am! Until a few years ago, I was part of a hunter group that worked hard to protect innocent people from nutters like you. I've killed many a vampire, and one more won't be hard, even if I'm retired.'

'Wilson, I've never attacked anyone. I'm just trying to live my life here.'

'That's what they all say! Last one who said those words to me went on to kill a child. I'm never trusting the word of a vampire again.'

'You don't have any proof that I've done anything wrong!'

Wilson advanced on him, and in the confines of the garage, Clarence could only back away so far.

'You're scoping me out,' said Wilson. 'That's why you've been so obsessed with what's in my garage. You guessed what I was, and you've been trying to figure out exactly who you're up against so you can kill me.'

'You're insane,' said Clarence, feeling his back touch a row of hanging stakes.

'And you're a monster!'

With that final word, Wilson lunged, and Clarence learned in that instant that his crooked back and shuffling walk had been faked. He moved with a practised quickness, his stake poised to slide home.

Clarence leapt aside and heard a jarring clatter as several stakes were knocked off the wall behind him. He threw himself towards the garage door, intending to run into the street and shout for help, but Wilson kicked his legs out from under him and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Seeing the point of the stake plunging towards his chest, Clarence instinctively reached up and grabbed it. The palms of his hands were immediately sliced by tiny splinters; he grimaced against the stinging pain, pushing back as hard as he could. Though relatively short and slight, he was a vampire, and that automatically gave him more physical strength than a normal person, slayer or not.

He managed to shove the stake back hard enough that the shaft hit Wilson in the chest. While the old man reeled from the blow, Clarence scrambled backwards, but he wasn't able to make it all the way out the door. Wilson grabbed one of the fallen stakes and fell upon him a second time. With a vicious expression, he stabbed one stake towards Clarence's face and, while Clarence was trying to parry it, plunged the other straight into his shoulder.

The pain was like a fireball; Clarence jerked involuntarily, every nerve in his shoulder set alight by the toxic intrusion. He couldn't suppress a yell as he reached up to forcefully rip the stake out of his flesh. Once it was gone, the agony subsided, but not by much.

Then he reversed the stake, the bloodied stake that had bits of his flesh on it, and rammed it through Wilson's stomach.

At close range, there was little Wilson could do to block or evade the attack. His eyes widened as he tried to move, but he wasn't quick enough this time. Clarence felt a bloodthirsty satisfaction well up inside him as the sharp length of wood embedded itself in the body of his assailant.

How many innocent vampires have you killed in your sorry life?

When Wilson's limp body flopped onto the floor beside him, Clarence's emotions shifted from satisfaction to growing horror.

He sat up. There was a splash of sticky blood underneath him. He pulled himself over to Wilson and inspected his wound, which actually wasn't bleeding much due to being plugged by the stake. He knew better than to remove it.

'Why did you have to do this?' he hissed.

Wilson stirred weakly, trying to focus his disorientated gaze on Clarence. The fight had been shocked right out of him.

'Oh, son... How did you become a monster?' he slurred.

Clarence curled his fist around the hem of Wilson's shirt. 'I'm not a monster, you psycho. My whole life, I've never attacked anyone. I was Turned in a random attack six months ago and I don't even know who my 'creator' is. I had to break up with my wife. I'm immortal, and she's going to get old and die; it wouldn't be fair on either of us.'

He didn't know where this reeling mess of information was coming from or what had prompted him to release it, least of all to a man too dazed to understand. Maybe he'd just kept these feelings to himself for too long and now, amid the adrenaline and shock, it all spilled out.

His phone wasn't in his pocket, but he found Wilson's and shakily dialled the emergency services with blood-smeared fingers. He needed to leave. Before they found him. Too much evidence here.

Posing as a concerned bystander who had found his neighbour badly wounded, he summoned an ambulance, then sat back to observe the gruesome scene. He hadn't intended to cause this much harm – maybe he really was a monster, just like Wilson said. Then again, monsters probably didn't feel sick when they looked at their handiwork.

'Self-defence,' he muttered, trying to wipe his hands on his trousers.

'Clarence,' Wilson mumbled. 'Sorry...'

'Don't bother,' said Clarence. 'You've already ruined my life. I'm going to have to go into hiding because of you.'

'Nah... I won't turn you in...'

Clarence didn't believe it. A few minutes ago, Wilson had fully intended to murder him just for being a vampire. He stood up, trying not to slip in the patch of blood. His shoulder burned like acid. The pain made him lightheaded; he couldn't focus properly and his thoughts hummed in a mantra, telling him to escape, escape, escape.

He returned to his house and gathered up the few possessions that actually mattered to him. A vague plan was forming in his head, involving telling Noelle about the situation, hoping she didn't completely hate him, and then abandoning his human life to disappear into the shadows. He knew he could hide, but at what cost?

He threw everything into the back of his car and drove off into the night, passing the ambulance as it flew by in a blur of sapphire lights.