Blood Won't Save You
22 Feb 2019Today’s prompt: “A woman thinks she might be living next door to her grandson.” [This one was awkward to do without a little gendered language. If you want a story from a male perspective, sub in “gramps,” “he’s” and “him” in the dialogue.]
You see him out in his front yard again, shirtless, pushing a lawnmower back and forth. He looks so much like your son. Could it be?
Your son had a way with women when he was younger. In fact, he had his way with a lot of them. Most of them, he never saw again. It’s a possibility.
Those same long, rangy arms. Same scruffy dishwater blond hair. Same craggy jawline. You’re practically staring holes in the back of his neck. He turns for a second. You focus your gaze on your iced tea.
What are you supposed to do, though? Walk up to him and say, “Hi, I think you might be my grandson?” Obviously not.
Maybe you can get to know him a bit, casually ask him about his family. Except you’ve never really gotten past “Nice day we’re having” with him.
You hardly know anything about him, other than the fact that he mows his lawn without his shirt on and he has guests late at night. You’ve never seen them. You just hear them, with their weird music. Kids these days have such strange taste.
He’s already putting the mower away. You don’t know how you’ll ever figure out how to talk to him. And yet, on this fine warm Saturday, you think you might stay up to watch him greet his friends.
Nine-thirty rolls around and you’re already yawning. It’s all you can do to stay awake until 10:30. At 11:30, you hear cars pulling up to the house next door. You turn on your porch light and walk outside, a drink in your hand.
The people getting out of the car are in long black robes and blank white masks. They walk up your neighbor’s driveway to the house. Your neighbor answers the door, wearing the same exact thing. Your mouth gapes.
Your neighbor peers over in your direction, surprised to see your porch light on. He pushes his mask up on top of his head.
“What are you doing out here, granny?” he asks.
“Wait, so you think–” you say, then realize he probably calls all old people “gramps” and “granny.”
“Ugh, she’s seen too much. Grab her,” he tells his visitors.
Before you can rush inside and lock your door, they’ve got you. They pull you into your neighbor’s house. He holds a curved knife up to your throat.
“I hate. Nosy. Neighbors,” he says. “Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t be tonight’s sacrifice.”
“Um, I think you might be my grandson?” you say.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, slicing your throat open.