Neighbors

They always nodded when they passed each other in places like the grocery store or the Post Office.
They'd lived next door to each other for three years. Rachel Smythe, age 35, lived with her mother, Alice Smythe, in the smallish Cape Cod house that had been old when Thomas Jefferson had been president.
Randall Jackson, said to be age 37, lived alone behind the Cape Cod in what two hundred and fifty years ago had probably been the servants' quarters. It had been remodeled a number of times, as had the Cape Cod, and it served his purpose. It provided the privacy he needed for his studies.
Rachel and Randall shared a secret. A very dark secret.
Randall Jackson was a warlock.

***
New Haven, Connecticut, has a colorful history as to witchcraft. Puritans had settled there in the 1600s and regularly accused their friends, family, and neighbors of witchcraft. Most often they were wrong in who they accused.
Any witch or warlock worth his or her salt would have been too wise to allow themselves to be outed by some ignorant farmer or shopkeeper's wife.
Randall Jackson's male lineage had an uninterrupted flow of warlocks dating back to those olden times. None had ever been found out.
***
"I do wish you'd consider spending time with that handsome Mr. Jackson," said Alice Smythe to Rachel over dinner. It was a subject that came up at least once a week and it always nettled Rachel.
"He seems nice," continued Alice. "And he has a good job at the Johnson Insurance Agency." And then, as she always wound up her pitch: "You're not getting any younger, ya know."
"Nobody ever gets younger, Mother," said Rachel in an attempt to quiet her.
And then to herself: "Except maybe Randall Jackson."
***
Rachel had been prodded by her mother to marry a high school classmate right after graduation with a similar argument. "You have to get a good one before they're all taken," she'd often said.
The marriage to Tommy Jameson had lasted six months. It had taken Rachel less time than that to find out that Tommy was not a one-woman type of guy. After the second woman had showed up on their doorstep claiming to be carrying his child, Rachel gave Tommy the boot and filed for divorce.
She hadn't dated since, and was happy proofreading for one of the big book publishing companies in New York City. She could work from home and correct the typos of famous authors. She also got to read their work before the general public did.
***
But then one Saturday evening, Randall Jackson had left the curtains in his living room open. From her bedroom, which was in the back of the house on the second floor, she could see right into that room.
Randall was naked, his back to her, and with his hands in the air, appeared to be addressing someone or something above him. There were probably fifty candles lighting the room, and it had the look of a late-night horror movie.
As if sensing he was being watched, Randall had turned quickly and stared up at Rachel's window. Her curtains were also open, and the light from her room revealed her presence.
Randall's penetrating stare had held her in place, stopping her from closing the curtains or stepping away from the window. She'd found herself staring back at him, and then, unable to stop herself, she'd unbuttoned her nightgown and let it fall to the floor.
They'd stood there naked, each in their own houses, looking into each other's eyes.
Then, what could have been something like a strong wind inside of Randall's living room had extinguished his candles and he'd drawn his drapes.
Rachel had then drawn her drapes and had put her nightgown back on. She'd fallen onto her bed and for a minute had shaken with fear.
And then she'd smiled. She'd decided she would be spending some time with "that handsome Mr. Jackson."
***
With the help of the Internet, Rachel had found a lot of information about warlocks. Historically, they were the male equivalent of witches. Though a couple of sites said there was no reason a female couldn't be a warlock.
Warlocks were generally "loners," whereas most witches often belonged to covens.
Early languages had them called "callers of spirits."
"So that's what he's doing with his hands in the air," said Rachel, as she'd stared at her computer screen. The page she was on went on to say that warlocks were known to be "oath breakers," and were not to be trusted.
"Well, that's good to know."
Rachel had continued to play the voyeur role as a passive participant in Randall's Saturday night incantations to the dark side.
After dinner with her mother, she'd go to her room, get undressed, and stand by the window waiting for the spectacle to unfold.
Randall always had the same routine, candles lit, entreating whoever it was he was entreating. He'd often spare a glance over his shoulder to see if Rachel was in attendance.
After a couple of months of watching, Rachel also had her own routine and had let her guard down. One Saturday evening after dinner, Rachel's mother, Alice, had entered Rachel's room without knocking and had been shocked by what she saw.
It was too much for her, and she'd fallen to the floor, a victim of a massive heart attack.
Rachel called 911, her mother was declared dead, and had been driven to the local funeral home.
For the next few weeks, there was no time for Randall and his erotic behavior, as Rachel had funeral arrangements to attend to, and after that, mounds of paperwork to complete.
***
"Will I be moving in with you, or will you be moving in with me?" asked Randall after not seeing Rachel at her window for some time. He'd caught her one morning when she was getting in her car and leaving to go to the store.
"Seriously?" asked Rachel. "I hardly know you."
"Well, 'Seriously?' right back at you. You know me better than anyone else alive knows me."
"So there are dead people who know you as well as I know you?"
"Well, yes, there are quite a number of dead people in my circle of associates," said Randall smugly.
"Associates?"
"Come over tonight at about ten o'clock. You can be with me when I call them up, rather than watching from your window."
"Is this like a date?"
"Oh, it's much more than a date. Much, much, more."
***
Rachel awoke staring at a ceiling that was painted a glossy black. Where was she? She was naked, flat on her back, and her hands and feet were tied to the posts of an old wooden gurney.
Slowly, her memory returned. She'd gone over to Randall's and the two of them had had some drinks. She remembered thinking his living room had looked normal enough without the candles and a naked Randall exhorting something from above.
That was the last she remembered before regaining consciousness.
He'd spiked her drinks!
"Randall!" Rachel yelled. "Where the hell are you, and why am I trussed up like some sacrificial damsel?"
Randall had been busy lighting candles. "I'm right here, Rachel. And depending on how things go tonight, you may be a sacrificial damsel. Or…, the mother of my child."
"What? You're even whackier than I thought," said Rachel. "If you want to have a kid, how about a few dates first? Dinner and a movie? Or is that too pedestrian for a mighty warlock such as yourself to consider?"
"I'm going to call them now," said Randall. "My ancestors will judge whether you're worthy of bearing the next Randall Jackson."
"This I gotta see," Rachel mumbled with a shudder.
***
There were eight of them. Eight specters dressed in period clothes and hair styles that dated back to the 1600s. Randall had called them and they'd obeyed his summons.
They openly stared at Rachel, some ogling more than just staring, and she felt disgusted. Afraid, but disgusted.
"Untie me, Randall. This has gone far enough."
Randall ignored her. He was now deep in conversation with his ancestors. He couldn't be disturbed.
This was a good thing, because Rachel had loosened the two silk scarves that had held her wrists. Randall's love of theatrics had won out over the more practical and securing qualities of rope. And his knowledge of knots was pathetic.
There was a large antique short-sword on a table next to the gurney Rachel was on. Rachel assumed it was to be used on her if Randall's guests had found her lacking in the qualities necessary to be the mother of the next generation's warlock.
Randall was making his case that Rachel would make a fine surrogate mother, and could be done away with after the child was born. He would raise the child as he himself and all those in front of him had been raised.
Her hands loose, Rachel quickly undid the scarves binding her feet. She was off the gurney like a shot, grabbed the short-sword, and without any hesitation, plunged it into Randall's chest.
Breathless, she faced the ancestors. "He was a poser," she said to the group. "I would be a better warlock than he was. He allowed himself to be found out and then allowed himself to be destroyed. Teach me what I need to know and I'll join your ranks."
Some of the wraiths from older periods wanted to reject this out of hand.
"Because of your rash action, it is the end of our line."
"You are a woman. A woman with no standing here."
"What could you possibly bring to the table?"
"My action secured my life and ended his," said Rachel. "Though I'm a woman, that should give me standing. And as to what I 'bring to the table,' who else is going to call you from the netherworld to give you time in the present. Without me, when these candles go out, you go out."
A man dressed in rakish 1940s attire, possibly Randall's father or grandfather, stepped forward.
"Times in the present constantly change," he said with authority. "The netherworld is always the same. I don't think I could spend every Saturday night for the rest of eternity with just you old codgers."
Rachel's education began that night.
THE END