So as typically happens this time of year, I’ve been sick. So I’m just going to chalk February up to a loss and get to your Storystorm prizes in March. I am still recruiting agents for your Storystorm Grand Prizes, where you’ll receive feedback on your 5 best story ideas, to help you determine which to pursue as manuscripts and submissions.

Speaking of submissions, I am sharing a Flash Fiction story I wrote during the pandemic that I cannot seem to place anywhere, so I am publishing it here instead. This is an original story and I hope you enjoy! (Be forewarned, it’s for adults, not kiddos.)

The Neighbors
©2020-2025 by Tara Lazar

We were forced to write the neighbors about the beast.

Louise and I had promised it refuge in our basement in exchange for sparing our family. It assured us that if we kept supplying it with deer and possum, it would remain sated. There would be no need to torment the town. However, it has spent the last week digging passageways to the other homes.

Our son warned us that a beast cannot be believed, and we should have listened. But you don’t heed the kid with straight-Ds who wears t-shirts emblazoned with “Whoof Arted”. Meanwhile, our daughter, the good child, was devoured a month ago. Once again, our fault for the misplaced trust.

“What shall the letter say?” my wife asked.

“How about this,” I replied, pen in hand. “Dear neighbors, it has come to our attention that—”

“No, no, you can’t begin that way. They’ll think we’re telling them to power wash their vinyl siding again. They won’t read past the first line.”

“Then it’s really their fault if they can’t read a simple letter,” I said.

“Use powerful language, Chester. Write it like your clean-up-after-your-pet notice.”

“I won’t swear again, Louise.”

“Of course not, dear. Just be direct. Like your lawn-mowing letter.”

“I’ve got it,” I said, clearing my throat. “Dear neighbors, a beast has infiltrated our neighborhood.”

“Oh, excellent, darling. But shouldn’t you make it clear that you don’t mean Mrs. Stubbs?”

“Good point. Dear neighbors, an inhuman beast has infiltrated our neighborhood.”

“Wonderful! That’s a fine start,” Louise said. “Shall I make us some tea?”

“Spot on. Writing makes me thirsty.”

We composed a letter both urgent and actionable, without being too alarming. We agreed that Mr. Rasmussen, our eldest neighbor, was too fragile to read such a missive, given that his wife had recently passed, so we invited him to dinner instead. We could deliver the news with hearty helpings of Louise’s pot roast and Dutch apple pie, softening the blow.

*****

“We’ve been meaning to have you over for a while,” Louise said, leading Mr. Rasmussen to the dining room. “We were sorry to hear about Mrs. Rasmussen. What a special soul, volunteering at the hospital all those years.”

“Much obliged, Mr. and Mrs. Smythe. Awful kind of you.”

“Please, call us Chester and Louise. And you remember our son, Devin.”

“Goodness gracious. He’s sure grown! Bigger than his father now.”

An intense growl emerged from deep beneath the house, rumbling through the floor in magnificent waves. We held our collective breath, waiting for Mr. Rasmussen’s reaction. He just blinked and asked to use the restroom.

“Do you think he’s going deaf?” Louise asked. “Does he have nerve damage in his feet?”

“I don’t think he’s diabetic,” I replied.

“Well, if he heard or felt that, he didn’t flinch!”

“Good. Maybe this won’t be so difficult after all.”

We worked through the meal with light conversation and waited until we were warm and satisfied to broach the subject. Some things are better discussed on a full stomach.

*****

“I don’t believe you,” Mr. Rasmussen replied.

“I know this is a shock, but it’s living in our basement and it has carved underground routes to every house on King Drive,” I said. “It will pluck you one-by-one from your beds and devour you complete.”

Mr. Rasmussen crossed his arms. “How come you haven’t been devoured?”

“It got to Penelope, the poor dear.” Louise dabbed a napkin under her eye.

“I see,” said Mr. Rasmussen, leaning back. “I still don’t believe you.”

“My God, man! This is no time to be a contrarian!”

“Chester,” Louise said, placing a hand upon my forearm, “we said we were going to be calm and gentle with our guest.”

“Right. My apologies,” I said in a soft tone. “Please understand. This beast is a serious threat.”

“Let’s go see it, then,” said Mr. Rasmussen.

“Pardon me?”

“You’ve got a beast in your basement. Let’s take a look.” He pushed his chair back and stood up.

“I don’t think you comprehend the gravity of this. Going down there is dangerous. I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Hell, I’ve got a lawyer. He advises me, not you.” Mr. Rasmussen started toward the cellar door. “Let me see this thing. I’ll decide for myself if we should run for the hills.”

I blocked his path. “Mr. Rasmussen, I strongly urge you not to open that door.”

He reached for the doorknob and I reacted on a primal level, pushing both hands against his chest, sending him flying backward.

“Chester!” Louise screamed.

Mr. Rasmussen landed with a thwack, slamming his head against the tile floor.

The clamor of the disturbed beast rattled beneath us and the floor seemed to breathe.

The beast galloped up the stairs, thrashing against the walls, snarling and spitting, emitting a brutal heat. Twisting and heaving, it screeched with a sickening sharp note that sounded as if all eternity’s nightmares had joined forces. Then in a flash it dissolved into a tar-like puddle of infinite depth. The liquid bubbled and boiled and from within its abyss emerged a plump, grandmotherly figure with yellow-white hair.

“Mrs. Rasmussen?!”

“You remember my wife, Gertie,” Mr. Rasmussen said, rising, his bashed-in head dripping blood. “Surprising, given you never had us over for supper.”

“Oh, Gerald,” Mrs. Rasmussen slapped at her husband playfully. “Be nice. The Smythes were kind enough to let me stay in their roomy basement.”

“I hope they kept you comfortable, sweetheart.”

“Yes, quite! But I must apologize for the teenage girl. I’m afraid I got carried away that day.”

Mr. Rasmussen proffered his arm and the elderly couple strolled across the living room to the front door, trailing tar and blood.

“Now then,” he said, turning to us, “maybe next time you’ll think twice before sending us another rude letter. We’ll power wash when we damn want to power wash and not a moment sooner.”

 

The End
©2020-2025 by Tara Lazar