Cerita Pendek & Novel Neighbourhood

I gave out my special rat poison for free, trying to fix the complex's rat problem. And my neighbor Brenda turned right around and reported me. She demanded I pay out of pocket to have the rats disposed of humanely. I looked around at the neighbors. "I know a place that'll do it at cost," I said. "Extermination plus sanitizing runs about thirty grand. Split it across every unit and that's maybe twenty bucks a household—" Brenda cut me off before I could finish. "Nora, honey, you're the one who decided to trap those rats." "Why should everyone else foot the bill for that?" "And come on, it's a few hundred rats. You really need that kind of money?" "We're all neighbors here. Don't go shaking us down." I looked up at the neighbors, every one of them dodging my eyes. I couldn't help but smile. Fine. They all just want a free ride. Just don't come crying to me later.

I am a real estate agent. For the past three years, I have been the top seller in the industry. It is not because I am a smooth talker; it is because I can hear houses speak. The houses will chatter about a hollow wall, a leaking pipe, or a window with a bad seal. During move-out inspections, I point out exactly what tenants try to hide. When showing a place to renters, I warn them about hidden red flags. I have been doing this so long that both sides treat me like family. Then, one Friday, a regular client, Eleanor Wilson, shows up. "Devan, the tenants at the Eastmere place are moving out." Eleanor is in her 60s. Her husband is long gone, and she lives off the rental income. She is a sweet soul. She charges 20% below market rate and even makes cookies for her tenants during the holidays. The couple moving out this time is Henry Johnson and his wife. They run a fruit stand at the local market and have a six-year-old daughter, Lea Johnson. "Lea is missing," Eleanor says, her eyes welling with tears. "She vanished outside the market last month. Just like that, in the blink of an eye. Henry and his wife have been searching for a month. They're worn out and broke. They just can't take it anymore." A heaviness settles in my chest at her words. I grab the keys and head out with her. Eleanor gasps for air with every flight of stairs we climb. I walk ahead of her. The moment I slide the key into the lock of Apartment 602, the doorknob vibrates violently against my palm. A second later, I dial 911. "I want to report a case of murder. There's a hidden body on the sixth floor of 18 Montclair Heights, Eastmere. The victim is their daughter."

After passing my veterinary licensing exam, I posted the news online to celebrate. My elderly neighbor, Gloria Vance, immediately fired off a string of messages. [Miles, my grandson's sick. Could you treat him?] [I'm really worried about the boy. He's had a fever for days now.] I slowly typed out a single: [?] Another message came through. [We're neighbors, after all. Just show a little compassion and save the child.] Trying to be kind, I wrote back, [Mrs. Vance, if your grandson's sick, you need to get him to a hospital right away. I can't treat him.] To my surprise, she fired back a voice message. "Aren't you studying medicine? What's the harm in taking a look at my grandson? How can a person be so stingy? "If you won't help, I'll report you to your university and have them expel a student with character as rotten as yours!" I was floored. I study veterinary medicine. How am I supposed to treat a human child?

To escape my father's constant matchmaking, I moved into Westbridge Towers in Ashford, Franklin, a building my family developed. After I agreed to pick up an elderly neighbor's grandson from preschool once, she began telling everyone that I was the child's father. "He abandoned my daughter after getting her pregnant, and now he regrets it. "Yesterday he even volunteered to pick up his son because he wants to make amends." Furious, I posted footage from the camera outside my door to expose the lie. "You begged me to pick up the boy. How did that become proof that I fathered him? "I've barely met your daughter. The child can't possibly be mine. Spread one more lie and I'll call the police." The old woman glared at me and knocked the phone from my hand with her cane. "Marrying my daughter would be the best thing that ever happened to you. The property manager is practically family. "Don't be ungrateful. One word from me, and you'll be thrown out of this building." The entire building belongs to my family, and she still thinks she can evict me?

The first day we moved into our new place, the girl next door, who lived alone, came over with red-rimmed eyes and begged my son to fix the broken water heater in her room. In my previous life, I felt sorry for her, so young and already without parents, so I sent my son over to help. That night her room caught fire. She stumbled out and sobbed to everyone who'd listen. "Her son tried to rape me, and when he couldn't, he set the fire to burn me alive and silence me!" The day the verdict came down, my son's bright future as a pilot was destroyed in an instant, and he became a murderer the whole internet spat on. In prison, my son couldn't take the torture and the bullying, and he ended his own life by throwing himself against a wall. To pay off the debts, I worked three jobs, until one night a heart attack dropped me dead on the street. She, meanwhile, played the fire survivor and launched a crowdfunding campaign, raised three hundred thousand dollars, and paid cash for an apartment downtown. Now, living this life all over again, the girl stood there with red eyes, her voice small and timid. "Ma'am, I'm scared of electricity. Could your son help me out?" I pulled my son back inside, my face blank. "There's a repair number on the wall. The service call is twenty-five dollars."

The day after I moved into my new place, I baked a batch of my best brownies and went to introduce myself to the neighbor downstairs. As soon as she opened the door, a middle-aged woman gave me a long look before shouting into the apartment. "Honey, come here! This is the girl who was tap-dancing upstairs at three in the morning!" I froze. "There must be a mistake. I worked late last night. I didn't even come home." She pulled out her phone and showed me the residents' group chat. "Everyone's talking about it. Someone said they saw you dancing around your living room in red high heels. Building management has already come upstairs three times!" I was so angry my hands were shaking. I was ready to call the police and ask them to check the security cameras. Before I could, my boyfriend caught my arm. "Just let it go," he said. "We just moved in. If we get on her bad side, it'll only make life harder. Just say you're sorry and move on." I looked at his face. He had that same scared, anything-to-keep-the-peace look. Perfect. We hadn't even had our housewarming party yet, and I already had the worst combination possible—a nightmare neighbor and a cowardly boyfriend.

A patient was dying in the ER when my neighbor offered to drive me to the hospital. But the second we hit the highway, she slammed on the brakes and slowed the car to ten miles an hour. I begged her to go faster. Every second could cost that patient their life. She sneered, “In such a hurry to see your lover? Don’t play dumb. I know you’ve been seducing my husband behind my back! “I called him twenty times, and he never picked up. His location is right beside your hospital! “Then I’ll drive as slowly as I want. I’ll make sure you two adulterers suffer every inch of the way.” But when we reached the hospital and she saw who the patient was, she dropped to her knees before me and smashed her forehead bloody.

I am the only student in the entire nation to achieve a perfect score for my SATs this year. My high school has only just posted the list of top scorers on their notice board when the neighborhood's HOA group chat explodes in awe. "Did someone from our neighborhood just get full marks for the SATs? We're already a prestigious neighborhood close to the best high schools in town, and this news will only drive our property values up even more! We might even be able to rent for 1,500 dollars per square foot soon!" "I bet it must be one of those kids from the huge mansions. They've been attending the most elite boarding school since they were young." The HOA vice president, Karen Myers, then posts an announcement in the Emerald Green neighborhood group chat. "Reporters will be coming to interview us tomorrow. Please be mindful of your appearance." Mom digs out her old, faded shirt and looks at herself in the mirror. She smiles so hard that her forehead creases in smiling wrinkles. She awkwardly taps at her phone screen and posts in the group chat, "Thank you for your well-wishes, everyone!" One of the homeowners, Marianne Barnett, replies at once, "Isn't this Mrs. Marshall from the burrito stall? What the hell are you thanking us for?" "Yeah. Don't you feel any shame posting that? Delete that at once." Then, Karen calls us up, her tone filled with disgust. "The chairman of Bloomberg Finance will be visiting our neighborhood tomorrow to personally congratulate the top scorer. It's going to be a huge event. "But since you don't own any proper clothes other than those tattered rags, you'd better keep your filthy stall out of sight so you don't ruin our neighborhood's upscale image!" Mom hesitates. Then, she places her phone face down on the table and says nothing. I then receive a text message from Jonathan Bloomberg, the real estate tycoon who sponsored all of my studies. My finger hovers over the screen as I read his message. "Congratulations, Cathy! I'm bringing the entire board of directors to congratulate you in person tomorrow!"

After I moved into my new apartment, my neighbor, Bianca Ferraro, started showing up at my door every evening for a free meal. I lived alone and always cooked more than I needed. For the sake of keeping the peace, I did not mind sharing. That changed one workday at 3:00 am, when someone pounded on my door and yelled, "Open up! My boyfriend's waiting at the bar downstairs. Make me a cheese platter and open a bottle of red wine. I need to bring it down." I opened the door, still half-asleep, and stared at Bianca standing in the hallway. "You're serious?" She rolled her eyes. "Don't act like it's such a big deal. It won't even take you that long." My temples throbbed. "I'm not your personal chef. Why would I make you food at 3:00 am?" Instead of apologizing, she crossed her arms and scoffed. "No wonder you're still single. You can't even do someone a small favor. What guy would put up with someone like you? “My boyfriend's the most powerful mafia boss around here. One phone call from me and you won't be living on this street anymore." Well. She clearly had no idea that I was the Principessa of this city's most powerful mafia family. Never mind the apartment, the entire street belonged to me.

Right after I finish paying my respects to my dad on his death anniversary, the property manager calls me in a panic. "Joanne, check the group chat! Your dad's gotten himself into huge trouble!" I look at the group chat, and Suzanne Weston has already sent three voice messages, screaming her head off. "Josiah groped me at the plaza last night!" "If you don't pay me 200,000 dollars in compensation, I'll die right here!" There is even a photo attached. In it, my dad is grinning like a creep as he grabs her butt. Everyone in the group chat snaps. Some are calling my dad a shameless old pervert, while others are calling for him to be reported to the police and charged. Rita Lind also chimes in, "That's right! Yesterday, he groped my thigh! Two victims in such a short time? What an old pervert! Including my incident, that makes the settlement 500,000 dollars! Or else, we'll livestream everything and expose your family!" For a moment, I'm too stunned to process what is happening. I stare at my dad's portrait in the living room. He's been dead for a year. Has he returned from the dead to harass the neighbors?