There Goes the Neighborhood; Earthly Fantasy/Science Fiction Short Stories

There Goes the Neighborhood

Earthly Fantasy/Science Fiction Short Stories

by

Gary J. Davies

Published by Gary J. Davies on Smashwords

There Goes the Neighborhood; Earthly Fantasy/Science Fiction Short Stories

Copyright 2013 Gary J. Davies

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free e-book. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own free copy.

These stories are works of fiction created by the author and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are a production of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to my wife Susan, who puts up with my time consuming hobbies, and to my favorite author James P. Blaylock for his early enchanting and inspiring elf-laced fantasy novels. Special thanks to my artist-brother Robert Davies for creating the dragon of the cover.

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Contents

Introduction

1. There Goes the Neighborhood (An odd neighbor and house materialize overnight.)

2. Perchance To Dream (Cryogenic dreams.)

3. The Shrinking Nuts Case (A private detective confronts ultimate shrinkage.)

4. Critters (A father confronts critters and ghosts.)

5. Cube (An alien artifact confounds its human guardians.)

6. The Cursing of the Bikes (A Demon Hunter looking for pie encounters a demon biker.)

7. A Quiet Retirement (A retiree with elfin niece encounters the supernatural.)

8. Turtle Talk (Turtles respond to ecological holocaust.)

9. The Walking Man (An unscrupulous businessman encounters a curse.)

10. Dragon Dreams (A psychic detective confronts a murderous demon.)

11. Solution to an Employment Problem (A scientist makes use of another universe.)

12 The Myth Makers (Off-Earth humans cope with their past and future.)

13. In His Image (Technology displaces humanity.)

14. Izzy’s Last Thoughts (A space-alien crashes to Earth.)

15. Perfect Shower Day (A naive man discovers what’s behind his perfect showers.)

16. Farsight (Psychic human confronts people-hunting alien.)

17. Virtual John (Man becomes virtual.)

18. If Einstein Could Fly (Future Earth alternative to technology.)

19. Ageless (Immortality both accepted and avoided.)

20. Raising Baby (The dragon of story #1 attracts danger.)

About the Author and Pending Novels

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Introduction

The short fantasy/science fiction stories of this collection mostly take place on contemporary Earth, or on some slightly futuristic or altered Earth where a technology, ghost, dragon, demon, curse, or space-alien intrudes. Only two of the stories include off-Earth action. Vampires and zombies are steadfastly avoided. Sex and violence is not explicitly presented; such detail is not germane. The stories are in no particular order except for the first story and its sequel the last story, which influenced the title chosen for the collection and provided inspiration for the dragon cover art.

Short stories are a wonderful format for both author and readers. For the author, it is very satisfying to take a story idea and bring it to first-draft fruition in a short time: a story concept that inexplicably pops into the writer’s head can result in a full first draft within days. Short stories also provide value to the author because they sometimes inspire or otherwise provide useful material for novels. Characters, settings, plots, and even entire short stories of this collection have been reused by this author as starting points for novels.

The interesting challenge for the author of the short story is to craft in a relatively few pages a complete and pleasing enough story to be worthy of the attention of both the writer and readers. To accomplish this, the author has the advantage of much greater flexibility than is practical with novels. For example because of much smaller size and complexity, significant short-story re-writes are relatively easy, including changes in plot, characters, or voice.

Novels present the ultimate challenge for the story author. Novels more completely create an alternative reality, characters, and experiences which for an extended time can be shared with readers. The accomplishment is great but the price is very high. Novels can take years to write, requiring a huge commitment of time and effort that is lost if the effort falters. It has been my unfortunate experience when writing novels to encounter ‘writer's block' in mid-story. When writing a short story such difficulties are rarer and far less consequential.

From the reader’s perspective, there are similar short story advantages. Since the entire story is conveniently compact, reading it requires only a few minutes or hours, after which normal life can resume for the reader. This contrasts favorably with novels, which may cost the reader several precious days and nights of committed reading time to consume. Midway through reading a novel, there is risk that a mid-story reading crisis may develop wherein the reader simply wants the story to be over with - a sort of 'reader's block'. More annoying still, a story plot may require several novel-length volumes to come to a satisfactory conclusion, greatly increasing the required reader resource commitment. Reading a short story is inherently a short-duration, low risk activity.

Note: This is the re-edited 2017 version of the 2013 original. Only minor corrections have been made. Thank you, readers, for your warm and helpful remarks with regard to the original release!

Enjoy!

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Return to Contents

There Goes the Neighborhood

Earthly Fantasy/Science Fiction Short Stories

1.

There Goes the Neighborhood

My wife Marjorie noticed it first, as I happened to still be busy driving the old Ford at the time, and was essentially brain-dead after two hundred blissfully boring miles of it. My God, Ed! she exclaimed. There's a new house right next-door to ours!

Huh? I mumbled numbly, as I pulled off Valley Road onto our driveway. At our rural hide-away we didn't have any close neighbors, except for Thornhill further up the road, and he was more of an anti-neighbor. I had heard Marge plainly enough and understood her words, but their impact was dulled by the fact that they didn't make any sense whatsoever! Nor did the sight that greeted me when I finally looked in the direction that she was excitedly pointing!

Indeed there it was, a white Cape Cod style house, sitting in the midst of a well landscaped yard, in what had been an uninhabited wooded lot full of wild pine, spruce, oak, maple and birch when we left for our summer vacation only two weeks earlier. Son of a gun! I exclaimed, absolutely dumbfounded. I also felt deeply disturbed. This was our sanctuary from the rest of the world, and now that sanctity was being violated by some unknown intruder(s)!

It must be one of those modular homes, reasoned Marge. You know, the kind that they bring in on trucks and throw up in only a couple of days.

But just look at it! I exclaimed, as I exited the car and walked numbly towards the immaculate white picket fence that now formed a border between properties. It doesn't even look new! It looks older than our own house! Well, maybe not older exactly, but you know, better established. Just look at the landscaping and fence! Bushes and trees and grass like that don't just appear overnight! And those flowers!

Brought in by professional landscapers, I would imagine, Ed. How else could it have been done?

Of course she was right; she had to be.

Mike Thornhill must have had a change of heart, she noted.

Thornhill? I had been so overcome by the sheer impossibility of the mechanics of the thing, and traumatized by the prospect of having an immediate neighbor, that I hadn't seen the big picture. Suddenly, everything became clear. Thornhill, that bastard, he must have sold out to some developer! He knew that we would be on our annual summer vacation, and he got all this done while we were away just to avoid trouble. I marched off down our driveway towards the road.

Where are you going, Ed? Marge asked. We have to unpack the car!

That can wait. I'm going to give Thornhill what-for, Marge. It won't change anything, but maybe I'll feel better.

Thornhill owned all the land along this stretch of Valley Road except ours. We had been trying to buy the lots next to ours from him for years, to prevent anyone from building on them. But he had refused, saying that's why he bought all the lots around ours in the first place, to prevent more neighbors like us, and that he suspected that if we owned them we'd build on the lots ourselves. Now the slimy bastard had gone and done it himself, obviously as a low blow against us!

Thornhill's place was a couple of hundred yards up the road. His big old farmhouse on a hill overlooked a mile length of Valley Road, rather as a feudal castle or plantation mansion might overlook the holdings of subjugated peasants. But Mike Thornhill was even more of an isolationist than Marge and I; what he wanted to see was his own woods and fields, not neighbors. When Marge and I moved in twelve years ago, things had nearly come to blows. Something momentous must have happened for him to change his mind. Maybe these new folks were relatives of his? That prospect sent new chills down my spine. I imagined a monstrous army of Mike Thornhill look-alikes of various sexes, sizes, and ages, all dedicated to driving Marge and I bananas.

When Thornhill finally answered the door after several minutes of my ringing and pounding, I almost didn't recognize the man. His gaping eyes were fearful and bloodshot, and his hair and clothes disheveled, as though he hadn't slept or groomed in days. He seemed to have shrunk in height by several inches, gained years, and lost dozens of pounds of muscle. His normally robust farm-exercised frame now seemed hardly more physically imposing than my own thin, desk-potato body.

To my surprise, he seemed actually happy and relieved to see me. Before I could utter a single word he shook my hand vigorously, hugged me, and pulled me into his living room as if I were some long-lost brother of his.

Really glad to see you, Ed; this thing is driving me nuts!

He wasn't going to get off easy by being friendly. Listen here, Thornhill, you told us that you bought up all the land around ours to prevent more neighbors. You said that you wouldn't let anyone build on that land. Even if you changed your mind, why did it have to be the lot right next to ours?

He shook his head. Me? No, you've got it all wrong! I didn't do it; nobody sold or built anything!

The man was loony-tunes. Then how did that house get next door to mine? I thundered.

It was the damnedest thing, Ed. In the middle of the night a week ago, I heard an explosion. At first I thought it was your place blowing up. Ha! Now that would have been a neat trick to pull while you were gone, wouldn't it? He grimaced menacingly, giving me just a glimpse of the old shit-head Mike Thornhill, but then the fear returned to his eyes. I went to investigate, and there it was.

What was?

The inhabited house, the fancy manicured yard full of flowers, the whole damn thing!

So it all just magically appeared in the middle of the night?

That's it exactly! That's what I've been trying to tell folks, but they don’t believe me. I can't even get the county sheriff to come out here. It's got to be evil wood sprites or whatever!

Evil wood sprites?

My old grand-daddy used to talk about them. But why would a sprite build a people home? Can you answer me that?

I couldn't begin to. Have you met the people living in the house?

First thing. There's a man living there, but he's weird. A sprite probably, a man-eating fiend! I demanded payment for the land of course, but couldn't even get a straight answer out of him.

Imagine that, I remarked, as I made my way towards the door. This visit had gotten me nowhere. Either Thornhill had actually gone nuts, or he was pulling a masterful hoax.

You going to investigate things for yourself? he asked.

Maybe.

You couldn't get me near that evil sprite house again for anything. Don't push too hard, that's my advice; there's no telling what a sprite might do. If something happens to you and your wife, then it will be just me and him again. I sure as hell don't want that!

Right, of course not, I replied, as I smiled, nodded, and cautiously walked away. Always humor a crazy person; that’s one of my guiding principles in life. I felt safer when I heard his front door slam shut and lock with him inside.

Thornhill was totally bonkers. I would interrogate my new neighbor to find out the truth of things. I wouldn't be confrontational though, I would be friendly, but I would cleverly sneak hard-hitting questions into the conversation.

As I approached the new house, I noticed more oddities about it. There was no driveway or garage, and no car was in sight. Situated out here in the middle of nowhere with no public transportation, how did our new neighbor get around? Bicycle? Also, both along the road in front of the new house and in its front yard everything was perfectly neat and clean; there were no muddy tire tracks, stones, nails, mounds of unused concrete, Coke and beer cans, broken bits of siding and lumber, Twinkie wrappers, cigarette butts, or any of the other typical tell-tale signs of construction. The only two building contractors in the area were Whicomb's and the Belfry Brothers, and neither of them could put up a clothesline without leaving mounds of trash. So who had done this job? I mentally added that question to my growing list.

The red-brick walkway that led from the road to the front porch and door was incredible! The bricks were perfectly uniform and level, and the repeating pattern they formed was intricate and artistic. I couldn’t imagine Whicomb or the Belfrys constructing even the walkway, let along the yard or house.

Despite recent near-draught conditions in the area, the yard was more than just neat, it was perfect. The lawn was greenest grass, as pure and pristine as any golf green I have ever seen. I didn't see a single weed, dead twig, or leaf on it anywhere. The trees were glorious; perfect in symmetry and health of leaf and limb. The flowerbeds were full of thousands of spectacular flowers, and everything was in full bloom without a hint of wilt. Many of the flowers were blooming out of season; I had never before seen spring tulips and daffodils bloom in July, along-side summer zinnias and fall mums. There were also thousands of exotic looking flowers that looked like they would be more at home in the tropics or in a green-house than in a northern Wisconsin yard.

The house, a mid-sized Cape Cod with inviting country porch, was similarly perfect, even close up. The siding was smooth and so white that it seemed to glow, but it wasn't vinyl, aluminum, or wood. I poked at it and still couldn't tell what the heck it was. The white front door was similarly without blemish and of mysterious construction. When I knocked on it, it was like trying to knock on a mountain of solid Granite; I gained no sound, but only sore knuckles for my trouble. Fortunately there was a doorbell.

Mere moments after I rang the bell, a short, thin, middle-aged man opened the door to greet me. He looked pleasant and vaguely familiar, not at all the demon that Thornhill had me expecting. In fact, I felt my animosity towards the whole situation rapidly drain away, almost as though having a new neighbor was a good thing. Yes? he asked with a wide smile.

Hello, I'm your next-door neighbor, Ed Shornfeld. I wanted to introduce myself. I returned his smile and extended my hand. He shook it mechanically with a loose and strangely cold grip.

I have taken the name John Smith. Sorry, I don't normally buy things from door to door sales people, Ed Shornfeld, as may be the custom here.

Me either.

He paused to consider my response. Perhaps though, I should appear to attempt an exception in this case, as you are a neighbor. May I ask what you are selling?

Can't think of anything, I confessed.

Most puzzling. Not at all as predicted from research and from Mr. Thornhill's visit. But just as well, as I have as yet acquired none of the esteemed material objects that you describe as money, he admitted. Of this I informed Mr. Thornhill also.

That's OK; I just stopped in to say hello.

My having no money does not discourage you then, as you are not selling anything?

Right!

He smiled even more intently and motioned for me to sit down with him nearby on the porch, in chairs that oddly enough I hadn't noticed before. It is not then correct to simply assume that a visitor is selling some material thing, or simply wants money, as Mr. Thornhill did?

Not around here. This neighborhood is too far from any town to get sales people. You might get a Jehovah’s Witness once in a blue moon though.

I know of no blue moons in this star's planetary system. By the term 'neighborhood' do you refer to your home, that of Mr. Thornhill, and this home?

That's a good enough working definition. It’s more than a mile to the next bit of civilization.

And you state that it is too far from the city? Would you like then for this neighborhood to be closer to a city? Which city would you prefer?

No, no, I like it right where it is!

And you only came to say hello?

Yes, to exchange greetings. Would have done it sooner, but my wife and I were on vacation.

He nodded his understanding. On vacation? Have you found then that it is better in the Bahamas, as has been frequently stated by humans using long-range communications methods?

I'm sure that it is, but these humans went to Duluth.

Very interesting! You support the proposition that it is indeed better in the Bahamas, yet you decided to experience a small nearby city.

My wife's relatives live there. Besides, vacations are much cheaper in Duluth.

Cheaper?

Cost less money.

Why?

Probably because it is better in the Bahamas.

He nodded his head slowly, as though mulling my statements over, then broke into a smile. Your vacation and mine may have something in common, Ed Shornfeld. Yet I do not yet fully understand everything you have told me. Perhaps after I study your statements further, additional discussion would be helpful.

Sure. I'll be available on most summer days, and then on evenings and weekends, after the school-year starts. My wife and I are both school teachers.

Excellent; I am in a learning mode. Also, I would be most interested in meeting your wife. Your wife is female?

Darn tooting she is! Best kind of wife to have, in my view.

She is apparently the only female human in the neighborhood; I believe it would be very interesting for me to meet her.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice was telling me that this guy was an oddball of yet to be defined eccentricity, and a little too eager to meet Marge, the female human. Marge was a very attractive 34 year-old woman. I'm sure that the experience will be interesting for her, also, I heard myself say, regardless.

Will she come here or should I travel to your home?

I don't know, I replied.

Perhaps you should go ask her? He stood, and I followed his lead.

I'll go ask her now. Nice meeting you, John. We shook hands again, and this time his grip was properly warm and firm.

Thank you for stopping-by, Ed Shornfeld, he said, as I turned and started to walk away. I am encouraged, for your visit has been very helpful to my studies; especially your input confirming the definition of what constitutes the local neighborhood.

Sure thing, John, I replied. Nice guy, I thought. What was the fuss about? He would make a good neighbor. Right?

As I walked home I tried to make sense of the conversation. We had a few misunderstandings to begin with, but then we fell into an effective sort of rhythm, I thought. Effective from Smith's point of view perhaps, but not from mine! I hadn't asked any of my questions! I realized then that somehow Smith had run the whole thing! The conversation had been odd somehow, in ways that I couldn't quite put my finger on, just as Smith's house and the yard were odd.

The oddness became even more apparent when I recounted the Thornhill and Smith conversations to Marge. She was carrying the last loads of luggage into the house. As her ever helpful husband, I held doors open for her.

So Smith is a likeable type and will make a good neighbor? she asked.

I guess so.

I thought that you didn’t want any neighbors, likable or not?

Somehow I’m not so sure about that now.

And Smith is interested in meeting me?

That's the way he put it. Especially once I confirmed that you're a female wife.

A female wife? Isn't that pretty much standard, even nowadays?

I shrugged. He specifically inquired. He also wanted to know if you'd prefer to meet him at his place or ours.

His, definitely! I want to see this perfect house of his. You say that you sense that he’s odd? Maybe he's homosexual, or even from California.

I don't know if he's quite that odd. Why don't you ask him about his sexual preferences when you meet him? You could cleverly sneak it into the conversation.

"Right. So you want me to simply come out and ask this guy about his sexual preferences; then if he does or doesn't make a pass at me, I suppose that cinches it."

Maybe I should go with you.

I didn't have to go with you.

She had me there. Still, I was a bit apprehensive when she immediately went next-door. I watched TV. Ten minutes went by. I paced in front of the TV. Twenty minutes went by. I peeked at Smith's house through our dining room window with my binoculars. I couldn't see them. They weren't on the porch; they must have gone inside. Smith’s window blinds were drawn closed. Thirty minutes went by. I began to practice Kung-Fu moves in front of the dining room mirror, imagining that I was delivering deadly blows to Smith.

Our front door sprang open. Ed! announced Marge, I've brought Johnny to see our place. Why on Earth are you jumping around like that?

Aerobics, I replied. Got to keep fit. Nice to see you again so soon, John. As we shook hands warmly my apprehensions faded away quickly. His hand felt normal I noticed, and his grip had improved even further, as though he had finally learned exactly how shaking hands was supposed to be done.

I am most impressed by your home and its contents, Ed Shornfeld. He walked about poking gently and reverently picking up common objects from Sears and K-Mart as if they were long-lost art treasures. To think that all of this was actually physically manufactured, or even made by craft of hand! These objects have astounding texture and detail, including apparent imperfections! How delightful! He picked up an item and stared at it intently. What's this? he asked, with evident awe.

That's an ashtray, explained Marge. Just in case a visitor absolutely has to smoke. Not that we'd ever encourage such a thing.

Ah, yes, I recall the human smoking ritual. But aside from practical utility it is in the likeness of some sort of living creature.

It's a dragon, I volunteered. I love dragons, but Marge would only allow one in the living room if it also served as an ashtray.

A dragon? Yes, yes, I recall them now! They are extinct in this time-frame.

Unfortunately so, I lamented. Wisdom and terror in one titanic, scaly, rambunctious package that breathed fire, flew, and lived for centuries. Too bad they’re all gone!

Wonderful! And these wall fixtures! Were they also produced by craft of hand?

Yes, painted by starving artists. Actually, Marge did that big landscape painting. I bought the paint though.

You are truly gifted, Marjorie, Smith said. Your work is the best here. But you are not starving I hope?

No, Johnny, laughed Marge, don't be silly. That's just an expression. It reflects an over-supply of art, from an economic viewpoint. Paintings, music, writings, sculptures, you name it; they're mostly dirt-cheap. People produce such things because they enjoy doing so, even if they aren't paid.

What magnificent object is depicted here? he asked, pointing to the tree in the foreground of Marge’s landscape painting.

That's a larch tree, explained Marge. I've always wanted a real one, but I've had to settle for this painting.

The texture of its foliage is fascinating, he remarked.

We let Smith wander all through the house and answered his dumb questions, one after the other. Kitchen, bathroom, basement; every place and every thing seemed to be full of wondrous surprises for him. Despite his obvious intelligence, all of his knowledge seemed to be superficial. It was as if the man had attended a few seminars on living, but had no direct experience with it. I began to wander if he had recently suffered from total amnesia, or escaped from an asylum or monastery.

But that didn't fit either. Even an escaped monk would know what a toilet is for, and that kitchens are used to prepare food, which is then eaten, and so forth all the way to the toilet experience. But such concerns were in the background, for Marge and I were totally captivated by John's child-like innocence, friendly charm, and boundless curiosity.

It was many hours before he finally left us, at which time our point of view dramatically changed. After we ran to the bathrooms and wolfed down some fast food in the kitchen, we sat in the living-room and talked about our odd visitor.

Am I going crazy Marge, or did we just give a total stranger an exhaustive tour of our home, and tell him all we know about everything from sex on waterbeds to using anti-cling sheets in the drier?

At least he seemed to already know something about sex; he mentioned having learned about it on TV.

That’s right; he did make several references to having seen this and that on TV, as if it were his main source of knowledge. What I'd like to know is how he got to be middle-aged without knowing what a toilet is. At least he didn't ask for a tour of our yard.

But he did! That's where we were before we came inside.

I thought that you were in his house the whole time!

No, I never even got a glimpse of the inside of his house. I mentioned right off how spectacular his yard was, and he insisted that he see ours. We went to our backyard and I swear that he fussed over every single plant, even the dead ones. He examined closely that strange old circle of rocks in our yard that the Indians made, and then he went bananas over living insects and birds; it was as if he had never seen real ones before.

Creepy.

But only now that we stop to think about it.

Say, did he look familiar to you?

No, not at all, she answered. But then her jaw dropped and she pointed at the TV, which she had been casually watching as we talked.

My jaw probably dropped too. There was John Smith, our John Smith, doing a TV commercial! He even introduced himself as John Smith as part of the commercial! What's more, there was his Cape-Cod house, or at least the front of it. The commercial itself had something to do with a delivery service; I didn't pay attention to the details. So this was why Smith looked familiar to me when we first met; I must have seen that commercial before! We hadn't seen any TV while on vacation. That meant that the commercial was made before Smith and the house arrived here! As we watched, the commercial aired again, and I wrote down details about it.

What did it all imply? Was Smith an eccentric actor who took the name of his TV character and designed his home to look like the TV prop?

I spent the next morning on the phone, finding out that the commercial was made in Hollywood, and that the actor's name was Nathan Osborne, not Smith. Osborne could not be reached. I gave his answering service my name and number, and told them that I had an acting job for Osborne.

Several days went by, with several hours of each of them occupied by Smith. He would drop in and ask us this or that about practically anything at all, and for some reason we cooperated fully. Each time after he left, we would swear to each other that the next time that Smith showed up we would politely tell him that we were on our way out, or simply too busy to talk to him. But then whenever he returned, we would again fall all over ourselves to do whatever he wanted. We re-toured portions of our house and yard, and watched TV together while Smith asked naïve questions about the programs. While we did that I hoped that Smith's commercial would air, but it didn't.

One day a couple of weeks after it all started, as Smith watched me work in my backyard, I pointed out exactly where Marge always wanted her larch tree to be located. The next morning we discovered a superb 60 feet tall larch in that very spot! Marge insisted that it must have been Smith's mystery landscapers, but I knew better. How? When? We've been home the whole time! Wouldn't we have noticed a monster truck and whatever equipment it takes to dig an elephant-sized root-ball hole and put a twenty-plus ton tree into it?

Did they dig? Marge asked. Look at the flowers and lawn surrounding the trunk. It's the same stuff that's been there all along!

I looked. She was right. There were my marigolds, right where I had left them, growing right up to the trunk of the massive larch. With a shovel I poked around, and concluded that no earth near the tree had been recently disturbed. Thornhill's wood sprite theory was looking better all the time.

From my infrequently used liquor cabinet I retrieved brandy and chugged some down to calm myself so that I could further talk this all over with Marge. Maybe I should go ask Thornhill what else he knows about wood sprites, I suggested.

Don't be silly, Ed. Sprites, mites! Its Hollywood landscapers, that's what it is. Our new neighbor is a bigger and richer actor than we know about, that's all. If Johnny told them not to harm your precious marigolds, then they simply dug them up and put them back so carefully that you can't even tell that they did it. Don't see that lunatic Thornhill again, just ask Johnny about it!

Maybe it was the booze, but Marge's landscaper theory was now looking better to me than the wood sprite alternative. In my mind, I tried to picture an army of stealth-Hollywood landscapers in black ninja outfits and night-vision goggles, sneaking around in our back