The New Neighbors

In a small town in Montana the residents of Maple Lane received a letter in their mailboxes. Every last one of them down to the crabby old man on one end (whom it was social suicide to talk to) and to Mrs. Jackson (who made the rules on what was acceptable and not acceptable in Maple Lane) on the other. Each letter was written in the same neat cursive and in the same envelope. Each letter read the same thing:

Dear Neighbors,

I would like to start this letter by apologizing for any broken porch lights and/or windows. Any rude or antisocial behavior from the children. And anything else that may cause distress.

On a lighter note, I hope you all have a wonderful June and If any of you need anything this summer do not hesitate to ask!

-Marisa Wilson and the Wilson Family

In itself there was nothing altogether strange about the letter. What was curious however was that the Wilsons were not due to move in until the 13th of June. So there was nothing the Wilson’s or their children could have done. What the people of Maple Lane could not have known was that Marisa Wilson was a very practical woman and she was always having to apologize for her son “disturbing” other children in one way or another (never in any major way) so she decided to get the apologies out of the way. 

The neighbors began to talk, most likely Mrs. Jackson had started the talking as it usually was her. They supposed the Wilsons to be a very strange family. Mrs. Hoppkin from two doors down said they must not be right in the head. Mr. Roger from across the street said they probably had some sort of criminal record. Mrs. Jackson said they would have to keep a close eye on the Wilsons, Mrs. Wilson in particular, so that they did not corrupt their innocent children (what those on the street didn’t know was that Mrs. Jackson mostly saw Marisa Wilson as a threat who might one day try to take Mrs. Jackson’s self appointed role of Head-Of-Maple-Lane). No matter what the reasons were, nobody was very excited for them to move in. 

Despite all this the Wilsons arrived on the 13th of June, and though they did not know it, many of their neighbors spied on them through cracks in their curtains. If they were hoping for some outward show of insanity they were disappointed. The Wilsons seemed entirely normal, in fact, they seemed downright respectable. 

Mr. Stephen Wilson worked an ordinary business job where he did ordinary business things. He had normal hobbies like golfing and fishing and–despite what Ms. Smith said– he never drank human blood.

Mrs. Marisa Wilson stayed at home with the children, wore all the appropriately fashionable clothing, cooked to an acceptable degree of deliciousness, cleaned with well-practiced perfection and was not, in fact, a witch (though not all the women on the street were completely convinced of the fact).

Annabelle Wilson was age eleven and seemed to be the perfect model of a preteen girl. She was gentle yet excitable. Pretty and bubbly. Her favorite color was pink and she rode her bicycle to school (always arriving exactly five minutes early). She quickly made friends with equally reputable girls and was never a bully. She had the right dolls and thought all boys had cooties, “like girls should”, Mrs. Jackson said.

At first Clark Wilson seemed to be just as admirable as the rest of his family. He was nine years old and very quiet. He hardly ever ran around with the other boys on the street. He didn’t watch any of the popular TV shows and he never felt the urge to prove his manliness by doing pushups in front of girls or eating worms like “normal children should” as Mrs. Jackson put it. Mostly he read lots of books. He liked to spend time “being quiet” as he put it. So he could see what there was to hear. To complete his strangeness he didn’t even really look like the rest of his family. While they were blonde he had lots of thick dark hair. Many of the adults thought he was quite strange but his mother always defended him. She loved her son and didn’t think there was anything wrong with not wanting to run around half naked in the woods all day like some children did.

And everything was fine for a while. Mrs. Jackson hosted the annual Maple Lane Fourth of July barbecue. Mrs. Marisa Wilson had offered her home, pointing out that since her house was in the middle of the street it would be equally accessible for everyone but Mrs. Jackson had given her a stern look hidden beneath a sweet smile and said, “Oh, in this neighborhood we always do it at my house.” And that was that.

Anyone with any self respect came to Mrs. Jackson's barbecue, so her lawn was filled with people in red, white, and blue, milling around on the lawn eating burgers and hotdogs. Mrs. Jackson made her famous bean dip (which was not really as good as people said it was) and kids were playing soccer in the street or throwing water balloons. Everything was going well until Mrs. Jackson, filling peoples plates with much more food than they asked for, leaned over to Mrs. Web and whispered, “Oh, my. Dear Mary, do you see Clark Wilson over there playing soccer?”

“No,” Mary Web answered back.

“Do you see him throwing water balloons?” Mrs. Jackson asked.

“I do not,” Mrs. Web answered again, but a slow, dawning look of horror and indignation was growing on her face.

Mrs. Jackson was very good at what she did (that being making people's lives miserable and practicing the art of ostracization) and so she continued, “Perhaps he is sitting on the grass and eating?”

“No,” Mrs. Webs said, shaking her head. “I don’t see him. I don’t believe he’s here.”

“What a shame,” Mrs. Jackson responded and she turned her head so that Mrs. Webs wouldn’t see her small smile. The truth was Mrs. Jackson had been hoping for something like this to happen. For now she had the perfect excuse to turn the street against the Wilson Family. It wasn’t that anything truly terrible had happened or even that Mrs. Jackson hated the Wilsons for any particular reason. It was simply that Mrs. Jackson was, deep down, just not a good person.

Mrs. Jackson waved Marisa Wilson over and she came, though she was inwardly not pleased to do so.

“Jessica, Mary,” Mrs. Wilson said as she reached the women. “This is such a pleasant evening isn’t it?”

“Oh yes!” The women agreed.

“Now I couldn’t help but notice that little Clark isn’t here. Is he ill?” Mrs. Jackson asked, her face an expression of mock worry.

I’m sure you could help to notice, you nosy witch, Mrs. Wilson privately thought. But she said, “No, he isn’t sick. He decided to stay home and read.”

“Mmm, doesn't he want to play with the other boys,” Mrs. Web said, affronted. 

Mrs. Wilson turned to where several boys were drinking water off the grass. “I think he’s fine how he is, thank you.”

“Well, I’ll send my little boy over with some food so he doesn't go hungry,” Mrs. Jackson said.

“I do feed my children, Jessica. And I really think Clark would like to be left alone.” Mrs. Wilson knew Mrs. Jackson had many “little boys”, at least four she thought, and most of them were mean and teased Clark enough as it was.

“Right, of course. Lovely to see you Marisa,” Mrs. Jackson said, fully intending to ignore her wishes.

And that was how Paul Jackson, along with four or five other boys from the neighborhood came to be at The Wilson’s door. Paul was big for being ten years old and most of the boys, including his own friends, were scared of him. He held a plate of food he intended to smash into little Clark’s face. Possibly more than once. Then he’d probably do his favorite trick and put poor Clark’s head in the toilet and flush a couple times. However his plans never came to fruition. 

Now, perhaps you may have forgotten about Annabelle, which people usually tend to do. She was so perfectly, acceptably ordinary that there was generally nothing to notice about her. The one thing that could perhaps be abnormal was her outstanding loyalty to Clark. A loyalty most didn’t notice. Clark trusted her with everything, and she took her duty as older sister very seriously. And she did not appreciate people bullying her little brother.

“What are you doing?” Annabelle demanded, standing behind the boys with her hands on her hips.

“Go away, nosy. We’re bringing Clark some food,” Paul snapped.

“Well, give it to me. I can take it,” Annabelle said, holding out her hands.

“No! Now go away.”

Annabelle moved so that she was blocking the door and crossed her arms. Unfortunately for her and Clark, Paul was a lot bigger than Annabelle so he pushed her out of the way and shoved open the door. 

Clark was sitting on the couch reading a book about a boy with a pet dragon when six boys, all taller and stronger than him, rushed into the room.

No one in Maple Lane was entirely sure what happened but what they did know was that six boys, covered in burns of varying severity, ran past a confused Annabelle and all the way back to the barbecue. 

The Mothers of Maple Lane insisted that Mrs. Wilson punish her son but considering there was no actual way for Clark to have burned those children at all, and especially not in such a short amount of time, Mrs. Wilson did not.

Clark, himself, wasn't completely sure what had happened. He only remembered being really angry and then his eyes had gone hot. Annabelle said she had found him unconscious when she came in so he must have fainted for some reason.

As the months passed there seemed to be more and more strange happenings in Maple Lane. The Wilson’s porch lights seemed to break with astonishing regularity. Anyone who tried to bully Clark always walked away with some minor injury and much confusion. And Annabelle lost friend after friend when she continued to stand by her brother. 

All the tension built up was bound to explode and it did one night. Mrs. Jackson was through with the Wilson family and she decided to have a talk with Marisa Wilson. She was marching up to their door with a plate of cookies (she had added just a touch too much salt) when she saw a flicker in one of the bedroom windows. She squinted and walked up. The curtains of Clark's room were mostly closed but through the crack Mrs. Jackson saw Clark. And she screamed. She threw the cookies and ran to her house. Calling many of her friends on the street to tell them what she saw.

Earlier that week Clark had begun to have strange dreams. Dreams about aliens and falling and flying. And to his surprise when he had woken up there had been several objects around his room floating. They all crashed down a second later. Clark was not too surprised though. He had always been a strange boy.

The next time it happened he woke to the sound of Annabelle screaming. She had been going to get a glass of water when she stopped to check in on Clark (she was sweet like that).

“Shhh!” He hissed at her. “It’s okay!”

“Th-they were floating!”

“I know.”

“And you were floating!”

“What?”

Annabelle nodded vigorously. “It's true! You were! Right before you woke up!”

Clark nodded. That explained the feeling of falling and flying in his dreams. “I want to do it again.”

Annabelle bit her lip nervously. “Well, you could try, I guess. But I’m going to watch and make sure you don’t hit your head.”

Clark layed back on his bed and tried to envision his dream again. Nothing happened. But he didn’t stop trying. Every night that week until finally, with Annabelle and, though he didn’t know it, Mrs. Jackson, watching, Clark managed to float in the air, criss-cross-apple-sauce, along with random objects in his room.

Clark fell back to the ground and turned to Annabelle. “Did you scream again?”

“No,” she said, looking anxious. “Someone outside did.”

“It was probably just the wind,” Clark said, unperturbed.

“Hmmm, maybe.”

Clark shrugged and closed his eyes. He wanted to levitate again. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Jackson had woken half the neighborhood and they were all headed towards the Wilson house. While it was possible they planned to be civil, the looks in their eyes and the police behind them said otherwise.

Annabelle caught sight of them through the window and ran to her parents room. Mr. Wilson jolted up, he had thought this moment might come. He ran outside and immediately began arguing with the police, they could not take his son away, he was not crazy, he was wonderful and special and they could not have him, he was not going away, he was not.

Annabelle shook her mother. “Mama! Wake up!” Mrs. Wilson sat up and she ran with Annabelle to Clark’s room. He was still sitting in the middle of the room, eyes closed, impervious to the impending danger. Mrs. Wilson shook him out of his stupor and Clark’s eyes widened as he looked outside.

“I–It happened again,” he said. It had been like this at the old house too. People didn’t like how strange he was.

“It’s going to be okay, honey,” Mrs. Wilson soothed. Mrs. Wilson looked at Clark as she brushed the hair out of his eyes and knew she had to do whatever it took to keep him safe. She had always treated him like her own and it would remain that way. 

She would always keep him safe. No matter how many houses they moved too or how many times she had to change her name.

Martha Kent would always keep her son safe.

The End.