The Man Next Door

Millie didn’t know her neighbour. Ever since she moved in two years ago after her mum’s death she’d only seen him once or twice, lingering by the window that was draped with cobwebs and splintered with cracks, overlooking the dry, yellow grass and bare bushes with skeleton-arms that looked like they had been struck by lightning. He always had a sorrowful look on his face, a wistful longing that made Millie curious, a mouth always a tight line over sunken eyes. So she asked about him at school.

‘Do you know my neighbour?’ She asked the swarm of other ten-year-old girls unpacking pink glittery lunchboxes meticulously packed with heart-shaped fruit and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Millie had two slices of bread that she picked the mould off with a single slice of lettuce between them –she’d never had meat or cheese in a sandwich since her mum stopped making them for her –and since the fridge stopped working. It only took one bacteria-related sickness for Millie to learn her lesson.

‘You mean Mr Wesley?’ Poppy had a mouth full of pasta she had dug out of a thermos and eyes that sparkled with glee like the sequins on her pencil case did. Millie had always been secretly jealous of that pencil case. She used a rubber band that had long lost its elasticity to hold her pencil, sharpener and rubber together. It’d be easier when she got her pen licence.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go asking about him.’ Serina leaned in close, her ears burning at the sound of gossip. ‘I heard he can hear us, you know, if we say his name. Like you know who.’ She nodded convincingly, her eyes wide.

‘Uh huh,’ Millie said slowly. ‘Right.’

‘Yeah, I heard one Halloween, a kid decided to know on his door for lollies. No one ever heard from him again.’ Poppy looked deathly serious, not so much as a twitch in her chubby cheeks. ‘You have a death wish if you even think about going up to that house tomorrow.’

Tomorrow was Halloween. It was Millie’s favourite day of the year, even more than her birthday. No one noticed that her clothes had large, gaping holes or patches of mystery substance so intertwined in the fabric that no amount of scrubbing would get them out. No one cared that her face was mottled with dirt and her hair was a frazzled mess hastily tied in a bun behind her head because it was all part of her costume.

‘I’ll do it,’ Millie said, surprising herself. ‘For two bags of Skittles.’

Poppy’s mouth gaped open. ‘Deal!’ She squeaked, her eyes wild with excitement.

Millie met Poppy, Serina and Daisy, Poppy’s seven-year-old little sister at five-thirty, when the sun hung like a glowing ball low in the sky, still peeking over the horizon. Serina had wanted to go later but Millie’s dad always woke up around six from his intoxicated slumber from whenever he chugged the foul-smelling bottles she always found stuffed beneath the sofa cushions and Millie did not want to be there when it happened.

Millie wore a large, dark, pointed hat she had fashioned from glue and shiny layers of sticky tape on black paper during reading time at school, a black t-shirt that she swore used to be grey with a dusting of tiny holes, like a mouse had been nibbling on it over tiny black shorts that her mum had bought her several years ago. She found her black boots discarded on the side of the road, but she started to regret it when the tough leather rubbed against the delicate skin on her toes.

‘I’ll hold onto these, for safekeeping,’ Serina grabbed two bags of the rainbow lollies from a disgruntled but eager Poppy, who watched on as the girls approached Mr Wesley’s house. Millie gulped uneasily. The house didn’t look so menacing in the daylight. Maybe it was the shadows that danced across the withering garden, choked with weeds, stretched out into long limbs across the yellowed grass. Or maybe it was the singular, large window, reflecting the moon like a luminous eye, somehow watching them.

‘Go on, then,’ Poppy said, her mouth flickering into a smirk. ‘Unless you don’t want the Skittles?’

Millie swallowed her doubt, pressured by her onlooking friends. She clutched the small woven basket she had found at a thrift store between her hands, ascending up the mossy brick pathway towards the door that seemed to stretch in front of her.

Millie knocked. ‘Louder!’ Serina hissed, but Millie was frozen. Thumping footsteps sent her friends scattering behind her in a fit of giggles. Millie shivered. She was alone now.

‘Yes?’ Mr Wesley peered out from behind the door, his voice a deep growl.

‘Trick or treat?’ Millie’s voice was almost a whisper, her hands shaking as she brought the basket in front of her face.

Mr Wesley paused, as if thinking for a moment. He ran a hand through his wispy grey hair, sitting like a halo around a bald spot in the middle of his head.

‘You know, you’re the first kid I’ve had at my door in a minute. I almost didn’t buy candy this year.’ The door creaked open and Mr Wesley revealed a small bowl of lollies –all of her favourites. Brightly coloured packets of chocolates and lollies all in pristine condition.

Mr Wesley grabbed a handful of lollies –almost half the bowl’s worth –and dropped it into Millie’s basket.

‘Woah,’ she gasped. A spread like that would last her a while. ‘Thank you!’

Mr Wesley’s face broke out into a smile, gouging into the deep creases around his mouth and beside his eyes.

‘You are very welcome,’ he replied. ‘What’s your name, dear?’

‘Millie.’

‘Well, Millie, I won’t keep you any longer. You have a nice night, now.’ He smiled at her again, a soft, watery gesture, but she knew it was sincere.

Millie got a glimpse inside his house as he shut the door. A small shelf was in the hallway, piled with colourful toys –baby toys. Tiny books with large, simple words. Rattles and dummies. A tiny walker.

She snapped out of it as the door gently clicked shut and the toys disappeared.

‘Millie!’ A voice hissed. Serina, Poppy and Daisy had visited another house while she was at Mr Wesley’s. ‘Millie! Earth to Millie! Gosh, I think he got her too!’ Hushed giggles as she turned around and walked back down the path towards her friends.

‘Well, what was he like? What was in his house?’ Serina giggled behind her hand, ushering the group away from the house.

‘Ooh, I bet he keeps a spider for a pet!’ Poppy joined in enthusiastically. ‘What did he give you?’

Millie glanced back down into her basket, now significantly fuller than the other girls’. ‘Lollipops, Zappos, Warheads…’ She noticed a few Easter eggs amongst the lollies. ‘Doesn’t matter. I have these now too.’ She snatched the Skittles from Serina and dumped them on top of her pile.

‘Gosh, that guy is so weird! I’m surprised he didn’t try to, like, kidnap her, or something!’

‘I know, right! He should be banned from living here. I wonder if he’s got a criminal record.’ Millie’s friends went on belittling the man, but for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to join in. He had been so nice to her, and the baby toys inside his home made her stomach knot with unease.

The next few days, Millie had lollies for lunch. Another benefit of Halloween –food that could last her at least a week. The bread had run out a few days prior when she had picked the mould off the end pieces. Her dad might pick up more when his stash of beer ran out, but that was never a certainty. Her friends would gush over her lunch –a handful of lollies tucked into a grubby, overused zip-loc bag, but secretly, she was jealous of the cucumbers cut into fingers and sandwiches with too-much butter stuffed with meat and the lettuce they always threw out.

Millie often walked to the library after school. It was a quiet haven of books and stories which transported her to other worlds for a brief moment of relief. A brief moment where she could just take a breath and forget about everything else that was happening in the world.

‘Hi, Millie, how are you?’ Millie almost jumped at the mention of her name –usually the only people saying it were the ones spitting it at her with such force it felt like a bullet.

‘Oh, hi Mr Wesley. I’m alright, thanks. How are you?’ The old man had a book clutched under his arm, Matilda, one of Millie’s favourites.

‘Good to hear. Not bad myself. Say, have you read this book? I was thinking of borrowing it for myself.’ Mr Wesley’s eyes traced her wrist where a dark bruise was covered by a hair-tie.

‘Yeah, it’s my favourite. It’s about this girl, and she –’ Millie cut herself off. ‘Well, I don’t want to spoil it. You have to read it for yourself.’

Mr Wesley smiled, perching gently on a chair beside her. ‘Will do.’ He paused, running a hand through his bedraggled beard. ‘Do you come here often, Millie? Do you read a lot?’

Millie nodded. ‘Yeah, pretty often. Most days after school. I like reading.’

Mr Wesley spoke softly. ‘How did you get that bruise, Millie? Did someone do that to you?’

Millie’s cheeks flushed. Her heart began to race, like it did when her dad’s eyes were alight with rage and his hands like steel cuffs around her wrists. The screaming. The fights. Her hiding in her closet, face staining with tears.

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

Mr Wesley let out a gentle sigh, a stream of air expelling from his nose. He opened the cover of the book, Matilda, that was well-thumbed, the edges creased from previous owners dog-earing the pages or licking their fingers before turning them.

‘A lot of people –kids, especially –are scared of my house, and I don’t blame them,’ he started, and Millie’s eyes widened in a mix of shock and embarrassment. She didn’t realise he knew what everyone thought of him. ‘I live alone, I hardly go out and my house, well, isn’t in the greatest condition. I understand why people just think I’m a grouchy old man.’

Millie opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it again. That was exactly what people thought of him.

‘I had a wife, a long time ago. And a daughter.’ His eyes grew misty. ‘Loved them to pieces. More than you know. It was great. Until my wife came to give birth. She had some complications. Told me to save the baby if it came down to it. It was the hardest decision of my life. But that’s what she wanted, so that’s what I did.’ His eyes were glazed now. ‘Except she didn’t make it either. She lived barely half an hour. I saw her tiny face once before she was whisked away and I was informed of her death.’ His voice broke and Millie sniffed, suddenly realising the story had brought tears to her eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Mr Wesley seemed to vanish inside of himself, his eyes blank and pensive, staring at the pages of the book. ‘That must have been hard.’

‘Yes, it was a tough time,’ Mr Wesley agreed wistfully.

‘I lost someone once, too.’ Millie didn’t know what she was saying, or why she felt compelled to say it. There was a sort of openness –a plain sincerity that she felt comfortable exposing her deepest wounds to, the gashes that were still raw beneath layers of bloodied bandages. ‘My mum. Two years ago. To breast cancer.’ Her voice grew fainter as she spoke, shaking like it was about to give out on her.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Mr Wesley responded.

Millie nodded listlessly, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘She always kept the house in order. She protected me. Now she’s gone, and she’s never coming back.’ Millie felt a lump forming in her throat, bobbing like a buoy in the ocean.

‘Who did she protect you from?’ Mr Wesley suddenly seemed very interested, gently nudging her in the right direction until she relented.

‘My dad. He –he’s not a bad person. He just gets drunk sometimes, and it’s scary.’ Millie glanced down at the bruise on her wrist, adjusting the hair-tie to cover it. She didn’t want anything to happen to her dad, so she didn’t mention how he got drunk every day.

For the first time, Mr Wesley seemed to absorb Millie’s full self –her school shirt that was grimy and riddled with holes over her thin frame, the bruises and her schoolbag sitting limply beside her.

‘I want you to know that you can always come to my house. Any time, any day. My door will open for you. Okay, Millie?’ His voice was firm but had a soft tone and Millie could imagine the old man to be a caring father if he ever got the chance.

Millie nodded, her head flopping up and down like a rag doll. ‘I should be getting home. He doesn’t like it if I’m out too late.’

‘Okay. Remember what I said, Millie.’

She nodded again.

‘Thank you, Mr Wesley.’

Millie hurried home, her footfalls drumming loudly against the concrete path. Above her, a streetlight flickered to life. Then another. Then another, until the entire street was brightened by yellow lights illuminating her path. Millie gasped, her heart rocketing into her throat. She could see her house, the door left slightly ajar. And a dark shadow looming by the window.

‘Where have you been?’ A low, guttural growl as soon as she entered. Slurred, the words melding together as if they had clumsily been strung into a sentence. A strong, potent smell radiating from his mouth, poisoning his words.

‘I’m sorry,’ Millie squeaked. Her instinctive reaction. ‘I –I just went to the library, t –to –’

‘To what?!’ He drove his fist into the wall leaving a small impression –so many, now that it was more indent and less wall. Millie flinched, shrivelling into herself. She wanted to disappear. To not be. To be absorbed by the ground beneath her and spat out when her mum was still alive.

‘Don’t touch her.’ Another voice. Equally as menacing. A threat. It was Mr Wesley.

‘Get out of my house. This doesn’t involve you, old man.’

‘You can’t do this, Ryan. This is abuse.’

‘I can do whatever I want.’

Mr Wesley knelt down to Millie’s level, his hands on her shoulders.

‘Grab whatever you need for the night and meet me here. I’ll take you over to my place. How does that sound?’

Millie nodded shakily and darted up the stairs. She swept everything she owned into her schoolbag –which wasn’t much. A toothbrush with bristles so frayed they looked like a dog’s matted fur, a library book she had borrowed. Her water bottle. Some extra clothes. A photo of her and her mum, handled with such care it was as if it was made of gold. Which it was, to Millie. The memories of her mum were fading and replaced by her dad, her new school, the new house. And now, Mr Wesley. She wanted to be out of the house but her dad was her only family left.

‘Ready?’ Mr Wesley was still at a stand-off with Millie’s dad. His face softened for her but hardened as he turned back to her dad, a guiding hand on Millie’s back.

‘You can’t take her,’ he protested. But Mr Wesley paid him no attention. Because they both knew there was nothing he could do.

As Millie was let inside her new room, she realised it was more inviting than she had first took it for. It was brightly painted a rosy pink with a small bed in the corner, a chest of drawers and a desk with a pad of paper.

Millie felt a fullness she hadn’t felt in over two years. Mr Wesley wasn’t the creepy man next door anymore. He was something else.

Something like the family she had been yearning for since her mum’s death.

Something like the inviting home of hot dinners and late-night secrets shared over a bowl of snacks –something she had only experienced at a friend’s house, never at her own.

Millie knew her life would never be the same again.