Brad watched the woman going into his neighbours’ house with undisguised fascination. He was new in town and just getting to know everyone. He already knew most of his neighbours, but he had no idea who this strange woman in the outdated clothes was that went in and out of his neighbours’ place just up the hill from him every morning promptly at 9 a.m., leaving again an hour later.
What did she do there, he wondered? She looked fairly harmless, he mused, sometimes carrying a book with her, and sometimes not. She was always in a hurry, though, as if time was important to her.
Watching from his front window, Brad could only guess at what went on in their house every morning like clockwork.
It would be another month before he would find out.
The hand-delivered notice in the mailbox (the village had no door-to-door mail delivery) about a neighbourhood block party had him smiling. Of course he would go. What a perfect way to find out finally who the mysterious woman was.
The party was being held at the same house that the strange woman went to every morning. Dressing for the occasion, Brad headed up the hill that night, his mind filled with questions he wanted answered.
Opening the backyard gate, he quickly joined the conversation with neighbours he had already met while their host manned the barbecue’s sizzling steaks and burgers. The aroma of cooked meat wafted across the garden drawing more people closer and soon neighbourhood gossip was in high gear. With Brad’s curiosity at full boil, he couldn’t wait any longer and finally broached the subject of the strange woman.
The conversation stopped dead in its tracks and you could hear the proverbial pin drop as everyone stared at him.
“What woman?,” said his host.
Brad went on to explain about seeing her every morning promptly at 9 a.m. going into their house and out again promptly at ten.
“What does she look like?,” they asked.
Brad described the woman he had seen, stopping only when he realized they recognized his description as someone they knew.
“Are you sure?,” they said, their faces growing paler with every word Brad uttered.
“Positive. Why?”
“Because that sounds like Mabel Peabody – but it couldn’t be.”
“Why couldn’t it be?”
“Because Mabel Peabody was our house and petsitter for our cat Maizie.”
“So?”
“We haven’t had Maizie for ten years now. Maizie died while we were on a two- week vacation in Cazumel. They told us Mabel must have been so upset about having to tell us when we got back that she suffered a fatal heart attack shortly after. We found her and Maizie together on the couch in our rec room when we got back. They’d been dead since the first week.”
“Oh my god!”
“So you see, it couldn’t be Mabel. Not unless you believe in ghosts, of course” finished his host, smiling gamely as he turned to flip the now charred burgers and stakes on the barbecue.
Smiling back, Brad begged off wanting one of the burgers anymore, telling his host he had suddenly lost his appetite.
His host nodded knowingly, watching Brad head back to the safety of his own house. Maybe there he could convince himself that they had just been putting their new neighbour on - until 9 a.m. came again.
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