“Is Emma home alone, then?” Jacob asked.

Shaking his head, Daniel sighed. “No. . . Jazz’s with her. I thought they’d like some girl time or whatever.”

Jacob nodded. “Oh, okay.” Daniel wasn’t telling the truth, but he didn’t press it. As far as he knew, there had been no problems with Daniel and Emma’s marriage, but anyone could put on a show. And recently, his friend had been acting weird, seeming to avoid any mention of his wife.

“How’s work been going?” Daniel asked.

Jacob mentally shook himself, focusing back on his friend. “Oh, good. And you?”

They talked about other meaningless things for the next ten minutes or so. Jacob kept looking for an opporutnity to ask about Emma, but so far, nothing else had been presented.

“Well, I probably should be getting home. I don’t like to leave my poor Ava on her own with the triplets; they can be a handful,” Jacob said.

“I don’t think I could handle kids,” Daniel admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “And I don’t think Emma could, either. . .”

The last part didn’t even seem to be directed at Jacob.

“Speaking of Emma. . . how’s she been? I haven’t seen her around lately, and Ava wanted to have you guys over. But if she’s sick or something, maybe we could a make a meal?”

Daniel seemed troubled, turning his gaze to the empty plate resting on the sticky diner’s table. Swallowing, he said, “Oh, she’s her usual self.” His forced smile made Jacob even more uneasy, but once again, he didn’t press it.

“Well, it was nice getting to have some one-on-one time with you, and I hope we can get together again some time in the near future,” he said, standing to his feet.

“I hope so, too.”

They shook hands and Jacob walked out of the diner, casting one last glance over his shoulder at Daniel.

###

Daniel sat in his car for almost fifteen minutes before the trickle of tears slowed. With a ragged sigh, he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

Jazz’s car isn’t here anymore, and I don’t want Emma alone. What if something happened to her?

This thought finally drove him out of the vehicle and towards the small house. Simplistic but cozy in daylight, the shadows from the trees playing across its surface made it appear sinister and foreboding. Daniel didn’t hesitate, though, his thoughts on only one thing--his wife.

The door was locked, a great relief to him. He unlocked it and stepped inside.

“Em?” he called softly, not wanting to wake her up if she had already gone to bed.

“I’m in here,” she replied.

Daniel relaxed a little bit more, following her sweet voice to the living room, where she was laying on the couch. The recess lighting was turned down, bathing everything in its soft glow. Emma looked angelic, golden red hair spread out across the pillows, pale skin smooth and soft.

“Hey, beautiful,” he whispered, sitting down on the couch and caressing her cheek. “I’m sorry you had to be alone. . . I didn’t know Jazz would leave so early.”

“No, it’s okay.” She smiled. “It’s good for you to get out, see some of your friends. How’s Jacob doing?”

“Good as ever. They’ve got a lot going on, and from what I gathered, the triplets are hard to keep up with.”

“Imagine trying to potty train them,” Emma shuddered, causing Daniel to smile.

She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, the corners of her mouth turning down.

Daniel sobered. “Does it hurt?”

“Just a little, not too much.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him again. “There are many people who have it so much worse than I do. . . I really am blessed.”

He pulled her into his arms, sobbing.

Cancer could not take his Emma.

Nobody lives in the last house on Olive Lane.

Nobody has lived in it since it was built.

The close-knit neighbours all know that the front gate at No. 57 opens itself at night - often very rudely, at inappropriate hours. It has been replaced several times, but the problem persists, and for now they take it as granted.

Yet, while they sleep, the residents of Olive Lane do not see the faint, shimmering light cast in the upstairs windows, as if by the distant headlights of a turning car.

On this particular night, most of the residents are already asleep, and none of those still awake are peering out their windows.

A total lack of observers is the only way that the secret people can move around.

Nobody knows where they go, and what they do whilst out of sight. Nobody knows that they exist.

A man steps suddenly out of a shadow far too small and faint to have hidden him, and walks with poise toward No. 57.

A woman emerges from the narrow opening between a house and its garage, composes her hair, and saunters in the direction of No. 57.

Several young men and women crawl out from under a porsche and skip off together toward No. 57.

The gate screeches open, and closed, and open, and closed, and open-

Mrs. Wensley looks out of her window, and sees dark windows along a deserted street, and the gate outside the empty house swinging to a close.

She murmurs to herself indignantly as she dons slippers and a dressing gown about how many appointments she has tomorrow, and how she really needs some uninterrupted sleep.

She takes her keys off the mantel and opens the door to the garage, fetches an oilcan, and heads out into the cold.

Shuffling down the road, Olive Lane feels to Mrs. Wensley somehow more empty than usual.

She walks past Mr. Billingdon’s porsche, and wilfully ignores it out of principle; it is a flashy show of pride.

She comes to the gate at No. 57. There are no lights in the upstairs windows, an absence which Mrs. Wensley does not note, for never having seen them.

Nobody is in the left hand window, watching her - another thing which Mrs. Wensley does not note.

She merely inspects the gate, and hinges, swings it open. It screeches horrifically as it closes itself. She pushes it open, it screams shut again.

“Ugly, heavy old thing,” Mrs. Wensley remarks of the gate as she oils its hinges, and opens it a few more times, until the shriek reduces to a faint whistle.

She fastens the gate closed.

Job done, Mrs. Wensley huffs and makes her way back home.

Because her back is turned, she does not see the young boy climb out of the letterbox of No. 54 and run across the road into No. 57.

Because she oiled the gate, she does not hear it open.

As soon as Mrs. Wensley is safely inside her house, and her door is closed and locked, a crowd of people emerges from a variety of unlikely places, all moving toward the house at No. 57 Olive Lane.

In bed once again, Mrs. Wensley starts awake with a troubling realisation.

When she had seen the gate out her window, it was swinging closed. The wind can’t push a gate as heavy as that. That means someone must have opened it.

Mrs. Wensley climbs once more out of bed and peers out of the window at the dark windows along the deserted street, same as before. Then a chill races up her spine as she notices the gate at No. 57 swing closed.

You can't see me. But you CAN hear me. As I breathe in your ear. Inhale...exhale...inhale...exhale.

You break the monotony by asking a question, to which I respond in-kind. Still faceless. Yet my voice resonates in your ear, heckling you, asking for more and more information, until one of us considers the interview over and disconnects the bond.

Sometimes, I might even get someone else to breathe in your ear, to speak in your ear, all the while a faceless entity with knowledge about YOU.

"Thank you for calling Customer Support. My name is Trina. How may I help you?" 

I'm so familiar with construct of a lie, I can see them from far off, before the carrier even knows it's taking form. I look over the lies of my youth, and those in the not so distance past... some of them trivial and some I'd rationalized.

More times than not - I'd lied because I was afraid. Afraid that the truth would shred what little value I had in the world, afraid that it would show a repulsive excuse of a man.

I had no idea that the lies would bring to reality - the thing I'd sought to avoid.

(This was tough to relive)