Recluse Bob Weaver was my grandparents’ next door neighbor on Exeter Avenue in West Pittston, Pennsylvania, until he died mysteriously in the late fifties. Locals say his remains are still in the cellar of his old house even though it was long ago bought by lawyer Jared Jennings. Every time Mr. Jennings invites me to go downstairs with him I cringe with terror. A lot of folklore has grown up around that cellar. Somehow, though, an inexplicable irresistible force always demands that I presume to tamper with fate, whatever the cost.
My grandfather died in 1959. My grandmother died in 1978. That was their real address. Those were real neighbors.