Free Animosity by James Newman

this time, said Hodges.
    Rebecca Lanning’s nude body was discovered by local writer Andrew Holland Thursday morning.
    Holland, a resident of Harrison County, is the popular horror novelist who penned such provocative titles as Blood Dance, Brain Fever, Cannibal High, and Mortuary Smile. His most recent novel, Slow Burn—a gory tale about a serial killer priest who burns pregnant women alive because he believes they are possessed by demons—debuted last year at #7 on the New York Times Bestseller List.
    Police records in his hometown of Jackson, Tennessee show that Andrew Holland was arrested for statutory rape in —, at the age of twenty. After pleading guilty to the charges against him, he was sentenced to one year’s probation.
    The writer could not be reached for comment.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    Sunday evening, after I had knocked out three or four thousand ( very unpolished) words on A Feast of Souls, I went to lock up for the night. Normally I didn’t hit the sack until several hours later, but I figured a good night’s sleep would help recharge my batteries after everything that had happened, and with a little luck a marathon writing session might ensue in the days to come.
    I hoped so, anyway. Time was running out.
    As I moved through the foyer, approaching my screen door, I smelled the distant aroma of someone grilling hot dogs down the street. My mouth watered. Maybe I should do that for Sam when she comes over next Wednesday, I thought, fix burgers and dogs in the backyard. Yeah. It would be fun. She always did love a good cookout. Norman would undoubtedly enjoy it, too…
    I had almost closed the front door, with my hand on the deadbolt, when something outside caught my eye.
    Frowning, I eased open the door again, and peered out into the gathering dusk.
    To my right, cattycorner across the street from me at 214 Poinsettia Lane, sat Floyd and Francine Beecham’s three-story Cape Cod. The house was dark, but beyond their teal Lincoln Town Car and the enormous Winnebago in their driveway I spotted the Beechams sitting on their front porch, chatting with another couple in the blue-gray twilight.
    Muffled laughter. The faint hiss-pop of someone opening a can of soda or beer. A cough.
    The way voices carry long distances in that calm period just before nightfall, it only took me a few seconds to recognize the other couple on the Beechams’ porch as the Pastoreks, from three houses down.
    A metallic click. Ned Pastorek smoked a pipe now and then, and in the growing darkness I watched him light it. The thick black shadows on the porch briefly recoiled from the flickering orange glow of his Zippo. A minute or two later the sweet smell of tobacco wafted its way across the street to fill my nostrils.
    A chill shot up my spine.
    In that momentary flash of firelight, I could tell…
    They were all looking my way.
    They were talking about me.
    I cursed myself for being paranoid. Or, at best, for being silly. Surely the two couples were just watching the last rays of the day’s setting sun disappearing on the horizon, through the gap between my property and the Sommersvilles’ next door. A temporary lull in their chitchat had occurred at the precise moment they gazed in my general direction. But it was nothing more sinister than that. Why would it be? This wasn’t a scene from one of my novels. These were people I saw every day. They weren’t body snatchers, aliens from outer space who had recently begun to show their true colors. No scheming quartet of serial killers lurked on the other side of the street. Ridiculous. My horror writer’s imagination had gotten the best of me. I might not have been particularly close to the Beechams or the Pastoreks, but to date I had not met anyone on Poinsettia Lane whom I could claim to truly dislike. And I certainly had no reason to fear them.
    The longer I stood there, however… the more I heard… I wondered if all of that was about to change.
    It had not been my