The Alien Next Door, Part One

(FYI: This serves as a sort of sequel to a previous story, The Abducted.)

"Mr. Jurgen? My name is Nessa Brigani, and I think my next-door neighbor in an alien."

            I stifled a sigh. Yeah, as a private detective with a certain reputation, I've attracted more than my share of cases involving vampires, angry ghosts, and the occasional demon from hell—and even a few aliens—but also a high assortment of crazy people. Last week someone had called to complain that his cat was possessed. A visit to the vet confirmed that it was a case of feline hyperesthesia.

            Still, I had to be respectful to any potential paying client. "What makes you think that, Ms. Brigani?"

            "Every night, at about 2 a.m., he goes out into his backyard. There's a bright light—that's what wakes me up, it's right outside my bedroom—and he disappears. Then, two hours later, there's another bright light, and he's back. It took me a few nights to figure out what's going on. But I've got a video. From last night."

            I hesitated. She didn't sound crazy. But I'd been wrong about that before. "Send me the video. I'll call you back."

            "Thank you." 

            "What's that?" Rachel was working at her desk behind me, in the office we share in our apartment. She's slim, with red hair, hazelnut eye, and vaguely psychic powers. 

            "Aliens. Maybe."

            "Not again?" She sighed. "Oh, well. Maybe it'll be a break from cyborgs and cults with your old girlfriend."

            I'd been hoping Rachel didn't remember Sia. So I opened my email and waited while went back to whatever website she was designing.

            It came up a few minutes later. I clicked the link and sat back, my arms behind my shoulders. Maybe it was just a lightning strike. Although there hadn't been any thunderstorms around the Chicago area in the past few days.

            The video started playing. At first I couldn't see anything. Gradually a tree and a porch came into focus. Everything was unsteady—probably from a cell phone. 

            I saw a man step down from the porch. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. He took a few steps, then stopped in the center of the yard. 

            He stood with his arms at his sides, looking down at the ground. 

            Two minutes passed. Three.

            Then light burst from the sky. A strong steady beam, enveloping the guy, shuddering for a moment . . .

            And then darkness again.

            Another blast of light. Then the guy was back, curled up on the grass. Slowly, he pushed himself up and staggered back toward the porch steps.

            The video ended.

            I went into the kitchen for more coffee. Then I watched it again. 

            "Hey, Rachel?" I turned in my chair. "Can you take a look at this?"

            "I'm working here!" Rachel's a web designer. But she swung around in her chair and stood up. "This better be good. I've got deadlines."

            I ran the video for her. "Does this look real to you?"

            She peered at the screen. "I can't really tell the difference between that guy in that Star Wars movie a few years ago and the real one." But Rachel leaned back. "But there's a program for detecting stuff like that. Send it to me. I'm curious."

            I forwarded the video, then went back to the background checks I'd been conducting before Nessa Brigani had called.

            Twenty minutes later Rachel swung around again. "I can't find any obvious manipulation using the app. That doesn't mean nothing's going on, but it would have to be a pretty sophisticated hoaxster."

            I knew nothing about Nessa Brigani, so I used every detective's favorite tool—the internet. 

            According to her Facebook profile, Ms. Brigani lived in suburban Wilmette, was widowed, and enjoyed gardening. She was a retired bank executive, with two adult sons and three grandchildren.

            Other internet sources told me that her house in Wilmette was worth $2.3 million. Which was good, because it meant she'd be able to pay me. 

            So I called her back. "Your video appears to check out. I guess the next thing to do is for me and an associate to come up and see it ourselves."

            "All right. You can come tonight, if that works for you. I'll make dinner. Eight-thirty or so? Since we'll be staying up late."

            "Sounds good. By the way, can you tell me your neighbor's name?"

            "I think it's James Greenhill. I've only met him once. He moved in about a month ago."

            I scribbled a note. "Great. By the way, my associate is a vegetarian. I hope that's not a problem."

            "Not at all. I make an excellent eggplant parmesan, if I do say so myself." She chuckled.

            We discussed fees, and she assured me she'd have a check ready. When we hung up, Rachel was standing behind me, her arms crossed. "What are you getting me into?"

            "We're going to go up to Wilmette and watch for an alien to beam up. Unless you don't want to. But she's making eggplant parmesan."

            "Mmm." She licked her lips. "I guess it's better than a haunted insane asylum. And I bet her eggplant parmesan is better than yours."

So we drove up to Wilmette.

            Nessa Brigani's house had trees in the front yard, a long driveway, and a wide porch with flower beds all around. Ms. Brigani had gray hair, sharp blue eyes behind thin glasses, and a wide smile. "Come on in."

            I introduced Rachel. Ms. Brigani gave me a check. Then we sat down to dinner. And although I'm not a big fan of eggplant parmesan, hers was definitely better than mine.

            Around 10 p.m. we went up to her bedroom. It looked out over the yard next door, over a fence and between a few trees. I set up a tripod and mounted my camera on it. 

            Ms. Brigani frowned. "That won't record me, will it? I have to get ready for bed."

            "No, ma'am." In fact, I took the camera back off. Everybody's paranoid these days—even me—so I didn't blame her. "I'll keep it downstairs. We'll knock on your door at 1:30, if that's all right."

            "Thank you. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen."

            Downstairs Rachel was flipping through the TV channels. "She seems nice. Not crazy."

            "And makes a good eggplant." I flopped down on the couch and set the alarm on my phone. Rachel started watching Poldark, her latest obsession. 

            My phone buzzed at 1 a.m. Rachel was sleeping with her head on my shoulder. I managed to stand up without waking her, went to the bathroom, and started some coffee in the kitchen.

            Rachel yawned and stretched. "Okay. What episode were we on?"

            "The one where Captain Poldark is tall and handsome. Let's go. We're working."

            "All right, all right." She took a sip of coffee. "Huh. Ask her where she gets this."

            Upstairs I knocked on the bedroom dor. "Ms. Brigani? Sorry to—"

            She opened the door in a long blue bathrobe and slippers. "I was awake. Come on in."

            We carried our coffees and carefully set them down on a dresser. I mounted my camera again on the tripod, checked the angle through the window, and looked at the time—1:54 a.m. I started recording.

            "Two o'clock, you said?" I leaned against the bathroom doorway while Rachel sat on a chair and Ms. Brigani perched on the edge of her bed.

            "More or less." She patted the mattress. "You can sit down here."

            Was she flirting with me? I glanced at Rachel. "I'll stay here. Better to watch the window."

            We waited. Two o'clock, 2:02, 2:05 . . . I rubbed my eyes.

            "Oh, no." Ms. Brigani pulled at the blankets. "He's not going to do it, now, is he? Maybe he's watching me. What if—"

            "Wait!" Rachel jumped from her chair. "There he is!"

            I dropped down. Outside, over the fence, a man walked down a few steps onto the grass. 

            James Greenhill. I'd checked him out, but hadn't found much. He'd bought the house two months ago. Not much of a social media presence, although his Facebook page said he'd grown up in New jersey, and his LinkedIn page listed his occupation as "Freelance Copywriter." I hadn't had time for a deep search.

            I'd seen a photo online, but I could see him better now. Tall, in the same jeans as in the video before, but with a loose jacket now. He had short black hair and a clipped beard. He didn't look like an alien. 

            I glanced over my shoulder, making sure I wasn't blocking the camera. But Rachel jabbed a finger. "Look!"

            He wasn't alone.

            A young boy—maybe 10 years old—in a red bathrobe and slippers followed him out onto the grass. What the hell?
            Ms. Brigani lurched forward and knelt in front of the window next to me. "I never saw that—him—before."

            "Do you know him from the neighborhood?"

            She shook her head.

            Before I could ask any more questions, the light beamed down from the sky.

            I shielded my eyes. Ms. Brigani turned her face down. I heard Rachel breathing behind me.

            One, two, three, four, five seconds . . . then the sky was dark again. I blinked my eyes. "Everyone all right? Rachel, is the camera running?"

            "Give me a second." Her feet rustled. "Yeah, I think everything's still on. My eyes are still coming back."

            I helped Ms. Brigani to her feet and back to the bed. "Are you okay?"

            "I—I think so." She grabbed for a glass of water on the nightstand. "This is why I can't get any sleep. I think I'm going crazy."

            "You're not." I took her glass and set it back down. "Just relax. We've got this."

            She settled back on her pillow and fell asleep.

            I stood next to Rachel. "You okay?"

            She slugged my arm. "I've seen worse. But this is kind of spooky."

            "Yeah." I hugged her shoulder. "Sorry. But I'm glad you're here."

            "Jerk." She kissed my cheek. "What would I do without you to make my life interesting? I'd be so bored."

            "Me too."

            We knelt and watched the lawn next door.

            Twenty minutes later the light came roaring back down from the sky. This time we were ready, and held our hands over our eyes for a count of five. Then six. At seven, the blaze faded away, and I risked a look out the window.

            The neighbor and the boy stood in the middle of the yard, holding hands. Then the man turned slowly and led the boy back up into the house.

            I caught my breath and crawled back from the window. Checked the camera. Everything had been recorded. "Okay. Let's go home and—"

            "Tom?" Rachel stood next to the bed. "I think—I don't think she's breathing."

            Oh no. I knocked the tripod over heading to the bed. But Rachel was right. Ms. Brigani lay on top of the blankets, her body inert. 

            Rachel started doing CPR while I grabbed for my phone to call 911.