Mr. Longfellow and his ex-wife, Rosaline, lived in the houses beside 303 Pinkerton Way, as they had for twenty-five years. Rosaline lived in 301, a beautiful house that combined the elegance of a Victorian mansion and the coziness of a vacation cottage. Like its resident, 301 Pinkerton Way was always on the up-and-up, always groomed to perfection and never suffered from a shutter out of place or a cracked windowpane. 303 Pinkerton Way, in comparison, seemed shabby. Mr. Longfellow cared not for expensive paint jobs or even the simplest of curtains, so his house remained bare but comfortable. The two had purchased the houses nearly as soon as the ink dried on their divorce papers- for even though they had fallen out of love, they still remained the best of friends.

For twenty-five years, the two of them had acted as barriers between the strange oddity that was 303 Pinkerton Way and the real world. Their friendliness encouraged holiday gatherings, block parties, and mid-winter potlucks to return to the neighborhood. Children still came to Pinkerton Way to trick-or-treat because of the full-size candies they readied. Mailman were unafraid to actually approach the mailboxes of their houses, for one or the other would always greet them with a grin and a wave and possibly a drink of iced tea. They were always cheerful, always inviting, and always watching the house of 303 Pinkerton Way.

Rosaline preferred the morning shift. She was an early riser, always had been, and continued to be as age began to approach her. She would rise, pull back the curtains facing the house next door, and make herself coffee, her eyes on the shambling porch. She’d feed her birds, Lily and Amara, in the room next to the kitchen, still peeping at the unoccupied residence of 303 Pinkerton Way. She’d fold her laundry, across the house, and watched through the reflection in her floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Most of the time, 303 Pinkerton Way was of no need of surveillance. Sometimes, however, Rosaline would pick up the phone and dial Mr. Longfellow.

“Brian, dear, Amara was chirping at the house this morning, but I didn’t see anything.”

“Did you ask her whatever the matter was?”

“Don’t be silly. Amara’s a parakeet. She can’t talk.”

“Pity. I didn’t notice anything either.”

“Well, do let me know. We can’t have anything...peculiar running about.”

“Mmm,” he would say, and hang up the phone.

Around five o’clock in the evening her observing hours would cease. Mr. Longfellow took the night shift, as he preferred nocturnalism. At five, he would take his place in his study- the only room with windows facing 303 Pinkerton Way. He would turn his radio to the jazz station, grab a cup of earl grey tea, and wait. He kept the lamps lit low so as to not scare himself with his own reflection in the window, which he had been known to do at times. He would straighten his wiry glasses and prepare his newspaper, though he rarely read it during his watching hours. The night shift did not frighten him as much as it did Rosaline. He would often remark that there was nothing scary about the night, only that it was dark, but she never listened. Nevertheless, he felt no need to ring his ex-wife at the late hours, for there was nothing to be seen or remarked about.

Until, of course, there was.

Mr. Longfellow had began the night of March 25th the same as every other night: lamps dimmed, newspaper on his table, glasses adjusted and readjusted, a cup of tea in his grasp. He sat in the chair, absorbed by the normalness of the nighttime, completely unfazed by the screeches of owls and chirping of bats. The only difference was how quickly he finished his cup of tea. He’d drank too much too early, and now he wouldn’t have enough for the remainder of the night. He sighed to himself, scratching the bald spot at the top of his head, and got up to get himself another cup of tea. When he returned, he found himself blinking at the sight before him. Where the porch had been empty when he left, Mr. Longfellow noticed a strange scarf hooked over the fencing. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and stared once more. The scarf did not move. Silently, he made his way to the old landline in his kitchen. The phone only rang once before it picked up.

“Brian?”

“Rose...look out your window.”

He heard his ex-wife scurry across the floor and pull back her curtains. She gasped. “How long has it been there?”

“Just a few moments.” He paused. “Long enough to be concerning.”

“What...what do you think it means?”

Mr. Longfellow looked at the scarf again. It fluttered in the breeze, but did not leave the fencing. It stayed, as if hooked firmly to the house, though it appeared to be of material thin enough to be blown away. He frowned at it. “Unfortunately, it means we have a situation on our hands.”