Chapter 2: A Taste for Beautiful Minds

Chapter 2: A Taste for Beautiful Minds

The photograph felt like a burning coal in Lily’s hand. The cheerful, sun-bleached memory had been corrupted, twisted into something monstrous. She looked from the faded image of the un-aging man in the background to the real thing, the static figure standing on his porch at the end of the cul-de-sac. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. He was as still as the houses, as the trees, as the very air itself.

Grief had been a fog, dulling the world and her senses. This was different. This was a shard of ice, sharp and terrifyingly clear, piercing through the haze. Her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. The oppressive quiet of the house, once a comfort of solitude, now felt like a held breath, an anticipation of violence. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind against the windowpane, sounded like a footstep.

Denial was a luxury she could no longer afford. Seventeen years was not a trick of the light. It was an impossibility.

Her curiosity, morbid and sharp, became an engine, overriding her fear. She couldn’t stay here, staring at a picture, going mad in the dusty silence. She needed to see him up close. She needed to look into his eyes and see if they were the same dark, empty pits from the photograph. The need was a physical ache, a desperate, primal urge to confirm the terrifying truth her gut was screaming at her.

Leaving the photograph on the floor, Lily pushed herself to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady, like a newborn foal’s. She walked out of the study and down the stairs, her hand gripping the banister so tightly her knuckles turned white. At the front door, she paused, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. This was insane. What was she going to say? “Excuse me, Mr. Bell, I found a picture of you from seventeen years ago and you look exactly the same. Are you a ghost? A vampire? What the hell are you?”

No. She just had to act normal. Neighbors check on grieving neighbors. That’s what normal people did.

The blast of humid summer air that hit her as she stepped outside did nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in her bones. The walk down the short, curving street felt like a mile. Each perfect, green lawn seemed to mock her, a Technicolor facade for the monochrome horror she was walking toward. The windows of the other houses were blank, reflecting the sky. She felt utterly exposed, a lone actor on an empty stage, walking towards the one other person in the world.

As she approached his house, she saw that the paint on the siding was peeling, and the garden was a tangle of overgrown weeds, a stark contrast to the manicured perfection of the rest of the street. Yet Mr. Bell himself remained pristine, his long black coat immaculate.

He turned his head as she reached his walkway, a slow, deliberate movement that was utterly devoid of surprise. It was as if he’d been waiting for her.

“Lily,” he said. His voice was smooth, calm, and unnervingly soft. It held no warmth, no inflection. It was just sound. “My deepest condolences on the loss of your mother. She was a remarkable woman.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bell,” Lily managed, her voice tight. Up close, he was even more unsettling. His skin was the color of old parchment, stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. But it was his eyes that held her captive. They were deep, black, and utterly flat, like polished stones. There was no light in them, no reflection. They just… absorbed.

She searched his face for a wrinkle, a grey hair, any sign of the passage of time. There was nothing. He was a statue carved from ice and shadow. He was the man from the photograph.

“I… I was just sorting through some of her things,” Lily stammered, her pretense of a neighborly visit crumbling. “It’s been… hard.”

“Grief is a demanding process,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “It consumes so much. Your mother fought it for a long time. After your father left.”

The mention of her father was a jolt. No one ever talked about him. He was a void, a family secret. How did Mr. Bell know about that?

“She was strong,” Lily said, more to herself than to him.

Mr. Bell’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. It was a sterile, mechanical approximation of one. “Oh, she was more than strong, Lily. She had such a… beautiful mind. So intricate. So vibrant.” He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that should have been humanizing but was profoundly alien. “It’s a rare thing, a mind like that. I have a particular taste for them.”

A taste for them.

The words hung in the air between them, nonsensical and yet filled with a chilling, predatory meaning that Lily couldn't begin to parse. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. He wasn't talking about personality or intelligence. He was talking about something else entirely. Something he consumed.

“I… I have to go,” she said abruptly, taking a step back. The urge to flee was overwhelming.

“Of course,” Mr. Bell said, his non-smile vanishing. “Do take care of yourself, Lily.”

She turned and practically ran back to her house, not daring to look back. She slammed the door behind her, locking it, then leaning against it, gasping for air. The house was no longer a cage; it was a flimsy shield.

A beautiful mind.

The phrase echoed, a discordant note in the silent house. Her mother’s mind. What had happened to her mother in the end? The doctors had called it early-onset dementia. A rapid, cruel decline that had hollowed her out, leaving a vacant shell where a vibrant woman used to be. They said it was tragic, but rare. A one-in-a-million case.

Lily’s eyes fell on the leather-bound journal she’d left on the stairs. The journal her mother had kept religiously until her mind began to unravel.

With trembling hands, she picked it up and sank onto the bottom step. This time, she opened it.

Her mother’s handwriting, once a familiar, elegant script, filled the pages. Lily flipped past the early, mundane entries about gardening and her father’s departure, searching for any mention of their neighbor. She found it in an entry dated two years ago, just as her mother’s “forgetfulness” began.

October 14th, Mr. Bell from the end of the street came by today. So polite. He brought over a thermos of his own special tea. Said it would help me sleep. It had a strange smell, a little like iron or ozone, but it was wonderfully warm. He’s a lonely man, I think. I sometimes see him watching the house. I suppose there’s not much else to do on this quiet street.

Lily’s blood ran cold. She flipped forward, her fingers clumsy. The entries about Mr. Bell became more frequent, and more agitated.

November 2nd, Another visit from Mr. Bell. More tea. He said he was worried about me, that I seemed tired. It’s true, I haven’t been sleeping well. My thoughts feel… scattered. The tea helps, but the metallic taste lingers for hours. He stayed on the porch for a long time after he left, just standing there. Watching.

November 29th, I feel like I’m losing my mind. I misplaced my keys three times today. I couldn’t remember Lily’s boyfriend’s name. The fog is getting thicker. Mr. Bell says his tea will clear my head. He is so kind, so attentive. Why does his kindness feel so heavy? When he looks at me, it doesn’t feel like he’s looking at me. It feels like he’s looking into me. Like he’s hungry.

The handwriting grew spidery, frantic. The final entry about him was barely legible.

December 12th, He’s always watching. I see him at night. He doesn’t need the light. He knows I’m awake. The tea doesn’t help me sleep anymore. It just makes the world taste like old pennies. He wants something from inside my head. I can feel him pulling at it.

A prickling sensation crawled up Lily’s spine, the primitive instinct of being watched. Her own thoughts felt scattered, her paranoia mirroring her mother’s. She slowly lifted her head from the journal, her eyes drawn to the living room window, which looked out onto the street.

The sun had begun to set, painting the sky in bruised shades of orange and purple. The streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows. In the gathering dusk, halfway between his house and hers, a figure stood motionless in the middle of the empty road.

It was Mr. Bell. He was no longer on his porch. He was closer.

And he was staring directly into her window, directly at her, his ashen face a pale mask in the gloaming. He knew. He knew she had the journal. He knew she was reading it. He knew she was afraid.

And he wasn't even pretending not to watch anymore.