The Neighbors by Ania Ahlborn is a psychological suspense novel cum horror story about, as they say, what lies beneath (available November 27, 2012).
Andrew Morrison sacrificed everything—his childhood, his education, and the girl of his dreams—to look after his alcoholic mother. But enough is enough, and now he’s determined to get out and live his life. That means trading the home he grew up in for a rented room in the house of an old childhood friend—both of which are in sorry shape.
The only thing worse than Drew’s squalid new digs and sullen new roommate is the envy he feels for the house next door: a picture-perfect suburban domicile straight out of Norman Rockwell, with a couple of happy householders to match. But the better acquainted he gets with his new neighbors—especially the sweet and sexy Harlow Ward—the more he suspects unspeakable darkness beyond the white picket fence.
Chapter 6 (Excerpt)
The headlights of the TransAm cut through the darkness, casting weird shadows across the face of the house. Drew had nursed the day’s wounds by watching talk shows and reality TV all afternoon when he should have been applying for work at gas stations and truck stops, but the bitter blow of countless nos had temporarily grounded him.
Mickey dragged himself through the door, and though he’d been gone the entire day, his appearance offered no clue where he had been. There was no uniform to suggest a day of work, no duffel bag or water bottle to suggest time spent at the gym.
[Read the full excerpt of Chapter 6 of The Neighbors by Ania Ahlborn]
Once that you’ve decided on a killing
I’ve always been intrigued by the 1950s. On one hand, you’ve got poodle skirts and soda shops and greaser guys in fast cars and leather jackets; on the other, there’s Mom, her full-skirted dress pulling freshly baked cookies out of the oven just as Dad walks in the door with a big smile and a briefcase in hand. The ’50s were an idyllic age, an atomic age where wholesome values and classic Americana was king. And that’s exactly why I find the 1950s so damn creepy.
I live in a relatively quiet neighborhood. We’re talking a lights-out-at-nine kind of place. The houses are sleepy, the lawns decently kempt, everyone’s sprinklers go off at exactly the same time each evening, neighbors wave to one another and smile while standing in the driveway and washing their cars. Everything is kept neat and tidy beneath a cozy comforter of normalcy, but normalcy is the perfect breeding ground for monsters.
