Neighbors
Contributed by Kassandra Rees
Just on the outskirts of the thriving village of Prosperous, nestled between two large, abundant lakes, bordered by lush forests to the north and warmer lands to the south, lived a lonely bitter soul. Its loneliness and bitterness grew by not being able to get the attention it believed it was due, and then becoming resentful of its neighbors for their laughter, their gatherings, and the way they lived their lives. Where others saw community and growth, this bitter soul saw meddling and judgment of its own life – unable to understand or join in, its own views weren’t being listened to or followed, and resentment festered.
For years, it withdrew further, keeping to itself, and the loss of any meaningful connection with the community allowed its mind to grow darker with shadows, real and imagined. When villagers passed by, they began to whisper about how it scowled and shouted at the newest neighbors moving into the flourishing village, how it refused to participate in the village’s variety of celebrations, and never once helped when trouble struck.
Then a creature appeared at the edge of the village - a singular beast, growling, threatening, eyes wild. The elders spoke of it in hushed voices. The beast carried a dark sickness, they warned. If allowed into the village, it would not only kill—it would corrupt. Those bitten would lose themselves, become little more than creatures, consumed by fear and rage.
But, when the bitter, lonely neighbor saw the beast slinking through the outskirts of the village, it did not fear it – the bitter neighbor understood it. This beast had been cast out, much like the bitter neighbor had been. They were both desperate, starved for something more, and furious at being denied.
Seeing the danger, the village tried to fortify itself. After the first attack, the beast was driven back, but it licked its wounds and became stronger, more cunning. It soon became clear that the village’s old defenses were too weak, crumbling and insufficient, yet new defenses were slow in developing. The villagers met, discussed the problem and tried to work out solutions, but they were divided. About a third saw a clear and present danger, about a third wanted to wait and see, and the last third thought the village could use a little shakeup, thinking they could contain the beast if necessary.
In the meantime, the beast became relentless in its attacks – incessant howling and whining, finding new openings and vulnerabilities, digging under fences, chewing through weak barriers – and began organizing its pack to help with the attacks. Still, the village elders tried reassuring themselves that they had done everything possible to defend the village and its people.
One night, as the village slept, the bitter neighbor made its choice – it threw open the gate, encouraged the beast, and watched as the beast crept forward. The bitter neighbor could have shut the gate and stopped the beast then – or shouted, raised the alarm. But why should it? The bitter neighbor had been left behind in the cold long ago – no one listened, no one cared, why not let the beast make them suffer?
By morning, the village was in chaos. The beast and its pack easily swept through defenses, feasted on fear and chaos, slashed and bit and infected all in its path – men, women and children – the village’s elders, workers, merchants, healers, teachers, homemakers, caretakers. None were spared. As deep wounds were inflicted, the sickness spread, and the infection moved in swiftly. Panic turned to bloodshed. The villagers tried to fight back, but fear started to cloud their judgment. They lashed out at the sick, at the wounded—at one another.
By the time they realized what was happening, it was too late. The village was destroyed by the beast and its pack, and the bitter neighbor watched it all collapse. Gleeful at the beginning, by the end there was nothing left to feel. No joy, no triumph. Just quiet emptiness as the bitter neighbor stood on the outskirts, listening to the dying cries of those who had been its neighbors. By the time the last of them fell silent, the bitter soul was the only one left. It looked out over the ruins, surrounded by loss and devastation, and understood at last: hatred does not make you strong. It only leaves you alone.
Afterward, overlooking the devastation, the beast stood on a small hill, watching its pack shred and paw through the last remnants. But, as its narrowed eyes scanned the ruins, they caught on a small dwelling, just on the outskirts of the village. The beast sniffed, lowered its head and slowly drew its lips up over its fangs …