Chapter 1: Welcome to Cedar Lane

Moving Day

Claire Parker stood in the driveway of 42 Cedar Lane, sweat trickling down her back as she checked another box labeled "KITCHEN" against her inventory list. Or at least, it was labeled "KITCHEN" now. She'd spent the morning re-labeling boxes after discovering Ethan had marked them all "DEFINITELY NOT PORN" in an act of teenage rebellion that had made their previous neighbors' farewell party unnecessarily awkward.

The moving truck's engine ticked in the August heat, a counterpoint to the rhythmic swish-swish-swish of synchronized sprinklers up and down the street. Too synchronized. She squinted at the nearest lawn, where water droplets caught the afternoon sun in a perfect arc. Four houses down, another sprinkler moved in exact mimicry, then another, and another, a choreographed dance of suburban irrigation that looked like it had been synchronized by someone who'd turned passive-aggressive lawn maintenance into an Olympic sport.

"Isn't it perfect?" David's hand landed warm on her shoulder. "Look at how well-maintained everything is."

"Uh-huh," Claire managed, shrugging off his touch as she stepped forward to redirect a mover who was carrying her desk upside down and backwards while insisting he knew what he was doing. Her laptop bag hung heavy against her hip, containing her morning's work: three thousand words of smutty supernatural romance written in the passenger seat while David drove, mostly to drown out his endless loop of motivational podcasts. She hadn't told him about her secret career as the spooky word porn purveyor Scarlett Vance, author of such hits as "The Werewolf Wears Prada" and "Fifty Shades of Decay." She’d started a rough outline for 'The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Poltergeist’ on the car ride, and promptly abandoned the idea.  

Claire shrugged off his touch, recognizing the desperate cheerfulness in his voice. It was the same tone he'd used in his last six failed job interviews, each time coming home with his tie slightly looser and his smile more brittle. The same voice he'd used explaining to his mother why they were "downsizing" rather than admit the truth. The same forced optimism that had started the day Partners & Braithwaite had called him into the corner office, the one he'd been so sure would be his one day, only to tell him his position had been eliminated in a "strategic restructuring."

David was already rushing to help the movers, over-explaining how he wanted each box placed. "The labels need to face out," he called, adjusting a container marked 'KITCHEN' by three degrees. "It's about creating organization. Efficiency." The moving team exchanged glances but nodded politely. David had been like this all morning, trying to coordinate their work with the kind of micromanaged precision he'd once applied to marketing campaigns. The movers' patience was clearly wearing thin, but David either didn't notice or couldn't stop himself.

His phone buzzed. Claire watched his face fall slightly as he checked it, then quickly rearrange itself into that same plastic smile. Another rejection, then. That made what – seven this month? She'd stopped counting after the fifth one, around the same time David had started getting up at 4 AM to "organize his networking strategy" but really just sat in the dark kitchen rearranging his LinkedIn profile.

"Mr. Parker?" One of the movers approached, clipboard in hand. "About the piano—"

"Doctor Parker," David corrected automatically, then flushed. The PhD in Marketing Communication that had once seemed so important now felt like a joke. "I mean, just David is fine. What about the piano?"

"We'll need to charge extra for the specialty equipment. Company policy."

Claire saw David's shoulders tense. The piano had been his graduation gift to himself, back when bonus checks were something they could count on. "Of course," he said smoothly, though Claire could see his hand shaking slightly as he reached for his wallet. "Whatever it takes to do things properly."

He turned away to make the payment, but not before Claire caught him tugging at his collar – a nervous tell he'd developed during those last awful weeks at the firm. She knew he was mentally calculating how much of their savings this move was eating through. How many more months they could maintain the illusion of stability before reality caught up with them.

"Everything has to be perfect," she heard him muttering as he meticulously straightened a box that was already perfectly straight. "Everything in its right place. Everything in its place."

A neighboring lawn's sprinklers activated with military precision, making David jump. But then he stopped, watching the water arc in perfect synchronization. Something in his expression shifted, like a man dying of thirst spotting an oasis.

"See?" he said to no one in particular. "That's how things should be. Orderly. Regulated. Perfect."

Claire felt a chill that had nothing to do with the heat. She'd seen that look before – in the weeks after his firing, when he'd reorganized their entire garage by color, size, and theoretical utility. When he'd spent three days creating a spreadsheet to track their grocery shopping with statistical models. When he'd started measuring the grass in their old yard with a ruler, trying to find some order he could control.  It was tedious, but it beat the first few weeks of unemployment when he sat around watching Mexican wrestling all day in a deep depression.

"Mom." Ethan's voice cut through her thoughts. "These people are weird. Like, Mormon-cult weird." Her sixteen-year-old son clutched his skateboard like a shield, dark hair falling across one eye in what she knew was a carefully practiced manner that had taken him forty-five minutes to perfect this morning.

Claire followed his gaze to the house across the street, where a woman stood in an upstairs window, watching their family with undisguised interest. She was statuesque and blonde, the kind of woman who probably did Pilates in full makeup. As Claire met her gaze, the woman's red lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, which wasn't surprising given how much Botox must have been involved. Then she stepped back, drawing shut cream-colored curtains that matched every other window on Cedar Lane.

"They're just curious about their new neighbors," David said in the same forced-cheerful voice he'd used when telling them about losing his job ("It's an opportunity for growth!"), about their savings dwindling ("We're living minimally!"), and about this house being their chance to start fresh ("The murder-suicide of the previous owners really drove down the price!"). She wished he'd stop channeling Tony Robbins and just admit things sucked sometimes.

The sound of another sprinkler starting up drew her attention. The water caught the light strangely, and for a moment, Claire could have sworn it ran red. She blinked, and it was clear again. Just a trick of the light. Though given how many times she'd written about blood sprinklers in her novels, this felt like the universe was really phoning in its metaphors.

A door slammed somewhere down the street, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the heavy air. Claire jumped, then pretended she hadn't when David glanced her way. She pulled out her phone, opening a new note labeled "Story Ideas" right next to "Places to Hide Bodies" and "Grocery List (Mostly Wine)."

"Your room's upstairs on the left," she called to Ethan, who had started edging toward the house with all the enthusiasm of a cat approaching a bath. "Just don't—"

"Don't scratch the hardwood, don't scuff the walls, don't smoke crack without proper ventilation," he finished, rolling his eyes. "Got it."

The Parker Family Dynamic

Claire turned back to the moving truck, where David was attempting to wrestle a mattress down the ramp alone, displaying all the grace and coordination of a drunk giraffe on roller skates. His t-shirt was dark with sweat, his movements suggesting he'd learned about moving furniture exclusively from Three Stooges reruns.  He stabilized himself, lifted the mattress and Claire took a moment to appreciate the way the t-shirt clung to his muscular torso.  Then he stumbled, dropped the mattress, and bumped his head simultaneously.  The moment was ruined.

"Let me help," she called, already moving forward. The laptop bag bumped against her hip, reminding her that her latest fictional hero would have carried that mattress one-handed while fighting off a zombie with the other. David, meanwhile, was currently losing a battle with gravity.

"I've got it," he insisted, though the mattress was clearly staging a successful coup. Like he had "got" the job interview last week, where he'd apparently described his greatest weakness as "being a perfectionist” without irony.

Ethan materialized beside her, all long limbs and black clothing. "Dad, you're going to hurt yourself." He moved to grab one end of the mattress, but David waved him off with the kind of stubbornness usually reserved for men refusing to read instruction manuals.

"Your father's fine," Claire said, catching Ethan's eye. "Why don't you go check out your room? Make sure the movers didn't mix up any boxes?" She dug in her purse and pulled out a granola bar. "Eat something before you get hangry."

"I'm not hangry," Ethan muttered with the kind of tone that suggested he was approximately thirty seconds away from declaring war on everyone and everything. As he turned toward the house, she noticed him slip his phone out, no doubt updating his Instagram aesthetic from "brooding teen" to "brooding teen in suburbs (help)."

Together, she and David maneuvered the mattress toward the house, passing over a strange symbol inlaid into the driveway that looked like it had been designed by an architect on acid with a Cthulhu fetish. The sprinklers swished in perfect rhythm, and somewhere down the street, a wind chime rang a discordant note that suggested it had been tuned to "ominous foreshadowing" in D minor.

"See?" David said, radiating the kind of optimism usually found only in golden retriever puppies and cult recruitment pamphlets. "This is exactly what we needed. A fresh start."

Claire didn't answer. She was too busy watching their reflections in the window.  Herself, David, and the mattress between them like a metaphor her editor would have called "a bit on the nose." And behind them, barely visible, the blonde woman from before, watching their domestic drama like it was the pilot episode of a new reality show: "Real Housewives in Hell."

First Contact with the Neighbors

The sound of high heels clicking on pavement drew Claire's attention. The woman from across the street was striding up their driveway, looking like she'd just stepped out of a catalog of "Suburban Sophistication Weekly." Her cream-colored sundress probably cost more than their moving truck rental, and barely contained her magnificent tits.  Her blonde hair was styled to within an inch of its life, and she carried a welcome basket that appeared to have been assembled by Martha Stewart's more perfectionist sister.  As she got closer, Claire was somewhat surprised to see she was older than she’d first guessed, maybe late 40s.  Maybe mid-50s?  Either way, Claire instantly hated her, envied her, and kind of wanted to fuck her.  She mentally corrected herself; there was little doubt this was the woman who did the fucking.

"Yoo-hoo!" The woman's voice carried across the lawn with the practiced projection of someone who'd played the lead in her high school musical. "New neighbors!"

Claire glanced at David, who had managed to tangle himself in the mattress like a butterfly caught in an extremely large cocoon. "Little help?" she muttered.

"Oh, don't worry about that!" The woman waved one manicured hand dismissively at David's predicament. "The moving crew can handle it. I'm Evelyn Whitmore, and I wanted to come welcome you to Cedar Lane!" She pronounced it like it was a destination resort rather than a suburban street where all the mailboxes appeared to have been measured and spaced using quantum physics.

"Claire Parker," Claire managed, accepting the welcome basket. Inside, she spotted a bottle of wine, some artisanal cheese, and what appeared to be a forty-page manual titled "Cedar Lane Community Standards and Guidelines (Abridged)."

"And this must be your husband!" Evelyn's attention shifted to David, who had finally escaped the mattress's clutches, though he was rubbing his shoulder, suggesting the battle hadn’t been without casualties.  Her smile widened, showing teeth so white they probably glowed in the dark.  She touched David’s arm, then his bicep. "I'm the head of the HOA, and I just know we're going to be... great friends."

Claire watched as David practically tripped over himself shaking Evelyn's hand. Great. Their new neighbor looked like a Stepford wife and flirted like a bond villain.

More neighbors were emerging from their houses now, moving across their lawns with the synchronized grace of a flash mob that had practiced way too much. They all wore variations of cream and beige, like they'd coordinated their wardrobes through a neighborhood Pinterest board titled "Fifty Shades of Taupe."

"Everyone is just dying to meet you," Evelyn purred, her hand lingering on David's arm. "We're a very close community. We take care of our own." She turned to Claire, her smile never wavering. "The monthly book club is mandatory, by the way. We're currently reading 'The Art of Proper Lawn Maintenance' – you’ll love it."

Claire clutched her laptop bag closer, suddenly grateful that none of them knew about her writing career. Something told her that Evelyn's book club wouldn't appreciate the, frankly filthy, genre she thrived in.

"And who is this charming young man?" Evelyn's gaze fixed on Ethan, who had emerged from the house looking like he was seriously reconsidering his life choices.

"That's our son, Ethan," David said proudly. "He's sixteen."

"How... delightful." Evelyn's smile tightened almost imperceptibly as she took in Ethan's all-black attire. "We'll have to get him involved in our youth activities. We have a wonderful lawn maintenance training program."

"I'm allergic to grass," Ethan deadpanned. "And organized fun. My doctor wrote me a note and everything."

A muscle twitched in Evelyn's perfect jaw, making Claire think her perfect skin might crack, but her smile never faltered. "Well, we'll just have to work on that, won't we? We have ways of dealing with... allergies."

The way she said it made Claire think of pharmaceutical companies and experimental treatments. The neighbors had formed a perfect circle around them now, their cream-colored clothing making them look like an army of evil Gap mannequins come to life. The sprinklers continued their synchronized dance, and Claire could have sworn the water pressure increased slightly, as if the whole neighborhood was collectively clenching.

Ethan's Trip Around the Block

Ethan seized his chance to escape while the weirdly hot old lady was busy explaining the HOA's position on acceptable garden gnome heights to his parents. He grabbed his skateboard and slipped away, feeling the neighbors' eyes following him like he'd just committed the cardinal sin of wearing black in a beige-only universe.

The sidewalks were so clean they looked steam-pressed. Who pressure-washed concrete? He dropped his board and pushed off, the wheels humming against pavement that felt weirdly... sticky? He'd probably violated at least six HOA regulations about proper skateboarding etiquette already. There was probably a required helmet color.

As he curved around the corner, something caught his eye. He drug the board’s tail and crouched down, squinting at the sidewalk. Someone had carved a symbol into the concrete – a spiral pattern that looked like a geometry teacher had gone off their meds. The longer he stared at it, the more his head hurt, like his brain was trying to solve a math problem in fourth-dimensional space.

"You shouldn't stare at those too long."

Ethan nearly jumped out of his skin. A girl about his age was sitting on a nearby porch, black sneakers propped up on a pristine white railing. She had wild red curls that probably gave Evelyn Whitmore anxiety attacks and was reading a well-worn copy of "The Anarchist Cookbook."

"They give you headaches," she continued, not looking up from her book. "And sometimes nosebleeds. And occasionally an overwhelming urge to manicure a lawn."

"That's oddly specific," Ethan said, straightening up. He noticed she was wearing all black too, like a fellow survivor in this suburban wasteland. "I'm Ethan."

"Lila." She finally looked up, revealing bright blue eyes and a spray of freckles. "Welcome to Cedar Lane, where the HOA bylaws are more strictly enforced than actual laws and everyone's favorite hobby is competitive conformity."

"Yeah, what's with that?" Ethan gestured back toward his house, where he could still see the cream-colored crowd circled around his parents. "Is there a neighborhood dress code?"

"Formally, no.  After a while they all just start acting the same." Lila swung her feet down and leaned forward. "Wait until you hear about the approved mailbox paint swatches. There are thirty-seven shades of beige. Someone actually sat down and decided that was necessary."

Ethan noticed more symbols carved into the sidewalk, creating a pattern that seemed to radiate out from the center of the neighborhood. "And these are...?"

"Geometric manifestations of suburban conformity?" Lila suggested. "Signs of collective madness? Really ambitious hopscotch? Nobody knows. But they're everywhere. And they're not the weirdest thing about this place."

"What is the weirdest thing?"

Lila grinned. It was the kind of grin that suggested she knew exactly how many HOA regulations she was currently violating and was enjoying every second of it. "How much time do you have?"

Before Ethan could answer, a wind chime started ringing like it was auditioning for a horror movie soundtrack, and all the sprinklers on the street activated simultaneously, like they were performing a synchronized water ballet routine.

"Ah, shit," Lila said, shoving her book into her bag. "It's time for the Mandatory Afternoon Lawn Appreciation Hour. You might want to run before—"

"Young man!" Evelyn's voice carried down the street like it had been professionally amplified. "Did you know skateboarding requires a permit in Cedar Lane? And proper safety equipment in approved colors?"

Ethan looked at Lila. "Let me guess. Beige?"

"Technically it's 'Desert Sand Whisper,'" she said. "But yeah. Beige."

The House Tour/ Margaret's Introduction

Claire escaped into their new house while David continued an animated discussion with a neighbor about proper hedge-trimming technique. He seemed to be very into it.  The foyer was pristine – too pristine, like a house staged for showing rather than living. Everything smelled of fresh paint.  Her footsteps echoed against newly installed hardwood floors that had never seen a teenager's combat boots or a skateboard's wheels. Yet.

She climbed the stairs, trailing her fingers along the banister. Something felt off about the architecture, but she couldn't place it. The hallway had corners that weren't quite right, like the architect had failed geometry. 

The master bedroom was exactly as she remembered it, except... she frowned at the window. During the showing, she'd somehow missed that it faced directly into the neighbor's roofline instead of overlooking the yard. Who designed a master bedroom window to showcase aluminum gutters? Claire pulled out her phone and added to her notes: "Windows placed by someone who hated natural light and views of nature. Possible serial killer architect? Too obvious?"

She hefted her laptop bag. She needed to find a good hiding spot for it – somewhere David wouldn't accidentally discover her secret career as the author of "The Werewolf's Interior Designer" and its steamy but less well-received sequel "Knots In More Than Wood: A Werewolf Construction Romance". The closet was promisingly large, with enough built-in shelves to hide a small library of supernatural romance novels.

Claire stored her laptop and went back downstairs to continue unpacking.

She was unpacking boxes in the kitchen when she felt it – that prickle on the back of your neck when someone's watching you. She turned to find a woman leaning against the doorframe, and for a moment her romance-writer brain short-circuited.

A woman stood in the doorway.  Not Evelyn, thank god. This one was shorter, with chin-length silky black hair and the kind of body that belonged in one of Claire's books; all lush curves and muscle wrapped in black leather. Her jacket was unzipped enough to be distracting, and her tight jeans highlighted her round ass. She had the kind of dark beauty that made Claire forget what she'd been thinking: sharp cheekbones, bedroom eyes, and lips that wielded a smirk as a weapon. Everything about her suggested she'd either just gotten off a motorcycle or was about to go fight crime.  Probably both.  Jesus, did all the women in this neighborhood look like they were drawn by a very talented, very horny, teenage comic book artist? 

"Your window's facing the wrong way," the woman said, nodding at the kitchen window that somehow managed to perfectly frame the neighbor's air conditioning unit instead of the garden.

Claire blinked, trying to remember how words worked. "I'm sorry?"

"All the windows in Cedar Lane face the wrong way. It's a thing." The woman pushed off from the doorframe with a fluid, cat-like  grace. "I'm Margaret Grayson. I live in the black house down the street."

"There isn't a black house on this street," Claire managed, though she was more focused on how Margaret's leather jacket shifted as she moved closer.

"There is. I paint it darker every time Evelyn files a complaint. We're up to 'Void of Despair Black' now. Really brings out the chrome skull doorknobs."

Claire found herself fighting a smile. "That must go over well with the HOA."

"About as well as your son's skateboard and general attitude toward authority." Margaret's grin was infectious. "I like him already."

"You've met Ethan?"

"Saw him giving Evelyn an aneurysm by existing earlier. It was impressive." Margaret picked up one of Claire's coffee mugs from an open box, turning it over in hands thoughtfully. "Speaking of impressive... 'The Werewolf's Interior Designer'?"

Claire felt her face go hot. "I don't—"

"Chapter six?" Margaret's eyebrow arched. "Creative use of the measuring tape?"

"How did you—"

"Let's just say I have a thing for supernatural romance novels written by suburban moms with secret lives." Margaret set down the mug and moved closer, close enough that Claire could smell leather and something spicier underneath. "Especially when they involve creative uses of home improvement tools."

Margaret was almost exactly the same height as Claire, but her combat boots made her just a hair taller than Claire’s tennis shoes.  Her brain was frantically trying to process several things at once: how Margaret knew her secret, how good she smelled, and how the temperature in the kitchen seemed to have risen about ten degrees.

"Don't worry," Margaret said, her voice dropping to a register that belonged in one of Claire's books. "Your secret's safe with me. We've all got something to hide in Cedar Lane." She glanced out the window where Evelyn was still holding court on the lawn. "Some of us just have more fun with it than others."

The back door opened and David walked in, still flushed from Evelyn's attention. He stopped short at the sight of Margaret, his expression cycling rapidly through surprise, appreciation, and uncertainty.  His eyes finally settled on her cleavage, and stayed there.  

"Oh hey," Claire said, her voice a bit higher than usual. "David, this is Margaret. She lives down the street."

"In the black house," Margaret added with a smirk, clearly enjoying David's confusion.

"The... black house?" David's eyes darted between Margaret and Claire, picking up on something in the air he couldn't quite name. "But all the houses are—"

"Beige?" Margaret finished. "Give it time. Evelyn's still processing my paint choice from last weekend. I think she's working through the five stages of grief. She's stuck somewhere between denial and burning my house down.  I’m working on sourcing some Vantablack for the next coat.  Watch out for that one."  Margaret winked as she put down the mug, and ran a hand down David’s forearm.  

David laughed, and Claire watched as Margaret's dangerous charm worked its black magic on her husband too. The kitchen suddenly felt very small.

Margaret turned back to Claire, and there was something wolfish in her smile. "Welcome to the neighborhood. Drop by sometime. I'll show you my skull doorknobs." She winked.

And then she was gone, leaving Claire to wonder if she'd imagined the whole thing. But no, her coffee mug was still turned around, and her kitchen smelled of leather and trouble.

She pulled out her phone and opened her notes: "Idea for next book: Motorcycle-riding witch moves in next door to suburban romance novelist…"

Evening Setting In

The Parkers sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and empty Italian takeout containers. The food tasted slightly off, like it had been made by someone who'd only read about Italian cuisine in an HOA-approved cookbook.

“How did we pick this restaurant?” Ethan asked.

“There’s a list that came with the welcome packet.  ‘Cedar Lane HOA Approved Delivery Options.”  Claire said.  “The write up said it was highly recommended.”

“Something is off about the taste.  There’s… no garlic in mine.”  David said.

"So," he said, poking at what claimed to be penne arrabbiata while changing the topic, "Margaret seems... interesting."

Claire's fork froze halfway to her mouth. "Does she?"

"Yeah, she's..." David trailed off, clearly searching for a word that wouldn't reveal how much he'd noticed their new neighbor's leather-clad curves. "Different."

"Better than Evelyn," Ethan muttered through a mouthful of noodles. "Did you know she tried to give me a pamphlet about Suburban Youth Activities'? The cover had a kid mowing a lawn while smiling. Smiling. While mowing."

"Evelyn's just... enthusiastic about the community," David said, but his defense sounded weak even to him.

Claire was about to comment on Evelyn's particular brand of enthusiasm when she noticed the lights. Outside, every single porch light on Cedar Lane had turned on simultaneously, bathing the street in an identical warm red glow. Even the brightness seemed regulated.

"Did anyone else see—" she started.

"The creepy light show? Yeah." Ethan put down his fork. "Lila says they do this every night. Along with the lawn appreciation hour and something called 'Synchronized Sprinkler Meditation.'"

"Lila?" Claire raised an eyebrow. 

"She's cool," Ethan said too quickly. "She knows things about the neighborhood."

"Like what?" David asked.

"Like how all the houses have weird windows that look at nothing, and there are crazy symbols carved into the sidewalks, and nobody ever sees Evelyn actually eat anything except—"

"Red Jell-o?" Claire asked, remembering Margaret's words.

“And babies.” Ethan said, with a smirk.

A perfect silence fell over the room, broken only by the distant sound of wind chimes. Through the dining room window (which faced their neighbor's vinyl siding) they could see a small group of residents of Cedar Lane moving in perfect unison toward the Recreation Center, their cream-colored clothing glowing softly in the regulated porch light.

"Well," David said with forced cheer, "at least the property values are good!"

Claire and Ethan shared a look.

"I'm going to go unpack my room," Ethan announced. "And maybe barricade the door. You know, just in case the HOA does bed checks or something."

After he left, Claire turned to David. "We need to talk about the windows."

"And Margaret," David added, then quickly amended, "And Evelyn. And probably the synchronized porch lights. But maybe tomorrow? I'm too tired to process any more weirdness tonight."

Claire nodded, but as she gathered up the takeout containers, she couldn't shake the feeling that Cedar Lane's weirdness was just getting started. Outside, the wind chimes had switched to what sounded like a minor key version of "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" theme song, and in the distance, she could have sworn she heard the faint sound of a lawn mower. At 9 PM.

She pulled out her phone one last time: "Note to self: Maybe the next book shouldn't be about werewolves. Maybe it should be about a perfectly normal suburb where everything is just slightly... wrong. And the HOA president might be evil. And the hot neighbor in leather likes to cause trouble..."

David looked over her shoulder. "Are you writing about—"

"Shopping list," Claire said quickly. "Just a detailed, plot-driven shopping list."

The porch lights flickered once, in perfect synchronization, as if the neighborhood itself was critiquing her lie.