When I was seven I lived alone with my dad. Mom had been killed in that Fisherville gas station explosion. Dad mourned her for less than two weeks and then—drinking hard in those days—began celebrating how the ladies at the Friendly Shore strip club gave him free lap dances if he pretended to be sad. Even back at that young age I realized most strippers were nice and my dad wasn’t.

  The important thing is that there was a woman who lived next door to our third-floor apartment. Salena was her name. Twenty years old, I remember, because when Salena mentioned she was thirteen years older than me I’d said that thirteen was an unlucky number, but she’d told me, “No, it’s a good one.”

  Salena babysat me when dad was out at nights, and I stayed with her whenever he was in jail for a few days. Her apartment was bursting with plants, like walking into a jungle. The air was clean despite how—one step outside her hallway door—the air was rank with ancient cigarette smoke and carpets that hadn’t been cleaned since our building had been a semi-famous hotel and Iggy and the Stooges had stayed in our rooms, with groupies setting up in the hall and pissing in the corners because Iggy wouldn’t let them in through his door.

  Salena claimed she was a witch. She told me she had magic powers and laughingly declared that if I didn’t go to bed at the proper time she’d make my ass turn blue or my penis start barking. Those were powerful scares for a boy of my age.

  I remember her as a gangly woman who once ate a whole bag of marshmallows two nights in a row. A bag each night. As a child, I was impressed by that.

  Salena often told me stories, epic tales of terrible monsters defeated by clever women. One time when I went over to her place she was just getting out of the shower and I stood in her humid living room waiting for Salena to drive us to the pizza parlor, and I realized I could see her in the bathroom, fresh from the shower, naked.

  What I mean is that the door was open just wide enough to see her reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was amazed by that reflection because it revealed something hidden, a reflection of a truth that was powerful and real, only a single wall away. I trembled in Salena’s living room along with the leaves of her plants, which were forever fluttering in the slight wind of her ceiling fan.

  One evening when she was putting me to bed I asked why she’d seemed so sad of late. This was at a time when I could hear her crying at nights through the walls. I’d lie in bed listening to her sobbing. It could go on for hours. I’d cry along with her.

  When I finally asked about it, she went silent for long moments, and I’d expected she’d say I was too young to know about some things. Instead, she crawled onto my bed next to me, with her knees sliding against my sheets, my heart racing, and then she held my left hand in a peculiar way. Our index fingers were straight, fully extended but hugged up against each other. The rest of our fingers were clasped.

  She blew on our hands with a breath that was shockingly warm and then used our combined index fingers to trace imaginary lines—a big upright rectangle—on the wall. Then she let go of my hand and rapped her knuckles on the wall like she was knocking on a door, saying, “There, Josh. I’ve created a doorway to elsewhere. There are terrible things in every world, but at least now you have a choice when things get too crazy, okay?”

  I nodded, because in those days I always agreed with whatever Salena said. She was an attractive woman, a mystery, and she’d been naked in that mirror, and she often said strange things.

  I suppose I should’ve mentioned how she often said strange things. I might also add that I was too young to be sexually aware of Salena. I was just aware that she was sexual. There’s a difference.

  Anyway, that night we drew the imaginary door was something I’ve never told anybody. Maybe a week later there was a confined fire in Salena’s apartment while I was at school. They took her body away while I was at recess. By the time I was home the landlord was assessing the damage and thinking about how soon he could have her place rented again, all while putting Salena’s plants on the sidewalk with the rest of the garbage.

  That night, at maybe three in the morning, I went out and took several of her favorite plants off the curb and put them in my room, but I was shit at taking care of them, and within a couple of months they were dead.

  _______

  “It’s unhealthy, Josh,” my sister Binsa told me. “Moving back into your old apartment? Literally a weak move.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. “But my budget’s even weaker. Didn’t you see it outside? That frail gray thing whimpering on the sidewalk?”

  “Oh, fuck. That thing? I think I stepped on it.” Standing in my living room, she asked, with her eyes, where to put the box she was carrying. I’d marked it as “kitchen,” but Binsa couldn’t see it from her angle. I pointed toward the kitchen with my shoe and then went into the bedroom to put down a box full of underwear and clothes hangers.

  “I’ve got to live somewhere,” I told her, returning to the living room. “This place was available.”

  “But it’s where you used to live. Full of bad memories. You’re taking a step back.” She was admiring herself in the full-length mirror we’d already carried up from the moving van. Binsa has the darkest skin I’ve ever seen and was wearing her yellowest t-shirt. She plucked at the shirt. Frowned. Plucked at it again. Smiled.

  I said, “This is the only place I can afford. Especially now that you’ve trampled my budget.”

  “Mercy kill,” she shrugged, watching the motion of her shoulders in the mirror. Earlier, she’d played music on my laptop and practiced dance moves while watching herself in the mirror, but my laptop had run out of power and so far we hadn’t unpacked my charger.

  My sister is two years older than me. Twenty-five, now. Not technically my sister, either. I’d moved in with Binsa and her parents when I was twelve, after my dad was shot dead trying to rob a bar.

  He’d grabbed up an unimpressive two hundred and twenty-seven dollars and made it to the front door of the Downhill Bar, from where he could’ve gotten away, except he’d impulsively gone back for a handful of peanuts and the bartender had gotten to her gun by then.

  Dad died on the floor, clutching peanuts in one hand and dollar bills in the other. The bartender still works there. We have a cordial, if distant relationship.

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  Binsa’s parents adopted me three months after my dad died. They’re from Senegal and came to America because Binsa’s mother was attached to Boston University’s research project on emperor penguins. Their entire house is full of penguin paraphernalia. There’s kitschy toys, posters from animated movies, actual penguin skeletons, and even one of those weird anatomical models where you can take out the organs, one by one, like a three-dimensional puzzle.

  Binsa and I had known each other from school. She’d almost broken my nose, once, spiking a volleyball into me during gym class. As we’d grown up together, we shared every secret. Mostly about girls.

  Despite how she’s two years older, we started dating girls at about the same time. I thought she’d be better at it than I was, with her insider knowledge, but neither of us turned out to be experts. Dating’s still fun, though. You don’t have to win any medals to enjoy a game.

  “Why do you keep looking at yourself in the mirror?” I asked, reattaching the legs to my kitchen table. I’d taken them off to make it easier to move.

  “Big date tonight. Do I look edible?”

  “You’re my sister,” I told her. “You look like a dude.”

  “Where’d we pack your knives? I need them to kill you.”

  “I meant you don’t look like a woman, to me.”

  “Seriously. The knives. Where?”

  “I mean you’re my sister. So you don’t look edible to my eyes. But, yeah, if you weren’t my sister, I guess you’d be gorgeous. Who’s the date with?”

  “I forget her name. Shit. Her name on the dating profile was ‘420-69’ and that sounded promising.”

  “And they say that romance is dead.”

  “I don’t care if romance is dead. I want sex. You know how long it’s been since I’ve been laid?”

  “Weirdly, I do. Because weirdly, you keep me up to date. Weirdly.”

  “What’s a kid brother for, if not to act as a surrogate psychiatrist?”

  “Comedy relief?” I ventured, then added, “I’m heading down to get more boxes.” I left her staring at her reflection in the mirror.

  I’d never let her know it, but she’s beautiful. Sharp cheekbones. Amazing skin. Moves like a ballerina. Well, a fledgling ballerina. We’d caught various glimpses of each other around the house, over the years. Just the little, inevitable occurrences. Coming out of the shower. Dressed a little too casually in our rooms. Things like that.

  One day we’d stood for five minutes, letting each other see what we looked like naked. It was just curiosity. Almost a science experiment. There was no inclination to touch. There’s never been the slightest attraction between us. We hadn’t felt any desire when we were studying each other, or shame when we were getting dressed again. She’d only told me she was glad she wasn’t attracted to boys, and I’d told her I was glad that not all girls were my sister. There was probably some psychosis for both of us to unpack, but the boxes were small, so to speak.

  Outside, there was a gray cat on the lawn, staring at the moving van as if it was a giant can of tuna that needed opening. It’d been watching Binsa and I through the whole process of me moving back into the building, sitting there for three hours.

  “Not much on your schedule today?” I asked, walking past the cat and up the ramp into the back of the moving van. The cat yawned. Either cats are sleepy all the time, or else they find humans to be incredibly boring. I suppose it could be a combination of the two.

  “You could help?” I told the cat. “I mean, we still have this dresser to move.” The cat’s tail swayed lazily. I wondered what it meant in cat language. Probably nothing I wanted to translate.

  I looked away from the cat and back to the remaining boxes, choosing the heaviest one so that Binsa wouldn’t have to deal with it. The cat stared at me as I staggered away from the truck.

  The sun was pleasantly warm. The neighborhood seemed barely different than I remembered. Smaller, in some ways, likely because I now had an adult’s view of a kid’s memories. But it had the same languid feel, the same houses and the same small stores. Well, a handful of the stores were different, but tucked into the same places as the old ones.

  A tattoo parlor had been replaced by a store selling plants and high-end ladies’ underwear. The Catch-All grocery store had been renamed into Beto’s. A game store had been replaced by a vintage clothing store. A pet store had been subdivided so that they no longer carried any live animals, but just supplies for pets, and with the extra space they’d expanded into the marijuana business that’s boomed ever since the legalization. Binsa wanted me to buy her a little something as thanks for helping me move.

  All in all, the neighborhood was quiet. No buildings over four stories tall. No current construction. Driving up, I’d noticed how the Friendly Shore strip club, four blocks from my apartment, was still in business. Dad used to bring me little pizzas from there. They’d only been about six inches in diameter. I wondered if they still made them.

  Walking across the sidewalk, I had a flashback to those old times, specifically to the night I’d gone out to the sidewalk to retrieve a few of Salena’s plants after she’d died.

  Standing next to the moving van, I looked up to my windows, and to Salena’s old windows.

  Earlier, I’d met the man who now lived in her apartment. A twenty-something law-school dropout who’d moved to town to help run a youth shelter. Seemed like a nice guy. He and his boyfriend had peeked out from their apartment when they’d heard me and Binsa going in and out, moving furniture. We’d promised to have each other over for coffee at some point. He’d mentioned he had some imported coffees that would make our taste buds get an erection. Binsa had explained that she was a lesbian who never-ever wanted an erection in her mouth. The conversation could have been awkward, but wasn’t.

  Leaving the sidewalk, I struggled the box all the way to the elevator, and then a voice in my head convinced me that I was a wimp for taking an elevator up only two floors, so I opted for the stairs.

  It was the wrong decision, because the box was heavy and I actually am kind of a wimp. My legs and arms hated me with a virulent passion by the time I made it halfway. Just as I put the box down for a chance to rest, a woman in a green dress came down the stairs from my floor.

  She was a gangly, spider-like creature with flowing muscles. Breathtakingly beautiful. Some flowery scent filled the stairwell in a pleasant break from the general odor of cleaning fluids. The woman barely made any sound as she moved down the steps.

  We were too surprised to see each other to give any greetings beyond slight “I acknowledge you exist” dips of our heads. She was out the bottom door before I realized she reminded me of Salena, the woman who used to babysit me. The door clanged shut behind her. It was the only noise she’d made.

  Upstairs, I carried the box through my open door. I could hear Binsa talking as I staggered into the living room. I figured she was on her phone, but when I came through the door she looked up in surprise, her eyes darting to the small bedroom that used to be mine. I was taking my dad’s old room, now. It was bigger and had a better view.

  “What?” I asked, seeing her confusion.

  “Hold on,” she said in that tone that means, “What the fuck?” She marched into my old bedroom, then stomped back out.

  “Weren’t you just in your room?” she asked, frowning.

  “Just got back,” I said, kicking the box I’d thumped onto the floor.

  “But I heard you in your old room.”

  “You did not,” I told her.

  “I thought I did,” she said, more unsure. “There was some thumping. I assumed it was you moving boxes around. I asked you about what you thought I should wear tonight.” She gave me a puzzled look and then walked back into my old bedroom, only to return a couple seconds later, frowning at me like I’d done something wrong.

  “Am I still not in there?” I asked.

  “Don’t make fun of me. I’m your elder. I can have you sent to prison.”

  “Maybe something just fell over?”

  “I’m positive I heard a voice. I guess . . . maybe it was just noise coming through the window? Anyway, fuck it. What do you think I should wear tonight? And, is that cat still out there? I’m thinking of taking a cat along with me. That way, me and 420-69 will have something to talk about. Plus I’ll seem interesting, because I won’t be just a girl, I’ll be a girl with a cat.”

  “I can’t see anything wrong with taking a cat to a dance club,” I assured her.

  “That’s why I love you,” my sister told me, giving my shoulder a friendly punch. “You’re exactly the right amount of stupid.”

  Thanks for reading the first installment of Next Door Dungeon! Finding a place for this story has been a wild ride. I originally wrote a part of this ongoing project (Book One: Giant Rats With Big Gnashy Teeth) for just… fun. I’d felt that writing wasn’t enjoyable for me anymore so I specifically wrote something where I didn’t have to think about editors, etc. And then after I had it, I posted it online (in a much different form than currently) ~ but the stories and the characters kept calling me, so I decided to try to publish it as a novel, and was frustrated because agents kept wanting to change things. So I set it aside until one day (in August of 2025) realizing that Royal Road would be perfectly suited for all my needs. Episodic? Heck yeah! Ongoing? Yep! Free range to tell the story I wanted in the way I wanted? Yeah, buddy!