Zombie mating season. Tilf hears her neighbours life plan.

I think my neighbour is mating with a zombie. And I can prove it.

When I first moved in, she stuck her head out the window to find out what was going on. Unfortunately, she didn’t have her glasses on or contacts in, so I was apparently a blur. This didn’t stop her making, or taking, introductions. So I’ve spent the last month or so avoiding her.

This sounds very cruel, but in fairness to me, one day, she will die, but no one will notice, because she won’t stop talking, even then.

I pride myself on being a quiet neighbour. I’m a crazy cat lady, so normally I’m staring into space, stroking Boo, or weeping quietly about the state of humanity, into her sodden fur. Or I sit and read, so I don’t make too much noise. Also, I’ve lived next to noisy people before, so I don’t ever want to be one of those people.

Normally, I sit and read a book for half hour or so before bed, just to completely tire myself out, before crawling into my fur lined pit of rest, laying there for 5-50 minutes, waiting for sleep to come. This is where I’ll wake several hours later, right in the middle of the bed, topped with a cherry-Boo. As usual, she’ll pad around the bed, lovingly kneading her claws as deep into the quilt as possible, apparently trying to tear my intestines out through three inches of 13 tog, blanky covered excessitude. Or she’ll just go straight for my face. Like all cat slaves, I have developed lightning quick reactions and extraordinarily thick skin. But disembowelment-loving cat aside, I lay there, listening to the wind, the bats, the passing cars and my own breathing. Watching the trees’ shadows playing their hide and seek games across my ceiling.

I laid, last night, watching the shadows, ignoring the sound of passing vans, listening to bats flutter past my window, when a bizarre sound interrupted my reverie. A long, drawn out sound, slithered through my wall into my ear, like a ponderous snake. A deep, 60’s B-movie zombie groan, only normally heard in the space above thrust out arms and tattered, rotting legs, shuffling closer to you in a darkened park or street.

My bedroom wall backs onto my neighbours bedroom wall, as I wondered what on earth it could be, it was uttered again. Sounding for all the world like it had been pulled, torturously from the throat of a dying whale. It was followed by another, a higher pitched version, then another, deeper one.

I was perplexed. Then, just as suddenly as they had started, they stopped. And I realised, my neighbour has broken though all the boundaries of associating with dead things, and taken it to new heights. Instead of following the human conditioning of avoiding dead things, especially dead things that follow you and try to eat your brains, she has embraced one.

She might be doing it to create a new type of hybrid, loved by both sides. But it suddenly occurred to me, she may be embracing a new type of nec-romance, but it only seemed to last a few minutes. This is hardly good news for anybody, at any time like that. Is it a shoddy model? Or perhaps they properly die.

I wonder where she gets the new ones from.


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