Taking a look outside his apartment, Sylvester couldn't find anyone. Because a psychopath stays back to greet, he heard a snarky thought pass through his mind. He looked around his house again, double-checking below the bed and the bathroom.
"The person didn't get anyone else to bother," Sylvester muttered before returning to the telephone and dialling the parish house number. Though he wasn't famous, his mother was, and people had seen him accompany her many times. Was it one of his mother's fanatics?
"This is the parish watch house. How may I help you?"
"Hello, I am Sylvester Crowley. A burglar broke into my house a few hours ago."
"Could I get more details on where you live and what time it happened?" asked the female operator from the other end.
"Yes," Sylvester replied, before continuing, "I live on Hootenanny Avenue, building thirteen. I went to work this morning, and when I returned twenty minutes ago, the door was left open. The burglar used my kitchen to make food and eat, leaving dishes."
"I see. Does anyone have access to your house, Mr. Crowley?"
"Apart from me, the owner of the building has the master key. But she lives far away from here," and as those words left Sylvester's lips, he wondered if someone had broken in Mrs. Deck's home to get the key.
"What are the valuables that were taken from your house?"
Sylvester's eyes moved across the room, and he replied, "I don't think anything was stolen. But there is something."
"Yes?"
"My kitchen is restocked," Sylvester replied, a little worried.
"Excuse me?" the operator asked, not understanding what he meant.
"All my groceries that I had to fill this morning have been stocked back. From eggs to flour, to soap."
"..."
Sylvester heard silence from the other end, and he inquired, "Hello?" wondering if the connection was lost.
"Ah, yes," the operator replied as if not expecting such a situation. "Mr. Crowley, this is certainly a unique situation. Perhaps Santa visited someone early this year. I'll make a note of it, and we'll keep an eye on the area."
"What about finding the culprit?"
"I assure you, Mr. Crowley, this is a first for us. I'll pass your complaint along, but I think we can chalk this one up as a rather amusing incident. Take care, and if your 'burglar' brings more groceries, let us know!"
Before Sylvester could respond, the operator hung up the phone, leaving him bewildered and frustrated on the other end. He would need to change the bolts and locks on the windows and doors!
He had the urge to check on the other neighbours in the building, but the thought of one of them being the psychopath left a feeling of dread in his stomach. If the person had entered his house and made a meal, wouldn't that mean Grumpy heard the entry? But Grumpy, who always complained, didn't say a word about it. What if Grumpy was the culprit?
A feeling of paranoia began to fill Sylvester's mind, and the next day, he called the locksmith to come install a new bolt of locks.
"Rusty locks, eh?" A voice came from the bottom of the stairs, bringing Sylvester towards the railings.
There stood the last tenant of the building, the Gardner, a.k.a. Alberto Fletcher. The man was tall and big, with a rugged look and a small ponytail at the back of his head. Sylvester called him the Gardner because Alberto was always found gardening around the building and the plants on the terrace, be it day or night.
"Yeah, the previous one broke last noon," or evening, Sylvester thought in his head. Who knew when the burglar entered his house? "By the way, did someone come for me yesterday? To meet me, or here?"
The Gardner stared at Sylvester, as if thinking about something. The drawn silence made Sylvester uneasy, and before he saw the man shake his head, he said, "I don't think I did. Were you expecting someone?"
"No, no. I was just curious," Sylvester replied. He hoped no one would come to bother him. Thank you for stocking up the groceries, but he didn't need the help, he thought to himself.
"I would be happy to keep an eye if you need me to."
"That's fine. You don't have to do that," and don't you have a job? Sylvester asked in his mind. He didn't want anyone to keep an eye on him or his house. There had been times when he had caught the Gardner with muddy hands and muddy shoes during night.
Imagine asking a fox to look after the chicken's eggs, Sylvester thought.
After the locksmith finished installing the new lock, Sylvester went inside the apartment and returned with the payment. As he approached, he overheard a conversation between the locksmith and Alberto Fletcher, the building's gardener.
"The same set of locks have been sold. There are other ones," the locksmith said.
"My current lock has been weak too. It creaks," said the Gardner before he joked, "We will have the same keys, and it will be easy if one of us loses our key. Just joking."
Sylvester didn't find humour in his fellow tenant's words and instead turned worried. After paying the locksmith, he stepped inside his house and locked the door. Turning the two locks. It would be hard to look for a place as good as this, especially when he had paid a hefty deposit that wouldn't be returned until he finished the remaining two years.
As he stepped away from the door, with the voices in the hallways fading, Sylvester felt a sense of foreboding creep into his mind. The person had broken into his house, a place where he had found comfort. He hoped it was the first and last time the criminal was intruding.
Because the first time the person prepared a meal, he didn't want to know what other things the person would or could do.