A couple of months ago a family moved into the long vacant house next door to where I live. They will be renting the place for just a few more months while their own home in the tony Beverly Hills (not the official name) section of Temple Valley is being renovated.
When they first arrived in the neighborhood, everyone noticed that the man of the house (i.e. the father and husband) was nowhere to be seen. Rumor quickly spread up and down the sloping street that he was a writer of some note, holed up in a corner room, pounding out the final chapter of his latest and perhaps greatest novel to date. He is reported to leave the house only late in the evening when he roams the empty lanes and peers contemplatively into the light of the moon through a thin veil of exhaled cigarette smoke.
Last week I discovered something even more surprising about our neighborhood writer in residence via a mutual acquaintance. He in fact died over a decade ago - but the rumor lives on.
Related post: The Stranger