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Day 1
‘You could always put some plants along here, Helen. What do you think?’
‘Maybe. The only decent light would be around noon. It’d be in shade the rest of the day.’
‘You’ll find something to put in. Ivy, perhaps?’ He pointed a finger to the far end of the narrow gap, where a tangle of leaves and vines waved gently in the light breeze.
‘Buried under that lot there’s a gate. Should be easy enough to clear away.’
Peter levered himself up and brushed gravel from his jeans. Taking a last look, he joined his wife in the garden.
‘That’s the problem with buying on the internet; you can’t check everything before the cheque gets handed over. Oh well, needs must and all that.’ He felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder and turned to look at her.
Helen smiled. ‘We both know that teaching position was too good to pass up.’ A cloud passing over head drowned them in shadow. She glanced at the sky and then back at the yard.
‘The garden’s a bit wild, but the basics are there. Extra work for me while you’re at university and Maggie’s at school, eh?
‘A bit wild?’ Peter snorted. ‘It’s bedlam out here.’ Helen smiled at him and he laughed in response.
‘Gonna wield that green thumb of yours, are you?’ He pulled her close.
‘You know the beds haven’t been unloaded yet,’ she said, smirking.
‘Who said anything about beds?’ he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. She laughed, shivering against him. Slapping him on the shoulder, Helen slipped from his embrace and walked back to the edge of the path. She lent against the fence, head half turned towards the hidden gate.
With a start, Peter watched the colour drain from her face. He shivered. Moving closer he saw her eyes fixed on the gate. Peter followed her gaze. At the far end, the ivy twitched in the faint breeze.
‘What?’
‘I thought.’ She stopped, trying to find the words. ‘Did another cloud pass over us just then?’
He looked at curiously, placing a hand on her forehead.
‘Are you alright? You’ve raised a bit of a sweat.’
Helen irritably batted his hand away.
‘I’m perfectly fine. I just thought.’ She sighed in exasperation.
‘Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s go back inside. I need to have a shower.’ Peter watched her march up the steps into the house. He looked at the gate. The ivy trembled once then fell motionless. Shaking his head, he followed his wife inside.
Day 2
The aroma of bacon and eggs wafted through the kitchen. A plate in each hand, Helen deftly working her way around the boxes littering the floor. Peter sat at the table, looking out into the front yard through the open windows.
‘Ugly morning,’ he said, taking the plate. Setting it down, he poured Helen a glass of juice, then filled one for himself.
‘Yes,’ she said, settling into her chair. ‘Those clouds look threatening.’ Reaching over, Helen grabbed a slice of toast. She scraped a healthy dollop of butter on one side, then took a bite out of it
‘Steady on,’ Peter said, laughing. ‘That’ll go straight to your hips.’
‘Ha, ha.’ Helen replied through a mouthful of toast. She took another bite. Crumbs fell from her mouth, and Peter shook his head, chuckling. He cut himself a piece of bacon and chewed on it contentedly.
‘Did you hear Maggie last night?’ he said, fork poised in readiness over an egg.
‘No. Too buggered from all that work yesterday. What did you hear?’
‘Not entirely sure,’ Peter mused, forking a piece of bacon into his mouth. He took a gulp of juice then wiped his lips with a napkin.
‘I thought I heard her talking.’
‘In her sleep?’
‘Impossible to say.’ He frowned. ‘I was too knackered to check. I’m a bad father, I suppose.’
‘Hardly,’ Helen said. ‘We were all pretty tired after yesterday.’
‘Should we wake her?’
‘Let her go for a little while yet. What are you doing today?’
‘I’d love to stay and unpack some more, but I’m scheduled to meet the Dean and my fellow faculty members at ten. I’m sure meeting a bunch of dried up old sticks over fruit slice and tea will do wonders for my day.’
She punched his arm playfully. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of delightful young female staff members to keep your attention focussed.’
‘Now, that is hilarious, dear,’ Peter said, his eyes twinkling. ‘I may even bring one home.
‘Ooh, yes please,’ his wife cooed, her eyebrows arching coyly.
Peter spluttered a mouthful of food over his plate, while his wife cleared hers away, her laughter shimmering in the air. As Peter wiped his mouth and picked bits of food off the table, they both heard a noise from down the corridor. Exchanging looks, Peter followed his wife to their daughter’s room.
Surrounded by open cartons, Maggie stood in the centre of the room, staring out the window. Blankets lay tangled on her bed. Her ash blonde hair was dishevelled, the strands stuck together in sweaty clumps. Through her nightgown’s thin material, they could see her shivering. The room was hot and airless.
Moving to her side, Helen placed a hand on her shoulder. Maggie flinched away. Helen drew her hand back, rubbing it as if she had been stung. Peter knelt opposite his wife and looked into his daughter’s face.
Maggie gazed blankly at the window. Her pupils were tiny gulfs of darkness that had almost devoured the surrounding iris. Fighting a rising tide of concern, Peter waved a hand in front of her face. Maggie’s body shuddered. Blinking furiously for a few seconds, she stretched her arms into the air and yawned.
‘Hello mummy,’ she said, giving Helen a hug. She kissed her on the cheek, then turned to her father and gave him a smile and a kiss. While Peter and Helen exchanged silent, puzzled glances, Maggie began tidying her bed.
Peter moved to the window, curious to see what Maggie had been staring at. The area between the window and the fence was empty. He looked at his wife and shrugged his shoulders.
Helen looked at her daughter. ‘Did you sleep well?’ Maggie stopped tugging at the blankets and sheets.
‘Not really,’ she said in a matter of fact tone, before resuming.
‘Bad dreams? Noises?’ ventured Peter.
Maggie looked up at her father, and smiled, nodding her head. ‘A bit of both,’ she said, patting down the pillow and standing back from the bed, an almost but not quite satisfied look on her face.
‘What sort of noises,’ Helen asked, her brow creased in concern.
Maggie tilted her head to one side, considering. ‘Oh, like when the wind blows through the trees.’
Peter laughed. ‘I put the bins outside last night, Maggie. There was barely any breeze at all. You sure you weren’t dreaming?’
‘I definitely heard it, Daddy. I couldn’t sleep because you and Mummy were making that racket you make.’
Helen stifled a giggle, while her husband turned away, his face red.
‘No matter,’ said Helen, almost breaking into laughter. ‘Let’s get some food into you while Daddy gets ready for work.’
Helen and Maggie left the room, leaving Peter to contemplate the mess. He turned to leave when a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He moved to the window and peered out.
The light was murky, heavy with the threat of rain. He could feel the cold pressing through the window. Staring at the clouds made him feel like the last man on earth, waiting for nature to descend and scour him from existence.
‘Get a grip, man,’ he muttered to himself. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.
He reminded himself to ask Helen to look into buying curtains for Maggie’s room. He tensed; had something moved? Just passed the water heater he just could see a fringe of rustling ivy. He frowned. The trees next door stood still. Where was the breeze? Was there a bird hiding in the ivy? He watched as the blotches and faded greenery blurred into one.
Lost in the ever-changing pattern, the feeling of loneliness returned. The sound of Maggie and Helen talking in the kitchen faded. Pressed against the window, he found himself staring blindly at the sky. At the corner of his vision, he saw the leaves start to crawl and writhe against the gate.
‘Peter!’ He spun around, his heart beating a staccato rhythm in his breathless chest.
‘Are you all right?’ his wife said, staring up at his oddly pale face.
Straightening, Peter cleared his throat, scrambling to gather his thoughts.
‘Sorry. Yes. Everything’s fine. Just looking outside. We might get some rain.’
‘Really?’ she said, moving passed to stare at the sky. ‘I had hoped to get into the garden this afternoon. No matter. Maggie and I can unpack if it does rain. Come on, you’d best get ready, hey?’
Peter nodded, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. He looked again at the window.
‘Perhaps you should get those new curtains for Maggie today?’
He could hear his wife murmuring something from the doorway. When he turned, she had gone. Casting a backward glance out the window, Peter left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Day 2: afternoon
Helen sat in a chair on the decking, surveying her efforts. In one grimy hand, she held a tall, cool drink, glistening beads of water running down the sides. The clouds had drifted away by lunchtime, the sun emerging to glare out of the early autumn sky. Inside, the television burbled to itself, and she could faintly hear Maggie singing along with it.
Only when she began clearing it up did Helen realise how badly the previous owners had neglected the garden. They seemed to have utterly abandoned it. Thick clumps of weeds, rank with aphids and decay, had overtaken the roses, rising above the highest bloom. She took a sip of water then shook her head, unable to work out why the garden had been left to its own devices for so long.
A large, black wheeled bin stood to one side, filled to the top with bent stalks and crushed leaves. Broken stems leaked milky fluid down one side. She had pruned back the roses, the dead blooms and canes lying in a tangled heap nearby. A circle of bricks in the centre of the lawn held a barren mound of dirt. Resting in her chair, Helen mulled over several possibilities for it.
She took another long drink, the ice tinkling in the glass. Resting it on the table, Helen stood. She slipped her gloves back on and stepped off the porch. Flexing her hands, she felt the sweaty, clammy interiors warming. Her mind turned to the gate at the top of the gravel path.
Giving the gloves one final tug, Helen walked over to fence. She could see the ivy-covered gate at the far end, the leaves shivering in the faint breeze. The space was uninviting, the gloomy shadows deep. She looked around, searching for more to do, but couldn’t find anything. The heavy work of pulling out the dead bushes near the porch was Peter’s work. Looking back at the ivy, she made her mind up.
Helen stepped out onto the path, then paused. What had she seen yesterday, she wondered. A bird? A shadow moving of its own accord made no sense at all, and yet she looked at the ivy again, which had stilled. Suddenly unsure, Helen turned on her heel. Tackling the ivy from the other side of the gate suddenly made more sense. Marching up the steps, angry with herself for her irrationality, she slid open the door and entered the house.
Inside, Helen closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The tension eased. Her muscles loosen and she began to feel relaxed. Helen fixed her mind on the obvious. All homes were strange to new owners. Until she got used to this one, she would feel odd about it. Satisfied, Helen opened her eyes and continued.
Passed the open door of Maggie’s room, Helen doubled back when she saw Maggie standing by the window.
‘I’m just going out the front, love,’ she said. ‘Come get me if you need anything.’ Maggie didn’t respond, but Helen thought she saw her shoulders twitch. Shrugging, she continued through the house.
In comparison to the backyard, the front garden was ordered and well maintained. The large oak in the front corner had started to shed its leaves and a riot of orange and brown leaves threatened to overwhelm the neatly mown and edged lawn. Tiny box hedges, shaped to exquisite perfection, ran along a paved footpath that snaked from the front gate to the verandah. Helen stopped, surprised for the first time by the marked contrast between the yards.
Crossing to the side of the house, Helen turned the corner. The gate was hidden beneath a thick profusion of ivy, in stark contrast to the sickly leaves on the other side. With some effort, Helen tore away the ivy. After several minutes, she had a pile of leaves at her feet. The unpainted gate, pockets of rust marring its bare surface, finally stood revealed. Inspecting it, Helen noted with some annoyance the absence of a padlock. She grabbed the rusty bolt and pulled on it. It refused to budge.
‘Shit,’ she said. Grabbing the bolt with both hands, she yanked harder. The bolt shifted slightly and then stuck fast. No amount of swearing or effort was enough to make it move. Struggling to contain her temper, Helen glared at the bolt, sweat trickling down her face. Fuming, she angrily conceded defeat. After a few moments, a thought occurred to her.
‘There’s more than one way to skin this cat,’ she muttered, marching back to the front door and into the house.
Inside, the only noise was the steady hum of the fridge. Helen paused, wondering where her daughter was. She moved through the kitchen and down the corridor, towards the bedrooms. Her shoes on the floorboards sounded oddly muted, and her stomach began to tense.
She paused in the doorway to Maggie’s room. Her daughter knelt in front of the window, head resting on the sill. Feeling relieved, Helen moved on, then caught a glimpse of her daughter’s reflection in the mirror. She felt a trickle of unease.
Maggie’s reflection was shadowed and her eyes were black as pitch. The darkness reached into the hollows of her cheeks. With a sharp intake of breath, Helen realised that her daughter’s reflection was looking straight at her. The blood roaring in her ears, Helen grabbed for the doorframe.
Abruptly, Maggie looked around, disturbed by the noises behind. Her face was normal. With the reflection gone, Helen struggled to grasp what she thought she had seen with the reality in front of her. The smile on her face felt painted on. She cleared her throat.
‘I’m just out the back again, okay? Anything you need, just call me.’
Nodding absently, Maggie turned away, her eyes fixed on something only she could see. Unnerved, Helen hastened down the corridor and out into the back yard. She stood with her face towards the sky, savouring the warm, clean light of the sun. In a few moments, the feelings of apprehension and fear had eased and she opened her eyes.
‘Everything’s normal,’ she insisted to herself, looking around the garden. ‘Just tricks of the light.’
Quickly, before fresh doubts arose, she walked over to the path. Surprised by how narrow it was, Helen again hesitated. Shadows had begun to crawl up the fence. Squaring her shoulders, Helen set aside her unease and stepped onto the path. The crunch of the gravel beneath her feet sounded like a shotgun blast and she flinched.
‘God damn it,’ she muttered, taking another step. And another. Her confidence returning, she made her way along the path. The bulk of the hot water service loomed out from the wall. Helen turned sideways to get past it, clipping a foot on the square of concrete the service rested on. She could feel its heat as it pressed against her shirt. Looking down, she saw a pale spider lurking in the shadows and gave it a kick. It backed away, its dead eyes unnerving her. Free at last, she moved past her daughter’s window, the glass choked with shadows.
A gust of wind passed through the branches of the tree in her neighbour’s yard, the leaves hissing. In a moment, they stilled. Nearing the gate, Helen felt a crawling sensation cross her scalp. She stopped and turned around. The narrowness of the gap made the yard seem impossibly distant. Pressed up against Maggie’s window was something pale and round. On all sides, the sensation of being watched steadily grew. Shivering, she turned towards the gate. A shadow passed overhead, and the ivy on the gate rustled. Overhead, the tree remained still. Helen grimly walked on, her shoes slipping on the gravel as it shifted beneath her weight.
The ivy twitched, leaves thick and heavy with a blotchy fungus that disgusted her. Reaching out an unsteady hand, she felt the pulse in her head quicken. The ivy’s movement grew more frenzied. The overhanging branches began to shake, the rustling of their leaves rising to a roar in the narrow confines. Hunched against the fence, Helen’s nerve finally broke. Fleeing down the path, she passed her daughter’s window. She caught a glimpse of Maggie’s waxen faced pressed against the glass, her eyes wide and glaring. Sobbing, Helen broke out into the yard and fled inside.
She stumbled to a halt just outside her daughter’s room. Her body shaking with fear, Helen lent against the doorframe, her limp hands scrambling against the wall for support. Peering into the room, she began to sob when she saw her daughter kneeling on the floor. With her head tilted, Maggie seemed to be listening. Helen could hear branches distantly thrashing. The air throbbed with the noise. A strange, empty smile crawled across Maggie’s waxen face. Her mouth gaped open and Helen listened with mounting horror as a soft, rustling noise emerged, filling the air with the sound until it pressed Helen to the floor.
Day 2: evening
Peter let the car glide to a stop. The garden was an expanse of blurred shapes and shadows. Turning the key, he watched the dash lights fade. The darkness quickly swallowed him. Rubbing his eyes, Peter contemplated the house that he and his family now called home. He hiccupped.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, wincing at the memory of an excessively long lunch with the faculty. ‘And they say the students drink.’ He opened the door and stepped out, staggering slightly before regaining his balance. Pocketing his keys, Peter closed the door and made his way up the path.
On the verandah, he could see a light flickering through the front window. All else was in darkness. Fumbling for his keys, he swore when they slipped through his fingers. Dropping to his knees, he padded about with his hands until a faint metallic gleam caught his eye. Back on his feet, he slotted the house key home with exaggerated care.
Pushing the door open, Peter winced in anticipation of any noise disturbing his wife. With comical inevitability, the door swung from his grasp and only a desperate lunge stopped it from banging against the wall. Stepping into the corridor, he carefully closed the door behind him, pressing it shut with a muffled click. The only illumination came from the flickering light in the living room.
A black and white movie playing silently to itself on the television. He could see the heads of two figures sitting on the couch. In the dancing light, he thought he saw them jerk from side to side. He felt a vague sense of dread rising up. Hesitantly, he moved around the couch.
Maggie and his wife sat huddled together on the couch, their faces still and pale. They were clasping each other’s hands, the fingers a jumbled knot of shadowy flesh. Their eyes were large and vacant, pools of darkness in the wasteland of their faces. Peter gripped the edge of the couch for a moment, his heart hammering. With great reluctance, he moved towards them.
As one, they suddenly flinched. Peter jolted to a stop, the pounding in his chest now a steady thrum. His wife looked up at him, her face troubled.
‘Oh, you’re home Peter.’ She looked about, confused. ‘What’s the time?’ She disentangled her fingers from her daughter’s hands, and stretched. Maggie rubbed her hands together, the knuckles white.
His face bathed in sweat, Peter flicked the light switch. The room lit up with clean, sterile glare. The shadows vanished, and the television screen seemed to shrink.
‘It’s about eight, Helen,’ Peter answered distantly. His wife stood and smoothed her pants. She looked down at Maggie.
‘I think it’s time for bed, young miss.’ Maggie looked up at her and smiled vacantly. Rising from the couch she padded over to her father. Peter bent down and gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek, receiving a limp hug in return. ‘Night, Daddy,’ she whispered into his ear, her lips cold against his skin.
Helen grabbed Maggie by the hand and led her into the corridor. She turned to Peter.
‘I think I’ll have a shower before we go to bed. There’s some of tonight’s dinner in the fridge. Help yourself.’
Peter watched as his wife and daughter disappeared from view. An overwhelming feeling of confusion left him very unsure. Nothing felt right.
‘Probably all those wines,’ he said to himself, alone now in the room. He switched the television off, glad to be rid of the capering figures. With his family gone, the room was big and empty and silent. He hurried into to the kitchen.
He dropped his keys and jacket on a bench and opened the fridge. His stomach rumbling, he grabbed a plate piled high with food. Smiling happily to himself, he settled down at the table, then heard his wife call out.
‘Peter, the damn water’s cold. Could you check the heater?’
Carefully placing his knife and fork down, Peter stood, swaying slightly. He grabbed a box of matches and a torch from an overhead cupboard, then left the kitchen and hurried down to his bedroom. The ensuite door was open, so he ducked his head in. His wife was half in and out of the shower, wiping water from her eyes. Goosebumps ran up and down her body. Peter smiled in appreciation.
‘I’ll just be a few moments, dear. Probably the pilot light.’ Peter saw that Helen was glaring at him and realised that he was smiling goofily at her. He held up the box of matches and rattled them. Smiling weakly,
Peter hurried out of the room.
Back in the corridor, Peter took a moment to look in on his daughter. The room was dark, but a patch of moonlight played on his daughter’s peaceful, sleeping face. A small teddy bear lay at the foot of the bed. Peter thought about placing it on her pillow, but changed his mind, hesitant to disturb her.
Outside, the air was brisk, a slight breeze stirring the trees. A sliver of moon rode the sky, the night a black velvet tapestry pricked with silver. Peter flicked on his torch, groaning when he saw how weak the light was. Gritting his teeth, he moved over to the fence.
The torch’s feeble light struggled against the dark. The fence loomed as a long black shadow, a wall of darkness hemming him against the side of the house. He could hear the soft susurration of the leaves overhead. Squaring his shoulders, Peter stepped into the gap.
The crunch of the gravel underfoot was shockingly loud. He flinched, muttering to himself. The alcohol was beginning to wear off, and the chill of the night pressed against him. He stepped forward and the heater’s bulk emerged from the darkness, its grey bulk dull and pitted. Peter played the torch up and down each side, before realising that the pilot light was located at the base. Placing the torch carefully on the gravel, he pulled the matches out of a pocket, groaning when chunks of gravel bit through the fabric of his pants into his knees. Above, his daughter’s window captured a reflection of the moon within its inky black frame. The breeze picked up and a dry rustling stirred. His concentration fixed on the heater, he failed to see his daughter and wife emerge from the dark and stare down out at him.
With the side of his face pressed into the gravel, Peter had trouble processing what he was seeing. A thick blue flame danced in front of his eyes, darker at the base, lighter at the flickering tip.
‘What the bloody hell is she playing at?’ Peter straightened so quickly he felt dizzy. Fumbling for the torch, he heard a noise. Peter froze. The rustling in the darkness ahead grew louder. The gate began to rattle furiously. Above, tree branches whipped back and forth, their leaves hissing ferociously. Peter stumbled to his feet, the beam of light jerking wildly. The beam was fading and the darkness pressed on him from all sides. All around, the noises grew to a crescendo.
The light abruptly faded and Peter stumbled. A baffled sense of fear grew within him and he flung the torch into the darkness. His hand banged against the window and he instinctively looked up. The moon had vanished and the window was now a slab of darkness blacker than the night. Impossibly, he could see his wife and daughter pressed against the glass. The shadows around their eyes began to swell and quickly ate into their faces. The rustling grew louder and more frenzied and the fear in his mind overwhelmed him. The gate rattled until it swung open with a clang, the shriek of the hinges drowning out everything. He turned towards it, and screamed. |
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