by Tabatha Wood
She heard a rustle and a thump from behind the fence.
“Hilary?” she called out. “Is that you?”
There was sounds of grunting and sniffing, that heavy, dragging noise again.
“We were going to pop round and see you,” she began.
“Fuck off!” came an acidic shriek from the other side of the fence. “Leave us alone!”
“Wow,” Robert muttered under his breath. He locked eyes with Maureen. “What’s that all about?” Maureen shook her head, unable to answer his question.
“Hilary?” she called out gently. “Are you okay? Is there a problem?”
Another grunt, more sounds of shuffling and rustling, like a pile of dead leaves being blown by the wind.
“You’re the problem! You are! We don’t want you here. Go away!”
“Let’s just leave it,” Robert said quietly. “She’s clearly not all there.” He made a spinning motion with one finger at the side of his head. Maureen shook her head.
“No. Just wait a minute. Maybe she’ll calm down.” She walked closer to the fence, spoke as calmly as she could. Her heart was pounding and her palms felt slippery with nerves. She always hated any kind of confrontation.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Hilary. Can we talk for a moment, see if we can find a solution to all this?”
“No! Go away!”
Maureen sighed, unsure how to continue. She reached upwards and put her hand over the top of the thick wooden slats, trying to avoid touching any of the beetles. She hoped Hilary could see. Hoped it might spark some kind of a connection.
“Hilary, are you well? We just wanted…” she was cut short by a violent bang from the other side of the fence. The fence shook and she stumbled backwards. A nail, not fully driven into the wood, grazed the fleshy part of her forearm, and she yelped in shock and pain as blood oozed swiftly from the wound.
“Right,” Robert growled, “I’m going round.” Before she could stop him, he had unbolted the side gate and strode away.
She heard him as he rounded the path. He stalked across Hilary’s garden and rapped his knuckles on the side of the wooden gate.
“Hilary?” he called loudly. “I think we should talk.”
Maureen heard shuffling and grunting from behind the fence, the sound of something large and heavy being dragged. She heard the scrape and shove of many bolts being pulled back and the creak of the gate being opened.
“Hilary? Is that you?” Robert asked again, but he barely had time to get the words out before he was cut off by the sound of an incoherent scream. It was an animalistic sound, barely human, the sound of pure rage and hatred. Maureen felt herself grow suddenly very afraid.
“Jesus! Stop!” Robert cried. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”
The screaming continued, intensifying in both volume and pitch. Maureen winced, a sharp pain pierced her head just behind her eyes. Through the audial chaos, she almost thought she could make out words. Words she didn’t recognise or know the meaning of, but which somehow chilled her heart ice cold.
She heard Robert yell again, but she couldn’t make out what he said. Another voice cut through the din; another man. She paused, tried to focus on the voices and not on the terrible shrieking noise. She heard someone say “come away” and “leave it alone”, and the side gate clicked as Robert and Paul came into the garden. Blood was pooled under Robert’s nose and he was clutching at his head.
The screaming stopped. Maureen heard a door slam and then nothing more.
Her ears rang from the aftermath of the terrible noise.
“Robert? Are you okay?” She rushed to his side. Paul was holding him under his shoulders, keeping him upright and steady.
“Did she hurt you?”
Robert groaned a little. When he spoke he sounded groggy and slurred as if he were very drunk.
“Yeah. Nah. I don’t know. There was noise. She screamed at me. Why did she scream at me? Oh. I got a nose bleed. Did you hear the screaming, babe?”
Paul took him into the house, and sat him gently on the sofa. Maureen grabbed a box of tissues and passed them to Robert. He took one, pinched his nose hard and leaned forwards in the chair.
Paul sighed and straightened up.
“I warned you not to bother her,” he said, wearily.
Maureen looked up quickly.
“What do you mean? Is she sick or something? Is she mentally ill?”
Paul sighed again.
“No. Not sick. We don’t know what she is. We don’t like to pry.”
“Well, she needs some help. I mean, she’s clearly struggling.”
Paul laughed, a humourless laugh.
“Oh, no. Whatever she is, she isn’t struggling. It’s everyone else who lives around her, who knows what she can do, who struggles. Mostly we just put up with it, we do what we can to keep her satisfied. She can be useful too, you see, especially if someone undesirable moves into the area, but every once in a while, she’ll go too far. I suppose we could have warned you better. Especially with you living right next door to her.” He scratched the stubble on his chin and looked thoughtful.
“She got lonely, after her husband passed. Lonely yet angry as well. That’s always a bad combination. Especially for someone with her… skills. Her hatred was so strong, so passionate. Towards everyone involved in the building projects; for those who took the houses. We don’t know exactly how it happened, but she found herself some new friends. ‘Familiars’, I guess you could call them.
“They changed her. They made her powerful.
“I really had hoped if you just ignored her, she would ignore you. I thought you were different. You might have had a few good years at least.” He gestured at the Peace Lily sitting on the dining table, its leaves now drooping and tipped with brown.
“You had to meddle, didn’t you? Even though I warned you not to.”
Maureen blinked, unsure if she had heard him right.
“Meddle?”
“Yes. You meddled. You had to go and try be ‘neighbourly’, to say hello. It never works. If it helps any, she can’t really help it. Her friends never let her out of their sight. Won’t ever let her leave. My guess is, they saw you as a threat. That’s usually the case. So I suppose you’ll be next. Such a shame.”
He patted Robert on the shoulder, reached out and gave hers a gentle squeeze too, before walking towards the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said, although the tone of his voice lacked any remorse. “We quite liked you. Maybe it won’t be so bad this time.”
Before Maureen could reply, he had left the room. She heard the front door click closed as he departed.
Robert was still hunched over, holding his nose.
“Did you hear that, Robert?” she asked, unnerved. “What do you think he meant?”
“What?” Robert mumbled in reply.
“What Paul just said, about me meddling. About warning us. Familiars and powers, and other weird stuff.”
“Paul was here?” He sounded groggy and tired. His voice was small and seemed to come from very far away. Maureen knelt down in front of him, lifted his chin slightly so she could see him better.
“Are you okay? Paul brought you back home, darling. He was just here.”
“Back home? Where was I?”
Maureen felt her blood chill. A ghostly finger traced the length of her spine.
“Robert, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“No. Not sick. I think maybe… maybe I hit my head, eh? I can’t remember. I’ve drunk too much, I reckon. I’ll just have a lie down for a bit.”
His voice sounded so different. So unlike him. Gravelly, yet strangely high-pitched. He kicked his jandals off his feet and swung his legs up on the sofa, wriggling down onto the cushions. Maureen was glad to see that his nosebleed seemed to have stopped, but still she felt anxious and uncertain what to do. Robert didn’t appear to remember anything about what had just happened.
She watched as he rested both his
hands on his chest. He closed his eyes and his breathing slowed, as he drifted into sleep.
She sat down on the floor next to him, her hand resting on his arm. If he had hit his head, perhaps he’d concussed himself. Going to sleep could be a bad thing. She should wake him up, she knew, but she also felt tired. So very tired. The cut on her arm was stinging. It needed cleaning. Some antiseptic. But she was simply too exhausted to be bothered.
Maybe that wine was a bit strong.
Maybe the heat had got to her.
Maybe just... a little nap... would be nice...
She rested her head on Robert’s chest and fell unconscious.
Michael and Luke got back home much later than they had intended to. The game of football with their friends had become much bigger and more serious when some boys from a different school had joined in and challenged them all. Much later, after a score of three-nil to Michael’s team, there was taunting and celebrating; much drinking of pop and eating of hot chips. On Luke’s insistence, Michael had eventually agreed that they should go home, or else face their parents’ wrath.
The house was empty when they arrived, but the car was still on the driveway. The back door was open, swaying slightly as a rising wind pushed it to and fro. Oscar was asleep in his bed, only waking when Luke stroked the back of his ears. The boys searched the house together, then the garden and garage, but neither their mum or dad could be found. The puppy followed them and ran around on the grass for a while. He sniffed and whined and refused go come back inside. Michael rang their father’s mobile, only to find it underneath the sofa. Their mother’s was still in her handbag in the hallway.
Luke was worried and started to cry, but Michael told him not to be so soft, that they were probably just next door or something.
Neither of them noticed Oscar barking excitedly at the two brown wētā sitting on the deck outside, one with a damaged leg.
From The Deep
He was scared of the sea. Always had been, ever since he was a tiny baby. I never knew why. It bothered Bekkah but it never bothered me. I always thought that he simply needed time to feel ready. To learn to love it like I did.
Everyone told us we just had to keep taking him to the water, show him how fun and beautiful it was. Every sunny day, whenever we could, we went out to the one of the bays: Scorching, Lyall or Worser. They were all safe and clear, and the waters were mostly warm, especially in the summer. But no matter what we did, if we tried to take him into the water, he would cling to us and cry.
My mother got frustrated once, grabbed him from my arms and carried him into the ocean. I was sure his terrified screams could be heard several kilometres away, probably as far north as Porirua. She sat him down in the shallows, barely two inches of water, and he struggled and flailed and scrabbled for the shore. His face turned grey with fright.
It wasn’t the water he was frightened of, we had no difficulty bathing him, or even sitting him in a paddling pool. No, it was only the ocean.
He was seven when the Southern Right whale came to the harbour, five years after Bekkah had gone, and it was the first time I had ever seen him interested in going near the waterfront. We watched it together, swimming around near Carter Fountain in Oriental Bay. I gave him my binoculars and he sat, entranced, for almost an hour. Afterwards he handed me the lenses and said solemnly, “She is here to warn us of the Beast, Daddy.”
I asked him many questions, but he would not elaborate, nor offer any kind of explanation. He merely shook his head and said nothing more.
At home he drew a picture of the whale in the harbour, followed by a monster with giant tentacles. I asked him why. He said it was the Beast.
We had been to Te Papa, the museum of New Zealand, a few months ago, and we had seen the Colossal Squid. A massive, sea-dwelling invertebrate, the very biggest of its kind, it was the only specimen on display in the world. He had been enthralled.
Afterwards, at the library, I had read to him about the Māori legend of the great fisherman Kupe; how he had chased the monstrous octopus, Te Wheke-a-Muturangi, down the eastern coast of Aotearoa. The story went, that as their battle moved across the ocean, the octopus used its giant tentacles to try and smash Kupe’s canoe. He jumped from his boat onto the monster’s head and struck it with his weapon — his taiaha. The force of his blow was so mighty, the creature was rent in half. Its eyes flew through the air and landed in two different places, where they both turned to stone. Kupe was victorious. The monster vanquished.
I remember that he had seemed both scared and thrilled by the tale. He’d acted out the story with the help of his plush toys and a plastic sword for many days afterwards.
I didn’t think too much about the picture, I assumed that his imagination had triggered some memory and sparked an urge in him to draw such a thing, until my mother came around to our house the next day. She asked him about his drawing, and he told her the same thing. Except this time he added with great conviction, “And the Beast is coming for me.”
My mother sat down next to him and asked him why he would say such a terrible thing. He said that the whale had told him, in his dreams. He said he could feel it coming. It had been asleep for a long time, but now it was waking up. Every time the ground shook, he told her, it was the Beast unfurling its giant tentacles, getting closer and closer to the shore.
My mother laughed and ruffled his hair. She said she was delighted to know that he had such a vivid imagination, but the shaking earth was due to faults in the tectonic plates. Earthquakes, not monsters.
He looked at her, screwed up his face and said, “You’re wrong, Grandma. There is a Beast in the ocean. I know there is.”
He took himself to his bedroom with his drawing pad and pens and refused to talk about it any more. He went into what my mother calls ‘shut down’. He became so engrossed in his work, he was oblivious to anyone and anything around him.
I have to admit, the new pictures he drew disturbed me. So many images of giant, bloody tentacles. They were wrapped around screaming people and draped over the masts of boats. In one, they wound their way into the city, oozing over the roof of Te Papa.
He had always been a remarkable artist for his age, but these pictures were strikingly realistic. They were minutely detailed and horribly graphic. Far too violent for the mind of a child. When I asked him about them, he would either ignore me, pretend he hadn’t heard, or tell me he was simply drawing his dreams.
Eventually I took him to see our doctor. I was worried that he seemed to be so withdrawn, that his nightmares and the things he was drawing were a sign of something more concerning. I didn’t know if this was linked to some repressed memory. I wondered if he was finally processing the loss of his mum. If he was struggling with that.
The doctor was wonderful with him, and he spoke more openly with her than he ever had with me. He told her all about his dreams of the Beast and the whale. He spoke about dolphins and rays entering Wellington harbour, trying to warn those on the land. He told her that most people had forgotten how to talk to those creatures, and more importantly, how to listen. When the orcas came, he said, the Beast would not be far behind, and people would need to keep away from the sea.
She asked him why he seemed so sad, and he told her it was because he knew the Beast was coming. It would take him, just like it had taken Momma, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
I was shocked, he’d never spoken of Bekkah like this, but the doctor talked to him calmly, and made no effort to convince him he was wrong. She nodded her understanding and asked why he thought it was coming for him; why him and not someone else? He said it was because he knew the Beast was real. Because he could talk to, and with, the creatures of the sea. That everyone else believed in earthquakes but no-one wanted to believe the truth. He said there had to be a sacrifice to keep the city safe.
Afterwards, she told me that she thought it would be best if she referred him to another doctor just in case. Dr Ames was a specialist in the field, she said, a
nd a very good friend of hers. I got scared and almost burst into tears, but she put a gentle hand on my arm and told me not to worry, that this kind of thing was very common in children. There was nothing obviously physically wrong with him, and this was probably a phase. His imagination running away with him. Perhaps he really was finally feeling and understanding the loss of his mum.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “Could I ask you; how did his mother pass?”
“It was a car accident. A drunk driver on the highway. Nothing to do with the sea at all.”
When we got home I sat him on the sofa next to me. He watched cartoons while I checked the news on my tablet. There were dolphins in the waters off Tarakena Bay. He read over my shoulder and gave a sad little smile.
“It won’t be long now, Daddy.”
I did cry then, and hugged him as tightly as I dared.
A few days passed without him drawing any more pictures, and I was hopeful that perhaps the phase had passed, but he awoke screaming in the early hours and I ran to his bedside to comfort him. He would say nothing of his nightmare, only slung his arms around my neck and sobbed until there was nothing left. He slipped down, exhausted, onto the blankets, and fell back into sleep. I picked him up and carried him to my bedroom. I needed him beside me. To know he was okay. When I asked him about it in the morning, he claimed he didn’t remember a thing.
That afternoon my sister, Tasha, sent me a photo she had taken of Eagle Rays in the harbour, swimming in Whairepo Lagoon. I kept the picture hidden so as not to upset him or encourage a repeat of before. I knew that the occurrence of these creatures was quite common, but still I couldn’t help but feel uneasy.
It was almost two weeks later, and he had drawn no more frightening pictures, when he asked me if we could go to Tarakena Bay. He said we could watch the ferries sailing past and aeroplanes flying overhead, and maybe we could hunt for pāua shells. I was nervous, but also I didn’t want to discourage him. It was the first time ever he had asked to spend any time near the sea. I said we could take some food, maybe walk around Moa Point and make a day of it. He agreed, and I bundled snacks and drinks into a large bag. He seemed excited and happy, keen to be getting out of the house.
