I sneak inside, moving into the space beside the coat rack. I am good at hiding, naturally attuned to the shadows but washed out by the light. I am ordinary and unnoticeable, a part of nature. A force that cannot be seen, only felt.
I hear the sound of running water, a bath being run. I salivate.
Donna and her son briefly appear in the hallway, chasing after one another, but they do not look my way. Her son has no pants on, and she is fighting him to get off his shirt. It is all a game, as it always is with these two kindred spirits. Sometimes I wish I had a mother like her, and not just a father. Would it have shaped me differently? Perhaps.
The bath is not quick, a little longer than usual in fact, for tonight they are washing hair. The boy complains. The mother sings. Then the bath is over and I am tingling in anticipation. I have looked forward to Donna's death for what feels like an eternity. The more I have gotten to know her, the more I have wanted to meet her face to face. Is it wrong to take pleasure in my work? I can't help it, it is how I am made. It is what I am for. I am the Witness.
Donna reads to her son before bed always, and tonight it is the Gruffalo. A modern tale and not one I have heard before. Strangely, I find myself listening and enjoying it too.
Eventually, I tire of standing in the hallway and creep into the living room. There, I wait. Always waiting. My patience is my virtue. I must never rush. That would dishonour my role in this world. I do not care about honour, but it is part of me all the same.
Donna says goodnight, but she does not come into the living room. She goes into the kitchen. Some nights she has a single glass of wine, but tonight she fills a beaker from the sink and drinks water. I watch her through the open doorway--there are hinges and a frame, but no door. Odd. Part of being poor, I suppose. Also part of being poor is the threadbare carpet in the living room. The crisscrossed backing-fibre are showing in several places, and next to the sofa is a large flap of underlay sticking up like a flap of sliced skin. A clean ashtray sits on the scratched glass coffee table in the centre of the room, but it is full of pennies. Perhaps Donna's son is saving for a new toy. He probably wouldn't get it now.
Donna enters the living room and is finally in my presence.
I pick up the scent of her hair and sigh. Delightful.
As always, she picks up the TV remote and switches on the set. She pays no attention to what is on yet, and instead goes over to the windows and closes the curtains. Then she goes out into the hallway and locks the front door. Locks herself inside with me.
Her end is here.
Stepping back into the living room she sees me. She sees me just as her foot snags against the torn flap of carpet beside the sofa. Sees me all the way down as she trips and falls awkwardly. She looks right into my eyes as the side of her head smashes against the cold hard corner of the glass coffee table.
Then she sees nothing at all.
Donna is dead.
I wait, as I always do. I have fulfilled my role. I have Witnessed. Now I must move on.
Not just yet though.
Donna reappeared, staring down at her own dead body. I always find human disbelief fascinating. A species that prides itself on reason, yet only accepts reason when it suits what they already hold to be true. Staring at their own death is not enough to convince them they are dead, yet they might look up at the moon and know that it moves around the earth. An odd animal, human beings.
When I step to my right, Donna startles.
"Who are you!"
"I am your Witness. For all those who die alone, a Witness must be present."
"Why?"
"Because God does not want anyone to die alone. I am here to see your last moments so that your death does not go unnoticed."
She looked down at her body again. "I'm not dead."
"But you are."
"No."
I sigh. It is a conversation I have had many times. "Poverty killed you, it would seem. Money would have had that carpet replaced."
"I asked the landlord twice."
"He did not listen. Now, I imagine, he will."
She shakes her head at me, this time with tears in her eyes. "I am not dead."
"You are. You know it. It is... distressing, I imagine, but you know it for sure."
"What are you?"
"A creature just like you. What do you think I am?"
She stares hard at me, one eye squinting. "Death? Except you look like an old teacher of mine, one who I used to really like."
I nod understandingly. "I appear as I need to appear. Most people see their parents."
She sneers slightly at that, but there's no time for me to question her. Nor is it my place. "We must go."
"Where? Are you a demon?"
"Perhaps."
"I can't go. My son needs me."
I look towards the door across the hallway, behind which a sweet little boy sleeps. "I am sorry."
"No you're not. You're a monster."
There was that word again. The one they always used. "I am no monster."
She folded her arms. "I'm not going anywhere."
"There is no choice involved here for either of us. You are dead. This place is for the living."
Tears now stream down her face, but they do not move me. I like this woman, but I am not capable of further feeling. I would like to spend more time with her, but I am not permitted. Perhaps, with time, I could come to care about her tears. It would please me to find out.
The way she looked at him should probably have made him feel more than the mild pity he was used to. "I'm all he has. What can I do to stay?"
"Nothing. It is done. Your son no longer has a mother."
"You bastard!"
"I am sorry. Truth is the only speech permitted to me. You are dead, your son is not. One day you will be reunited."
Her face lit up at that. He could not tell the future, but if the statement was untrue he would not have been able to say it. Therefore, it was indeed God's plan that this mother would one day be reunited with her son.
Not this day though.
She wipes her nose with the back of his arm and tries to catch her breath. After a loud swallow, she stares at me hard. "I'll really see him again?"
"Of course. You may even get to watch him live his life."
"Am I... going to Heaven?"
I wish that was a question I could answer, for all the times I have been asked it, but it is not my place in things to know. I am a Witness. No more. "Heaven is a word. All I know is that there is a place for all things. You are a good woman, a good mother, a good person. Those things are virtues above most others. Wherever you are going, you should not fear it. Not at all."
She nods slightly to herself and I can see her coming to terms with her death. Humans seemed equipped with a filter to help them through the transition. They are not quite the same after death as they are in life. Not so hysterical. And that is a good thing for me.
"Are you ready?" I ask her.
She is about to answer when a noise cuts her off.
"Mummy? I heard a noise."
Her eyes go wide and she stares at her son's bedroom door. The tears start afresh. Her bottom lip quivers.
"Mummy? Mummy, are you there?"
She attempts to go to him, but I take her arm and freeze her in place. "You won't be able to reach him. You are dead."
She looks down at her limp corpse and speaks in a voice more full of pain than any I have ever known. "W-W-What is going to happen to him? What is going to happen to my boy?"
"I do not know."
"He's all alone. He has no family. Who will look after him?"
"I do not know."
"He's just a little boy."
I sigh. "I know. It is time."
She tries to fight me, but once I hold her, there is no escape. You cannot escape a Witness. We are a force.
"Let me go. I'm not leaving. I'm not! Fuck you!"
"Mummy! I'm scared! Can you come cuddle me?"
She screams
in pain, anguish beyond my understanding. Her eyes fixate on her son's bedroom door as it begins to slowly open. Soon the boy will step into the living room and find his mother's cooling body. Donna does not need to see that. Even I understand enough to know what torture is.
Before she can take another full breath, Donna is gone, sent to whatever place it is people go to once I have Witnessed them. Perhaps her pain will fade away there, or perhaps it will be all she is left with. Those questions are not for me to answer. I am only here to Witness.
I look across the hall and see the bedroom door now fully open. The little boy steps out in his pale blue sailboat pyjamas. He has not yet seen his mother, but he will any moment now. It will no doubt be terrible for him, and part of me wishes I could do something to help. But I cannot. It is not my place.
So I step past the boy into the hallway, no longer visible with my work now being at an end. Before I leave to Witness the next soul, however, I turn and watch the boy cross the hallway, padding on his little bare feet. I don't know why, but I can't leave without first saying something. The words I choose are, "Good luck, child, and God bless."
Perhaps I do care.
8. THE BOB SAGA
The following is inspired by true events. Part one has been told before in the AZ of Horror. Part two is being recounted here for the very first time…
PART 1: M IS FOR MATTY-BOB
“How did you sleep last night?” Iain asked his wife, Sally, as he came downstairs at 8AM.
Sally, holding their ten-month old baby, Jack, in her arms, blinked slowly. “Like shit.”
“What time did he wake up?”
“Half-five, but I left him babbling ‘til six.”
Jack reached out to Daddy and Sally thrust him away gladly. She sat down on the sofa and sipped her coffee while Jack proceeded to pull his daddy’s hair.
Iain took a seat beside Sally, Jack on his lap, and reached out for the mug of tea waiting for him on the side table – Sally was so good to him, so good to Jack. The television was on, playing a loop of Timmy Time that she had found on Youtube.
“What time you going to your mum’s today?” Iain asked.
“After Jack’s nap. You starting a new story today?”
“No, I’m still editing at the moment. Waiting on Stephen for a cover, too. Did you hear something in the night?”
Sally frowned at him. “Like what?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. I thought I heard something in the garden. Probably just cats.”
“God, Iain. Don’t tell me that! I’ll be seeing strange men in the dark now.”
Iain adjusted his struggling son on his lap and chuckled. “Sorry. It wasn’t anything like that. Just wondering if our cat got into a fight or something.”
“No, Jess was in last night. It was raining.”
Iain sniffed and then pulled a face. “I think there’s a poop in the poopy pants.”
Sally sighed, but then put on a great big smile and tickled Jack’s ribs. Looking into his face, she said in a silly voice, “Is there a poop in the poopy pants? Do you have a poop in your poopy pants?”
Jack giggled deliriously as his mother picked him up and took him away to change him in the spare room that now possessed the constant odour of ‘poopy pants’.
Iain picked up his laptop from the side table and started checking emails. He deleted the spam that had resulted from a month-long hobby of entering online competitions and sorted out any messages of import. There were the usual sales reports and promo responses, along with a few fan emails, but one message in particular stood out. It read:
“YOU ARE MY LIFE.”
Iain frowned and clicked the email to open it. What popped up on his screen was a photograph of a smiling ginger man in glasses. He was topless and held a finger to each nipple. Written across his round tummy, presumably in lipstick, were the bright red words: Iain Rob Wright for the Win!
Iain felt a knot in his stomach. As his popularity as a horror author had increased, there had been several occasions when fans had made him feel uncomfortable. Some had demanded his time more than he was able to give them, while others had confided strange stories about their lives or asked him for personal details about his own. As much as Iain adored each and every one of his fans, he had a wife and child that took priority. It was situations like this man now that Iain found so hard to deal with. This man was obviously a supporter of his work, but possibly a little unstable also. What was the best thing to do? How to let someone down gently without being an asshole about it?
Iain checked the sender’s name and identified the man as MATTY BOB. Strange name for sure.
“Iain!”
Iain flinched and almost dropped his laptop. From the panic in his wife’s voice, it was clear that his presence was required. He hopped up from the sofa and hurried into the spare room where the stench of fresh poopy pants hit him in the face like a wet kipper.
“Woah!” he said, waving a hand in front of his nose, then looked at his obviously upset wife. “What’s wrong, babe?”
“There’s a man in our garden.”
Iain felt that knot in his stomach again. “What?”
“In the garden there is a man, look!”
Iain slid around the room’s bed and went to the window. Sure enough, sitting on the lawn, plucking at blades of grass was a man in a bright red cape like Superman’s.
“What the hell?”
Sally picked Jack up from the changing mat on the bed and held him against her chest. He immediately gave her a right hook and then started pulling at her necklace. “Should I call the police?”
Iain was stuck staring at the strange man in his garden. He couldn’t be sure, but it might have been the man who had emailed him. He spotted a crop of gingery-blond hair and a pair of glasses.
“I… just hold off on calling the police. I’ll go and talk with him.”
“Iain, you shouldn’t go out there. He could be crazy.”
“That doesn’t make him dangerous. He might need help.”
“Iain, you surely are the kindest man alive. I hope that all your fans know that.”
Iain smiled. “I’m sure they do. God bless them all.”
“Iain?”
Iain snapped out of his daze and looked at his wife. “Sorry, what? I was daydreaming.”
“How can you be daydreaming? I said, should I call the police?”
“What? No, I’ll deal with it.”
“Be careful.”
Iain nodded. “Just stay up here.”
He went down to the lower floor and into the kitchen. Sure enough, the man was still sitting in the garden. When he saw Iain through the French doors, he leapt up and began waving.
Iain swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped outside. “Can I help you?” he said. “You’re in my garden.”
“I know, I know,” the man gushed. “You’re Iain Rob Wright. You call your fans Wrighters. Well, I’m your biggest Wrighter. I love you.
“How did you know where I live?”
“Your address is listed at Companies House. Your business is registered here.”
Iain sighed. He was no businessman and left those kinds of things to his accountants. His office was at home, which was why his business’s head office was listed as the same. Damn it!
“What do you want?”
“To meet you, of course. Did you get my email, my picture?”
“I did. Thank you… I guess. You really can’t be here. This is my home.”
The man took a step towards him.
Iain held his ground, wanting to appear in charge. Now that the other man was standing, it was disturbingly apparent that he was mentally unwell. He wore only muddy boots, stained white y-fronts, and that bright red cape.
“I had to see you,” he said excitedly. “I had to tell you that your novel The Last Winter is the best horror novel of all time.”
“The Final Winter.”
“What?”
Iain cleared his throat and said i
t again. “It’s the Final Winter, not the Last Winter.”
“Oh, yeah, right, I knew that. Well, anyway, it changed my life. Harry is me. Do you understand?”
“Not really. You need to leave. I will chat to you happily via email, but you can’t come to my home. My family deserve privacy.”
“How is little Jack, and Sally, too, of course? Where is she?”
“Out,” Iain lied. “If you don’t leave, I will have to call the police.”
“Like in ASBO?”
Iain sighed. “Yes, like in ASBO. It’s been lovely to meet you – Matty, is it? – but you have to go.”
“It’s Matty-Bob.”
“Okay, Matty-Bob. Time to go.”
“Can’t I come in and have a cup of tea?”
“No, you cannot.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you soon.”
Iain tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Keep writing, Iain. You da man.”
With that, the unhinged fan swept up his cape and ran towards the back fence. He leapt up and tried to climb over it, but ended up dangling foolishly.
Iain rolled his eyes and groaned. “Jesus, man, let me open the back gate for you.”
-2-
“If he turns up again, I’ll call the police,” Iain told his wife as he spread Marmite on his toast. “He’s a bloody nutcase.”
Sally nodded understandingly. “Well, we all knew this could happen when people started calling you ‘the next Stephen King’. With your remarkable talent and skill, people were always going to fall hopelessly in love with you. The other horror writers have barely had a chance since you came along.”
“I know, I know. Sometimes I think about retiring just to make it fair, but it just wouldn’t be right, would it? Everything I have to offer the world…”
The World's Last Breaths: Final Winter, Animal Kingdom, and The Peeling Page 83
