by Matt Drabble
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Emily grunted with displeasure in the morning heat. The boxes stared at her challengingly in defiance, daring her to continue, their dark forms wafting dust into the air as particles of allergy were illuminated by the torch light beam. She scanned the walls looking for the light switch; she knew that there was electricity pumped into the garage and did not fancy disturbing some unwelcome spiders in the dark. The crates had been sitting in the empty garage for just under the six months since they’d moved in. Michael had shifted the boxed belongings into the unused spacious double garage, claiming that they were her possessions and not his responsibility. They had argued extensively when they’d first moved. Michael was always one for fresh starts and all new property to go with it, whilst she had formed attachments to inanimate objects. Her irritation was further exacerbated when, after several months, she found that she had not required any of the items boxed in the garage and she had even forgotten that they were there.
She kicked a box viciously; her anger rose and rumbled uneasily in her stomach. She breathed deeply and tried to relax. She knew that it was the pregnancy talking, but it didn’t make it any easier. She felt close to tears, suddenly, at the thought of poor Michael suffering her mood swings, before that was quickly replaced by annoyance at his complaining as though he was actually in the room with her.
Their initial thoughts had been to purchase at least one vehicle when they’d arrived. However, the town’s small circumference, the excellent public transport, and the weather made for perfect walking or cycling conditions, making the car’s acquisition redundant. As a result, the large and spacious double garage sat empty, save for storage. The detached building was perfect for Michael’s workshop - as soon as he found the time - as it was connected to the mains’ electricity and plumbing. There was a small apartment-sized space upstairs accessible via a metallic staircase on the outside of the building leading to a door. She had dabbled with the idea of using the room for her own hobby area but the house itself was simply too large with too many rooms to require the extra space outside.
She began slicing the packing tape on the sealed boxes with a sharp pair of scissors and pulling through the contents. She started searching for anything of any use and wondering just why she had brought so many useless items. There were magazines that she did not want, books that she would not read again, and albums that she would not listen to again. There were items of clothing that she would never wear again and she was glad that Michael was not here to smile and tell her that he told her so.
She was around four and a half months pregnant at this time, and the large package that she carried internally was starting to grow a little uncomfortable. But she was determined not to be burdened any more than absolutely necessary. She knew that Michael would go mad if he saw her hefting boxes up staircases, but she also knew that she wasn’t made of glass and wasn’t about to act as if she was. The crates were relatively light and easy to lift and she made the decision to carry the boxes up into the room above. At least if they were out of sight, Michael was likely to forget about them and wouldn’t have the opportunity to gloat.
She carried the first box on her shoulder up the outside stairs and was relieved to find the door unlocked; she dipped, pushed the handle down and stepped inside. The room was the same size as the garage level and without any dividing walls. The air was oppressive and hot and the two large windows on either side were firmly closed. She put the box down and opened the closest window, breathing a sigh of relief as the cool breeze floated in and began cooling the room. The large space was empty as far as she could see in the gloom. She plucked the small torch from her pocket and shone it around, looking for a light switch; she found it and flicked it on. She tensed as the illumination instantly flooded the room and she listened intently for the telltale sounds of scampering claws on the hard floor as rent-free tenants fled for cover. Luckily, the room was silent.
She crossed the room to the second window to open that one as well. As she crossed the floor, her foot suddenly dipped unexpectedly and she did well not to turn her ankle. She bent down to examine the uneven spot. The flooring was hardwood strips that were joined by tongue and groove. They were a dark oak color, and where it was uneven the piece sank slightly into the space between the floor and ceiling below. She knelt and carefully pried up the loose board, taking care not to damage the joint. She shone the torch into the dark gap; she could just make out that there was something secreted underneath. Growing impatient, she yanked the board up hard. She grimaced as the wood splintered under her pressure. Figuring now that the damage was done, she pulled the board all the way out without finesse. A small book lay in the space; she pulled the paperback up and into the light. Her heart skipped with excitement; whatever the book was, it had been hidden carefully away from prying eyes.
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Michael was mowing the lawns; the large green expanse at the rear of the house seemed to grow beautifully all on its own. There were no intruding weed invasions, there was no discoloration, and no fading. The grass was lush and green and smelled sweetly of summer as he mowed. Ever since Janet’s dalliance with the imported gardener, the street was waiting for Casper to provide an alternative. Michael, however, felt uneasy at employing others to do the work that he was more than capable of undertaking. Besides, he had a new toy to play with: an MTD Gold riding lawn mower. He was driving up and down the lawns enjoying himself immensely and paying little attention to his cutting lines. He was wearing an MP3 player and the earphones were secreted under large, cushioned ear protector muffs. The combination of the blaring Metallica under the muffs made him oblivious to the world around him; so much so, that he very nearly ran right over a skinny kid who was waving his arms frantically to attract his attention. He only saw him at the last minute and it was close. He jerked the wheel violently to the left and the mower leant dangerously on two wheels for what seemed like an age. Michael’s writer's imagination flashed visions of him falling and his legs disappearing under the vicious whirling blades as they sliced through flesh and shattered bone under a red mist. Fortunately, this was real life and the mower merely lurched a little before responding and steadying. He switched off the ignition, filing the murderous rage of a ride on mower in his mind for later professional retrieval.
The boy stood before him with a sheepish grin on his face. Michael immediately recognised Thom as the boy who’d escaped the dubious sheriff’s clutches. Thom wore camouflage combat shorts and a red checked shirt that, despite its small size, still hung from his bony shoulders. His grin was infectious and Michael noticed that he held a worn copy of his novel “Vengeance Has Fangs” gripped nervously in his sweaty hand. Michael groaned internally; there was nothing that made him more uncomfortable than having to discuss his work with readers. Whether it was receiving praise or criticism, he was still British to his core and his natural instinct was to hide away from any kind of dissection of his work.
He held up a hand as Thom’s mouth started to move, silencing him. He took off the ear protectors, plucked the MP3 player from his pocket, turned off the music and pulled the earphones out. His head rang with the sudden quiet. He massaged his ears as they recovered and he watched as Thom waited patiently and politely.
“Sorry, Thom, couldn’t hear a thing.”
“What are you listening to?” Thom asked.
“Ride the Lightening,” Michael said, waiting for Thom to ask who the hell that was.
“Metallica, cool,” Thom nodded.
Michael reappraised the kid; if he appreciated the classics then he undoubtedly deserved an autograph and a quick chat at the very least. “What have you got there?” He pointed to the book.
Thom dropped his gaze, embarrassed. “I dug this out of the attic the other day and gave it another read.”
“What did you think?”
“I liked it better this time around. The first time I read it, I found it a little slow and a touch boring.”
Michael smiled
at the honesty. “How come?”
“I guess that I’m a little older now. I kind of like books to treat me like an adult.”
“That’s good. As a writer I always feel that writing a book is a kind of partnership; after all the work that I’ve put into a story, it’s only fair that the reader puts a little effort in too.” He watched as Thom took in the theory and processed it, nodding slowly. “So, what can I do for you today, Thom?”
“I just wanted to say thanks for the other day.” He jerked his head towards the Beaumonts’ house, “You know, with the sheriff.”
“You know that you shouldn’t have been in there, Thom,” Michael said seriously. “What were you looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Thom said, blushing.
“Yeah, I think you do.”
“I just wanted to see the scene, you know. I mean, I read about death and horror all the time, I just thought that it’d be cool if I could see an actual site where it had happened.” Thom’s words grew faster as he spoke. “I mean, nothing ever happens here, you know; sometimes I feel kind of … kind of...”
“Smothered?” Michael said, remembering Janet’s own words and his own thoughts.
“Yeah.”
“You know, there are worse things in life than living in a boring town; you’ll find that as you get older.”
“I remember. We used to live in LA, and I thought that I’d never miss that kind of excitement, sirens and flashing lights. Don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly, “I’d never want to go back there, but this is just so the other end of the scale.”
Michael laughed. “I know what you mean. When we first moved here, I thought this place was perfect; now, I’m starting to go a little stir crazy.” He viewed the boy a little differently now; he was obviously smart and capable. Whilst the sheriff had scared him badly, he’d still returned to the scene of the crime, or at least next door to the scene. “So what did you see?”
“Sorry?”
“In the Beaumonts’ bathroom?” Michael asked seriously. “Did you see anything, feel anything, a drop in temperature, strange lights, smells, or anything weird?”
“Afraid not,” Thom said, a little disappointed. “Nothing until that big ape grabbed me.”
“Shame,” Michael grinned. He leant towards Thom and whispered, just in case Emily was within earshot. “A little real life ghost hunting could have been interesting.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Emily opened the diary and started to read; the day passed quickly around her as she promptly became engrossed in the scribbled contents.
SUNDAY 15th- the house is beautiful and the town is as well. Matthew keeps pinching me every time that I tell him I can’t believe it’s all ours; he’s such a dork sometimes, but I love him just the same!
Emily read through the moving day thoughts. It was eerily reminiscent of her own first day in the house and their move in general. It was a time of wonder and nervous excitement. She skipped ahead through the pages, ignoring the growing heat, and the discomfort of her pregnancy temporarily forgotten as she delved further.
MONDAY 23rd – first day dawning. As I write this, Matty is showering; if I wasn’t so nervous, I’d jump right in there with him ha, ha! School starts in a couple of hours. I walked past the building yesterday. Looks nice, hope it is.
Just back home. School was good; kids are great, so much better behaved than back home. Met SJ today. What a bundle! I’m exhausted just thinking about her! The new boss is a little strange though, seems a bit creepy!
Emily smiled to herself; it would appear that she and Jessica had more than a little in common. If she’d kept a diary herself, it would read very similar to this one.
She scanned through several pages; it seemed very much the ordinary ramblings of a happy and contented woman settling into a new life. She was starting to grow a little bored with the diary now. When she’d pried the book loose from its secret hiding place, she’d been excited at the possibility of its contents. Now she found herself flipping through pages of picnics, gardening, and house arranging. The humidity of the hot day was beginning to bother her again as her interest waned. Suddenly, a word leapt from the page in bold capitals.
MONDAY 27th- PREGNANT!!!!!!!
Emily found herself staring at the word; first the same house, then the same job and now a pregnancy thrown into the bargain. It all seemed a little too coincidental, but what it meant she could not tell.
She checked her watch absently; crap, she thought. She was running late for work. She jumped up as quickly as her enlarged frame could manage and waddled to the door.
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“Who was it?” Sheriff Quinn demanded again, his voice rumbling low with menace and barely suppressed anger.
Deputy Kurt Stillson took a step back from the intimidation; the sheriff was a huge man who seemed to enjoy his physical superiority over everyone in town. Kurt had just finished his written report into the graffiti vandalism and the escaped perpetrator, and his head still rang from the thrown paint can. He wore a large plaster over the cut and a bandage over the swelling. He’d been popping Excedrin all morning but they weren’t making much of a dent and Quinn’s yelling was only making it worse.
“I already told you, sir,” he tried again, “I couldn’t see a face. Whoever it was, they were wearing black and had their face covered.”
“You must have seen something, for Christ’s sake!” Quinn yelled even louder, his face purple and bloated with rage.
“Jesus, it was just a little paint; what’s the big deal?” Kurt flapped his arms in frustration.
Quinn was on him in a flash. Kurt found himself lifted by the collar and thrust painfully back against the wall. His head banged backwards on the venetian blinds and his wounded head sang out joyfully. Quinn’s face was millimeters from his and the sheriff’s eyes blazed with a venomous fury that bored deep. Kurt’s whole body was being lifted with incredible effortless power.
“I’ll find out who did this, you little shit. This is my town. My fucking town,” Quinn spat in his face.
“Boss?”
Kurt looked over the sheriff’s massive shoulders and his knees went weak with relief. Tommy Ross, his fellow deputy, stood in the office like a guardian angel. His voice brought Quinn back a little closer to his senses and the strength weakened from his painful grip. Kurt found his feet flush on the floor again and the sheriff took a step backwards; the rage in his eyes ebbed away and returned to a state approaching normality. He smoothed out Kurt’s shirt where it had been rucked up and pulled free of his pants.
“Sorry about that, Kurt,” Quinn said, sounding vaguely apologetic. “We just care passionately about this town, is all. Zero tolerance means zero tolerance.”
“S-S-Sure,” Kurt stammered. “No problem.” He was doubly grateful for Tommy’s intervention and Ellen’s absence from her office post this morning. He wasn’t eager for her to see him manhandled like a rag doll.
“We’ll get this bastard together, right, boys? No one is going to put a dampener on this year’s festival,” Quinn proclaimed.
“Sure, boss,” Tommy answered, his voice a little unsure.
“Yeah, right,” Kurt followed, regaining some composure.
Kurt watched thankfully as the sheriff eased his large frame out of the office and off duty. He looked at Tommy and they both waited until the purr of Quinn’s car started up and pulled away.
“What the fuck was that, Tommy?” Kurt asked, somewhere between shock and anger.
“He just gets a little carried away with looking after the town, Kurt. Forget it,” Tommy said, turning away and busying himself conveniently.
“That’s easy for you to say, pal. It wasn’t you that he just threw around the room. I thought he was going to kick the crap out of me.”
“Ahh, don’t get carried away, Kurt, you big girl. He just grabbed you a little, that’s all; he wouldn’t have really hurt you.”
“I’m not so sure. He looked pretty serious to me.
”
“Nah! Just the same though, we ought to catch this new scourge of Eden, just to be on the safe side,” Tommy teased. “You know, before we find you buried out back in a dumpster,” he grinned.
Although from Tommy’s tone it was obvious that he was joking, Kurt couldn’t have felt less like smiling.
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Emily left her lunch largely untouched as she poured through the diary. The teachers’ lounge faded into the background behind her as she read through the thoughts of Jessica Grady. The diary was thick and had begun in an optimistic fashion; the writing was clear and concise with the neat strokes of an ordered mind.
The Gradys had moved to Eden and had been delighted with the hospitality shown to them. Jessica spoke in glowing terms about the town and the people. Jessica had been the woman who had come to Eden much as Emily had. She had worked at the school as a teacher the same as Emily; she had lived in the house before Emily, and she had fallen pregnant as had Emily. The similarities were staggering and more than enough to make Emily feel a little uncomfortable. If she had read these facts in one of Michael’s novels then she would have told him that the reader would immediately begin hoisting the red flag. She had read through the diary with increasing speed and was disturbed to find that Jessica was becoming more and more uneasy with her surroundings. Her writing was starting to unravel a little; the handwriting was growing scruffy and the spelling uneven. She skipped through long-winded passages of abstract thoughts, searching for anything pertinent.
The lounge was empty this lunchtime. Sarah-Jane was in her classroom glued to her cell phone, talking in hushed tones to Dr Creed; their budding relationship was gathering at a deepening pace. SJ positively glowed whenever the subject came up in conversation. Emily had gently probed around the edges but Sarah-Jane was charmingly coy at the very nature of their romance. Mrs. Thirlby was on recess duty today, leaving Emily alone, for which she was grateful. It seemed that every time that she turned around, the headmistress was staring at her with a strange expression. Emily knew that her emotions were a little out of whack lately due to the pregnancy - Dr Creed had assured her that it was all perfectly natural - but that didn’t make it any easier for her - or more so Michael - to live with. Travelling to work in the mornings on the tram had become an uncomfortable ordeal. She was sure that the gazes were all a little too intent and she thought that she could see hidden whispers on every face. Eddie, the regular tram driver, always seemed to linger his eyes over her swelling figure with an almost ravenous glazed glare. The other regular passengers also all seemed to covet her with envious, hungry eyes.
