After They Came

by Tom Kavanagh

  “Weren’t you scared about it hitting you?”

  “No.”

  After turning around, I stared at him for a few seconds, silently judging his mannerisms and facial expression. He was much taller than me, and had long black hair that covered one eye. Instead of the normal school uniform, he wore a big baggy hoodie and black jeans, obviously wanting to break the rules that everyone else followed.

  He seemed genuinely confused at my questioning, unlike one of them, who would probably just act surprised.

  “Okay. I don’t think they’ve taken you over.”

  “Them?”

  “It’s a long story, and it’s kind of wacky. And I don’t really know you so I don’t know whether I can share it with you.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m Simon.”

  He extended his hand and gave a little nod.

  “I’m Isabelle,” I responded, taking his hand.

  “So, what’s this wacky story?”

  “Well . . .”

  I spent the rest of break explaining who they were and how they took over everybody. He looked a little bit confused, but he was pretty accepting of the information. After talking to him for a while, I realised that he was the other “weird” kid in the school. There was something off about him. He had long black hair and a long coat to match. His trousers were dirty, and he carried himself in a way that showed he didn’t trust the other kids. He’d occasionally glance behind him, as if he was about to be attacked. All of this showed me that he wasn’t willing to alienate himself any further than he already had.

  Once I finished explaining everything, he stared at me with a blank expression. I was expecting him to call me a freak, and then try to use the information to get in with the cool lot. But he accepted it without question.

  “Sounds like a pretty far-out idea, but I guess it could happen. What do you think they want?”

  “I don’t know, but I think that they might want to hurt me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, my dad killed a ewe that was sick, and then another farmer killed his animals because they were sick.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I’m kind of sick. I’m supposed to be taking medication. And I think that they will kill me if I end up getting even sicker.”

  “But why wouldn’t you take your medication? Wouldn’t that make you feel better?”

  “No, because the doctor told me that one of the side effects was an increased risk of getting sick.”

  “But you just said you’re already sick.”

  “I know. I think that they must be putting the pills in my food in the hopes that it’ll get me sicker.”

  He was silent for a moment, obviously trying to absorb all of the information I had just hurled at him. I was surprised he was still standing in front of me. I thought that he would have laughed his head off and run away. He could have taken this information and spread it around school. At least then he wouldn’t be the freakiest freak of them all, just the second freakiest freak.

  “Okay . . . All of that aside, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve stopped taking my medication, and I’m going to watch them closely. But I don’t know what I’ll do if one of them attacks me or tries to take over my body.”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea to stop taking your meds? I mean, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but usually medication is pretty important. What’s it for?”

  “It’s for . . .”

  I stalled for a second, wondering whether he would freak out and run away, or be one of the very few people who actually accepted my condition; I could probably count those with one hand, maybe even less than one hand.

  “It’s for paranoid schizophrenia,” I admitted finally, bracing myself for a look of horror.

  “Paranoid schizophrenia? What’s that?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay. Firstly, do you know what schizophrenia is?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Schizophrenia is a mental disorder that causes someone to suffer from auditory or visual hallucinations. Paranoid schizophrenia is the most common type of schizophrenia. It also causes auditory or visual hallucinations, but these often cause people to believe that someone, either a family member, friend, or work colleague, is plotting against them.”

  “And that’s what you have?”

  “Yeah. It’s basically your brain tricking you into believing certain things that aren’t real.”

  “But then how do you know that you aren’t being paranoid now?”

  “Because things started to go wrong while I was still taking my medication. How could I be paranoid while on medication?”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “Of course it does. Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about this?”

  “I’m guessing a long time.”

  “Yes, which means that I must be right. So, are you going to help me or not?”

  “Yeah, I’ll help.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not? There’s nothing else to do in this town. So what’s the next step?”

  “We need to do some investigating . . .”

  Six

  The Unknowable

  “You really think we have to spy on Mr. Thomas?”

  We had made our way to Mr. Thomas’s farm in the hopes of catching him in the act.

  Exactly what that “act” was, I wasn’t completely sure, but I knew he was doing something. I remembered clearly the peculiar feeling that had come over me that day I came to his farm. I couldn’t be sure, but I would have bet anything that he was hiding something in his outhouses.

  “He’s hiding something. I know he is,” I said aloud to Simon, turning my rapid inner dialogue into a cohesive, shortened line.

  “I’ve met Mr. Thomas. Well, I didn’t really meet him so much as he chased me when I trespassed on his farm one summer. He chased me for a while screaming stuff I’d rather not repeat. He’s a little short-tempered, but basically harmless. Why are we watching him?”

  Most of the farmers we knew were quirky and strange by nature, but Mr. Thomas was made of something entirely different. He’d always been an odd individual, but it seemed that lately, he had become a completely different person. Dad told me that it was because he was getting older, but maybe Dad was trying to protect him.

  Maybe they were working together . . .

  “We’re watching him because I don’t think he’s harmless. My dad sent me to his farm a few weeks ago just to see whether he needed any help. And I got a really strange feeling when I saw his outhouses. He’s hiding something in them. I know it.”

  “Well, you might think that, but I don’t think that that makes him one of them.”

  “How can you be so sure that he isn’t?”

  “How can you be so sure that he is?”

  “I can’t. But I can’t take that risk. We have to be sure.”

  We hunkered down behind a small bump in the terrain and trained our eyes on Mr. Thomas’s farm.

  For a long time, we didn’t speak. We were like two spies, both knowing full well that speaking would jeopardise our plan. All other sounds seemed to be heightened, as if the vacancy left by our own voices had been hijacked by nature. Scuttling in a nearby hedge alerted us to the presence of a rabbit. Its ears twitched as it surveyed the soundscape around it, and then it fled at the sight of two teenagers sitting opposite, watching it intently. We let the soundtrack of nature take hold and, for a moment, allowed ourselves to entirely forget why we were there.

  “So, who’s currently on your list of suspects other than Mr. Thomas?” Simon asked abruptly, trying his best to break up the awkward silence that had clasped us in its hand for the last half an hour.

  “My dad.”

  “You think your dad is one of them?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He hasn’t been the same for a wh
ile.”

  “Did something happen that made things change?”

  “Well, I could see that he changed after my mum died. But this feels different. He isn’t his old grumpy, crotchety self. He just isn’t the same. He’s changed again without any reason to change.”

  “Was he always grumpy and crotchety?”

  “Yeah, but it got a little worse.”

  “And now it’s weird that he isn’t grumpy?”

  “Exactly. He’s not complaining, not smacking the TV. He’s acting like a robot.”

  “So you’re suspicious because your dad isn’t acting like an asshole?”

  I paused for a moment, trying my best to muster a response that would adequately explain the deep feeling of uncertainty I had towards the person that called himself “Dad.”

  “I remember when I was really young, maybe seven years old, I got lost after trying to track down a sheep that had escaped. I was with my dad, but being a kid, I got distracted and wandered off. I remember being oddly calm about it to start off with. It was nice to be on my own. Dad didn’t like me being on my own because of my ‘illness.’ He was so overprotective. But then the excitement wore off, and I realised I was alone. It was like all my lifelines had been cut, and all I could do was drift. And then it started to get dark, so I curled up under this big rock that jutted out of the hillside.

  “I watched the light gradually drain away, and thought, ‘This is what dying must be like.’ Isn’t that a weird thing for a kid to think? Any other kid would think about being hungry or wanting their mummy. But there I was, underneath this rock, thinking about how light leaving the hillside was like dying.

  “Dad did eventually find me. I could see his flashlight darting across the field below me and could hear him screaming out my name. I came out of my hiding place and ran down to him, unbelievably happy that he’d found me. You know what he did?”

  “What?”

  “He yelled at me all the way home. And I mean proper yelling. He was livid.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a normal reaction.”

  “No, it wasn’t. But it was the real him. And actually, all that yelling distracted me from how frightened and hungry and thirsty I was. It was the real him, and that’s gone. That’s why we’re here. I need to get my old dad back.”

  We fell back into silence and watched the farm, waiting for any sign of Mr. Thomas or any other dodgy activity. The valley around us followed suit and hushed itself, dropping the volume like you would on a speaker. Even the scenery around us became muted as a light mist rolled over the hilltops and settled around the farm. It was like a protective cloak, and we allowed it to drape itself over us, keeping us safe from prying eyes.

  * * * * *

  “We’ll have to start with the actual questioning tomorrow.”

  We’d been sitting in that same spot for two hours, occasionally talking or mindlessly scrolling through our phones. The sun was heading quickly towards the horizon, and soon it would be too dark to make our way back up the many winding paths towards the main road. Mr. Thomas hadn’t done anything suspicious; in fact, he hadn’t even been out of the house. A silence had prevailed over the valley and didn’t seem eager to retreat.

  “Unless you want to back out?” I asked.

  “Just as it’s getting interesting? No way. I’m in for the win.”

  “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow. Until then, don’t let them get you!” I called out, partly joking.

  “I won’t!”

  I watched Simon as he walked back down the road towards the school, not really knowing if I could trust him completely. But the way I saw it, if they had taken him, he probably would have done something by now. I would just have to take a leap of faith and hope that he was trustworthy.

  * * * * *

  Since I’d started to watch my dad more closely, our car journeys to school had felt more ominous. They weren’t ever an overall exciting or meaningful experience, but they were never unpleasant or uncomfortable. Ever since the lightning struck the tree and the tree struck the windshield, though, I’d felt a strange, otherworldly feeling whenever I stepped into the car. The only thing keeping me from freaking out was the warm breath of Pickle as she panted behind me.

  They hadn’t got to her.

  I was sure of that.

  Arriving at school was always a horrible ending to the ride, but now it was somewhat of a relief after a long and awkward car journey. I released my seat belt as quickly as I could and bolted from the car. But just before I could slam the door shut, Dad got my attention.

  “Wait! Hold up a second, Isabelle.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll be home for dinner tonight, right?”

  “Yes, Dad. I’m home for dinner every night.”

  “You haven’t got to stay behind after school? No detention or clubs?”

  “No. No detention or clubs. I’ll be home.”

  “On time?”

  “Yes, I’ll be home on time. What’s got into you?” I asked.

  “I just want to make sure you’re home on time. I don’t want dinner getting cold.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

  “Have a good day.”

  “Thanks.”

  I pushed the door shut and watched as the car rattled off down the road.

  I gulped, wondering what waited for me that evening. He had seemed way too eager for me to be home on time; it was suspicious. I’d have to keep my guard up.

  * * * * *

  “We need to be quick,” I called out as Simon wandered casually towards me, taking far too many leisurely steps.

  During the day, we had decided to meet outside of school after our final lesson, and then we would go and ask as many people questions as we could.

  “Why?” he asked as he finally got through the school gate.

  “I told my dad that I would be home for dinner.”

  “Why don’t we do it another day, then?”

  “Because the longer we leave it, the more people we could lose to them.”

  I could see a twitch of doubt flash across his face. He had probably been thinking about my story throughout the day and had come to the conclusion that I was actually insane.

  But as the flash disappeared, a determined look took over.

  “Alright. Let’s do this.”

  He had brushed away the doubt, maybe only for a moment, and was ready to dive into the investigation.

  There weren’t a lot of houses in our little town, and so we could cover quite a few before I needed to be back home for dinner. I wasn’t very optimistic about the response rate or about how cooperative the people of our town would be, but it was something I needed to do. I would just have to grin and bear it and hope for the best.

  As we approached the first house, a sudden heat rushed from the top of my head, encapsulating my entire body. Pins and needles shot down my arms, and a sickness grew inside my belly. Now that I was in front of the first house, the gravity of what I was doing really hit me.

  Anyone or anything could be hiding behind each of the doors in each of the houses around town.

  There was no way of knowing.

  And it was terrifying.

  For a long time I stood completely still, unsure of whether I would continue. But then I thought about Dad and all the other parents and kids around town who could have already been taken by them, and I understood how important it was for me to knock on the door.

  And then it wasn’t so terrifying anymore.

  I took a deep breath, calmed my shaking hand, and then rapped on the door, with each tap sounding more forceful than the last as my confidence grew.

  But nobody came to the door.

  It was the same with the next house, and the house after that, and the house after that.

  After knocking on four doors without any response, I was beginning to lose hope. It was as if the whole town had evacuated at the mere sight of Simon and me.

  They might have caught on to my plan.
>
  They could even be watching from the windows, waiting for me to knock on the door, and then hiding in the shadows until I went away, safe for another day.

  But just because some of them may have caught on to my plan didn’t mean they had all realised what I was doing.

  I couldn’t give up yet.

  I owed it to what was left of my dad.

  I approached the next door, once again noticing that same vile feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, as if something had been rotting inside of me, sending out spores and poisoning the rest of my body.

  But I couldn’t let that feeling stop me. Once again, I took a deep breath and then knocked on the door, slightly more tentatively than I had before.

  Seconds ticked by without a response. A thick and unencumbered silence fell around the house and into the surrounding area, taking those small everyday sounds with it.

  And then the sounds of a small click hurtled outwards from the door, damaging the surrounding silence, causing it to flee from the area around the house.

  “Hello, can I help you?” a man asked sheepishly through a gap measuring not more than two inches.

  “Hi. My name is Isabelle, and I’m a student from the local school. Could I ask you some questions?”

  “Questions? Why do you want to ask me questions?”

  He was inching the door closed centimetre by centimetre. There was a weight to his voice, a suspicion that bordered on paranoia.

  I didn’t want to miss the chance of questioning him because he seemed to be hiding something, and so I told a little white lie.

  “We’re doing a school project.”

  “Oh, okay. If it’s for school, then by all means go ahead.”

  “Okay. First question, have you killed an animal in the last week?”

  He laughed awkwardly, not quite knowing whether I was being serious.

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Good. Question two, what would you do if an animal were sick?”

  “What kind of animal?”

  “How about an animal on a farm?”

  “Well, I reckon I would probably try to help it. No use having a sick animal on a farm. Especially if it’s something like a cow or a chicken.”

  “Good answer . . . I guess,” I answered under my breath, putting a little exclamation point next to his name. He seemed to only care about the animals for their worth, and when they no longer showed worth, he would probably kill them.