Cracked Lenses

by L J McIntyre

I’m not alone here. A young couple, both bleach blonde and tanned, walk towards me hand-in-hand. The guy shouts ‘boo’ at his girlfriend who feigns fright. They pass me and start back along the trail. I wade over the flattened grass until I arrive at the fence surrounding the cabin. It’s no longer a rickety old wooden fence but a shoulder-high metal barrier with a sign saying ‘Keep Out’ pinned to it. The tourists must have pushed their luck and trampled over the town’s prized possession.

  I put my hands against the mesh fence, look over at the cabin. I need to get in there. I know nothing is waiting for me, but ever since I left Nesgrove, I’ve been plagued by thoughts that I never really confronted Nesgrove, never confronted the thing that terrified me most.

  I jump up and heave myself onto the fence on my stomach, swivel my legs around and land on the ground. I brush down my T-shirt and start toward the cabin. It sits silently as if waiting for me, as if it has always been waiting for me.

  The long grass that borders the wooden porch is caught by a strong breeze and sways back and forth. Two crows sit still on the rooftop as I approach. I push away the terrifying memory of the Nesgrove woman sitting in the cabin in her white dress, her teeth bare. She was acting. She wasn’t a demon.

  The porch steps moan as I place my weight on them. I approach the glassless window, look inside. The room is so black it looks as though a fire had torn through it and left nothing more than charred wood. In the corner of the room is a broken rocking chair, maybe the same broken rocking chair Nathan Lithglow was found in. I move to the front door and pull the handle, click it, and the door inches open of its own volition.

  I push it open and step in. The cabin smells of mouldy, damp wood and the floorboards are wet underfoot. The wind rustles trees outside. The door closes behind me. I walk into the middle of the room, scan the floor. Small plants have started sprouting out of the spaces between the floorboards. Green fungus has coated the underside of the fireplace.

  I straighten my spine, stand tall. I walk over to the ancient rocking chair, its backrest mostly disintegrated, and pull it gently to the centre of the room. I sit down on it and look out the window at the sunny sky.

  Minutes pass by and I wait. The wind continues to unsettle the trees. A flock of birds flap loudly up above. I put pressure on the ball of my foot, rock the chair softly, careful not to put too much weight on it. Back and forth I rock and I wait.

  I rock some more. The wind grows louder, whistles through the wooden roof slats.

  More minutes pass by.

  I tilt my head to the right, listen closely. On the wind I hear a voice. “Jack,” it calls. And again, “Jack.” I close my eyes, try to listen more intently. “Jack,” A woman’s voice comes.

  I know it’s not my mother, it can’t be, but I whisper quietly to her, “I stood up to it, mum. I stood up to him.”

  I open my eyes and inhale deeply, exhale and relax my shoulders.

  He was never a monster, my dad. Evil, yes. Abusive, definitely. But I won’t let him be a monster anymore. To me he’s the lonely old man that I watched through a window all those years ago, who sat in front of his T.V. with a microwave meal in his lap. I didn’t confront him then. Turns out I didn’t need to.

  I close my eyes once more, allow myself to soak in the sounds of nature. Allow myself to relax into the chair. Through the curtains of my eyelids, something moves, something quick. I open my eyes but find I’m still in darkness. I feel calm, like this place is exactly where I need to be. My clothes have changed. I’m wearing a black pinstripe suit. Something shifts in front of me again, something still hidden in the shadows beyond.

  And then the darkness comes closer, covers my legs, and faint singing rings around somewhere out there. The words I don’t recognise. The voice I do. It’s my voice. Over the signing a vicious screech stabs my eardrums. Like nails scratching down a chalkboard. Again and again. I sing louder to drown the screeching out.

  The skin on my face is being clawed and dragged down but by who I don’t know. Me, maybe. When the screeching stops and everything snaps back to normal, I’m still in blackness, but my face feels untouched and unscathed. I’m not in pain. I’m not frightened.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  The screeching comes again, the claws rip down my face, something changes in me. My mother, I don’t know she is. She’s…she’s fallen away somehow. Fallen away. And there was a girl. Annie, I think. Or Sally. And me, what’s my name? Nathan? Arthur? Joseph? Something. The screeching gets louder, so I sing louder.

  A figure shuffles around in front of me, or behind me, or to the side of me.

  “Who’s there?” I ask.

  “Who?” comes a voice back.

  The man in the pinstripe suit steps forward into a faded light and waves. Nathan Lithglow’s face is pale and drawn. His voice just a whisper.

  “Where am I?” I ask.

  “Where are you?” he asks in return.

  “Yes, where am I?”

  “Now?” he tilts his head to one side.

  “Of course, now. Where am I now?”

  His smile is black, his eyes lit with something not of this world. He steps back into the nothing and whispers, “Where are you now?”

  A note from the author

  Thank you kindly for reading. Independent authors, like me, find it challenging to compete against the massive marketing budgets of large publishing houses. But in getting our books out there, in getting more people to enjoy our stories, all is not lost. A review from you is stronger than any grand advertising plan and huge marketing budget. I know it’s an inconvenience in our busy lives, but if you have a moment, please visit Amazon or Goodreads and leave a quick review. I will be eternally grateful.

  McIntyre’s Debut Novel

  About the author

  L.J.P. McIntyre, born Lord James Patrick McIntyre (sadly, Lord is not his title) in Zimbabwe. As a child he moved to Newcastle Upon Tyne in the north east of England. He studied psychology at undergraduate level at Leeds Metropolitan University, and criminology at post-graduate level at Northumbria University.

  In his late twenties he moved to South Korea to teach English and this is where he first discovered his love of photography. He has since gone on to capture much of the world as a travel photographer. In that time he has gained a large online following, taught photography on four continents, appeared in large publications, worked with brands like Nikon, and created software which is used by more than one hundred thousand photographers.

  Due to his enjoyment of languages, he has also learned Spanish in French, and forgotten Indonesian. He currently resides back in the north east of England.

  You can follow his personal journey at:

  www.ljmcintyre.com