He checked the sky, where storm clouds had obscured the setting sun. He’d been asleep for maybe an hour. A whole hour.
A screech cut through the falling night, metallic and shrill, like a rusty blade being sharpened. Wide-eyed, he searched the direction it had come from, then sighed relief. The Hill’s hoist turned again, giving another shriek of protest. A threadbare towel, pale in the gloom, flickered on the line like some tattered flag of surrender. He had to go, should’ve left already.
With the rifle propped in the crook of his arm, he stepped onto the veranda and snatched up his boots. Thunder grumbled like a starving gut and he stared out against the storm-wet wind and the certainty that eyes were upon him, watching from the darkest shadows.
His father had told him of the creature many years ago when, as a boy, he had trawled the paddocks without fear, imagining himself a soldier, an explorer, a hunter. At the time he had thought the legend merely a tale told to frighten him from the deeper holes in the creek and the more dangerous areas of the hills, where fallen boulders made hidden pits and the spiny vines of lantana bushes made the going treacherous.
His dad told him once that the slither had been left behind when the country’s original people had moved on. Just why and how they’d moved on wasn’t told; it had happened a long time ago, back when the homestead was just two timber rooms in a land without fences, when the hill paddocks had been choked with scrub and the flats had been covered in eucalyptus trees and wattle. Another time, he said it was a feral creature, brought by those early settlers, warped by its long, lonely life in the darkest hidey-holes of the bush.
As the house had grown, so the bush had shrunk, cleared and fenced to allow the cattle to flourish and the family to prosper. But that was all over now.
And the slither knew. And it would come. He knew it would. Just like it had come, his father said, for his great-grandfather, and his aunt.
Not that anyone had admitted that, of course, but over these past few days he had dreamed of them both. Of his great-grandfather and his great sorrow for deeds done of which no one talked; how easy it had been to lie on the ground and let the blood flow into the earth as the dark tentacles held him down, the body found only after the horse returned alone. And of his aunt lured fully clothed into the dam one hot night with her hands on her tummy, and the slither had wrapped her in dark bonds and pulled her under, and she had died cursing a man.
At the bottom of the hill he could still make out the dark line of the creek becoming ever darker as the sky’s blackness deepened. The she-oaks whispered, their pine-like needles already bending and swaying with the approaching storm. Like a ghostly crowd, hushed in expectation of the coming spectacle. If any were taking odds, they would be against him, he knew.
The clouds spread like a stampede, curving out and around the mountain, then finally rolling over the top and sweeping down across the paddocks. The house groaned as the wind intensified. A piece of tin rattled and he wondered if he was losing the roof, if one of the sheds was coming apart. He imagined sheets of corrugated iron flying like scythes. He imagined the house unroofed, and him with nowhere to hide, staring up at the black sky and something darker still, reaching down through the hole where the ceiling had been.
He could smell the storm now, electric and icy damp.
A few large spots of rain spanged on the roof. Teeth chattering, he stepped back into the office and locked the door. The extension had been his mother’s idea, tacked onto his bedroom when they’d lengthened the back veranda. She had died in a distant cancer ward and, somehow, they just never got around to painting the office. Times had got tough. He’d been in the city, working his first job. His father had fought the first of a string of droughts and then the floods that inevitably broke the drought before the cycle began again. Now the job was for someone else to complete, to take that vision and remould it as they saw fit. He shivered again. The thought of someone else in here, putting books on the shelves, maybe smoking or fucking…
A branch scraped against the guttering, the sound running an invisible claw down his spine.
He retreated to his bedroom to pull on his boots. Mementos of childhood surrounded him: model aeroplanes, posters, a cupboard which, on every visit, he would open just to stare at the toys and games inside, then shut the doors as though those memories could be so easily locked away.
It wasn’t too late to leave, not if he hurried. There was nothing here he needed to keep, no one to leave it to. He eyed the hallway warily as he made his way to the kitchen, dodging his father’s old recliner in the lounge room, that sheepskin rug he’d thrown over the dark mark on the floor.
The small, round kitchen table was littered with sympathy cards spilled from a carton, the white cards stark amidst the family photos and unwashed coffee cups, the empty stubbies of beer and dirty plates, the printout of the settlement of sale weighed down by a box of bullets.
He sat, rifle thunking on the table as he pushed it through the mess, and ran his hands through his hair. The branch banged again, an intermittent thump-scratch that seemed to reverberate through the whole building. The lights flickered and he felt his heart miss.
Then the rain hit, a massive downpour that roared on the iron roof. He could hardly hear the branch, could barely hear his own thoughts. The house moaned on its stumps; soot rattled in the chimney.
Outside the window the world turned suddenly bright. Thunder shook the house. A picture fell from its hook in the hall.
He stood, slowly, then grabbed the rifle and walked past the telly’s blank face to the hall. It was lined with family photographs. They were among the last things he had to pack, just hadn’t been able to bring himself to remove them. The black-and-white faces of his ancestors looked out from their shaded bush hats and a sole military uniform, reminding him of where he had come from, of the sacrifices made so he could live elsewhere with fluoride in the water, a shit-load of channels on the television and meals just a phone call away. And there, a gap, a brighter rectangle of paint, and on the floor below, a portrait lay on its face amid shards of glass. The hammering of the rain seemed louder.
He knelt, kept the rifle cradled under one arm as he reached for the portrait.
Ouch. He sucked the nick on his finger, and then more carefully turned the picture. It was of the three of them, staring out. God, he was so young. They all were. It was before his mother had got sick, before the drought and the markets had driven his father to the wall, before he had left for the city where the fates, if not less capricious, at least seemed more manageable…and more fun.
If he had stayed…he sucked his finger as he stared back at eyes now sightless, his own hardly recognisable with youth and naïve enthusiasm. If he had stayed…
The dog howled and he swore. How had he forgotten? But he knew how. He’d been gone too long, the time between visits stretching out further and further. Red hated storms; he should have brought him in before dark, when they’d returned from their long walk to the fig tree. Before he’d opened a beer and lay down on his old bed one last time.
Red whined again and he forced himself to stand, unable to resist the howl that somehow penetrated the drumming of the rain and the rush of the wind, the groaning of the house and the driving pulse of his own hammering heart.
The dog was chained up at his kennel. Outside, in the dark, with it.
Don’t let it get you, his father had said. I seen it, after your mother died. It knows when we’re alone. It knows when we can’t fight back.
When they had found his father, he had looked scared, they’d said.
The dog was still howling, getting louder and louder, like a siren approaching.
Shut up! Shut up!
Might as well have yelled at the storm. More lightning crackled outside. Shadows leapt across the window, making him grasp the gun tight against his hip, the barrel pointing at the doors and windows.
And still the dog barked and howled.
Shut up, Red, you mongrel!
Thunder rolled through the house, pushing him back against the wall. Something snapped outside, followed by a metallic crunch and crack of glass. The rain swept across in waves. And now, in the troughs, when the thumping on the roof eased, he couldn’t hear the dog.
Sweating, shaking, he advanced towards the door that led to the stairs. He swallowed, his throat and mouth dry, and coughed with the effort. Then he hit the lock and stepped back as he flung the door open, almost dropping the rifle in his frantic haste. Something white lay on the floor and dark splashes covered the landing.
No, he stammered, then sighed. Clothes. The wind had got into a load of laundry he’d left out, some of his father’s clothes, and scattered it. He licked his lips as spittle returned to his mouth.
Red, he yelled. Where are you, boy? Can you hear me, Red?
No reply, just the rain and wind and groaning timbers.
The veranda was soaked. And then he saw the source of that loud crack. The old jacaranda tree in the yard had fallen, the storm pushing it over by the roots. Incredible strength, but then, the ground had been so dry after so many years without decent rain. The downpour had probably soaked straight in and the weakened tree had toppled. That’s what must have happened. Surely. The tree had fallen across the fence onto his car. For a moment his spirits sank at the thought of being unable to leave, but then he remembered the four-wheel-drive in the shed. Of course, the shed was down the paddock, towards the dam—the dam where they’d found his aunt, with her seaweed hair and staring eyes. The open paddock was now shining silver with pooled water, splashing and rippling with rain. Maybe in the morning…
Christ, he muttered. He’d be stuck here. Flood-bound.
Red!
He peered through the gloom. The house lights reached hardly into the yard at all and the trees swayed and groaned as though they might follow the jacaranda. Shadows twisted and flitted, and damp swept across his face and made the gun barrel shine like it was sweating. He stepped forward, feeling for all the world like he was six and back in his room, tiptoeing away from the bed, expecting that brush against his ankle with every step, until he could get to the light switch and vanquish the monsters of his own imagination. If only…
The steps were slick and he stepped on them hesitantly, desperately aware of the gaps, wishing he could turn and look into the dark space behind but also terribly afraid of what might stare back at him.
The slither is black, his father had told him, black and slimy, able to find its way in anywhere, with tentacles so rubbery you can’t even cut them with an axe. And it knows when you’re alone…
Down to the base of the stairs and his back was aching with the effort of holding himself straight. His hands were knotted on the rifle, fingers stiff and cold. He would have to walk out into the rain, into the dark. Had to get to the kennel, cut from the hollow trunk of a massive gum tree they’d used to make feed troughs. One of the old ones, so big it would take three men to circle it with their arms.
The clothesline screeched, slicing across his nerves. He stepped out, instantly soaked, instantly cold, and aware of his shadow at his feet vanishing at its waist in the darkness. He shivered and shivered, muttering to himself to stop his jaw from chattering.
Red, you bastard, where are you?
The muddy ground sucked at his boots. He squelched forward, peering through the rain that pasted his hair to his face and numbed his body.
He reached the fence, forcing his eyes to look up at the roof, into the yard, into the paddock…What if he turned and it was there, a dark, writhing mass blocking the stairs. What if it had snuck up behind him, was already on the landing? Or under the stairs, in the shadows, poised to grab his ankles as he climbed?
Oh God.
The dog was gone. The chain glimmered in the mud, the broken leather collar still attached. Were those patches of hair on the ground?
Red! But he knew it was useless. The dog was gone and he was alone. He turned and ran, falling to one knee as he tried to get back to the house, expecting all the time for the ground at his feet to erupt with slick, sticky tentacles. He sobbed as he clambered to his feet and ran up the stairs. He slammed the door shut.
Red, you bastard, he whispered through his tears.
A lightning bolt sizzled. Thunder cracked. The lights went out. He screamed.
He fumbled to the table, knocking boxes and papers flying as he scrabbled for the torch. Finally his stiff fingers hit the button. He flashed the beam around the house. Oh Christ, he couldn’t use the torch and the rifle together. He needed both hands, to hold the weapon and work the bolt. And the torch…it wouldn’t last all night. He had to make it to morning. They had to put the power back on. They had to. The slither loved the dark. Oh fuck.
The house seemed hot, so hot, the air as thick and heavy as a sauna. He could hardly draw breath, his chest was so tight, as though the slither already has its tentacles around his throat and was squeezing, squeezing…
He retreated to the corner, so the table was between him and the rooms. The wind buffeted the wall like a beast, moaning and shrieking, making the timbers shudder against his back. How thick was the wood? Thick enough? And the floor? The house was on stumps. As a child he had played under there, making dust storms to suffocate his Matchbox towns until his mother had yelled at him to stop because dust was seeping up through the floorboards. Could the slither also seep between cracks that small?
What would happen when it came? Would they find him like his father, face a rictus of fear, a hand reaching for non-existent aid? Or like Red, just the signs of a struggle to show his passing, no one the wiser? Or maybe the locals would know and say nothing, for who would believe them? Oh Jesus, what had they done to deserve this? Why had it come?
Lightning crashed again, and the room filled with brilliant light. A shadow, outside on the veranda, peering in through the window? Or just the curtain, gusting in the wind?
The glass of the portraits in the hallway shone in the lightning, and then reflected his torch back at him as the light outside faded. Four generations on the wall, staring out from the darkness.
If only he’d stayed…
The front veranda creaked as though under a great weight. Something scratched at the door. The timber shuddered in its frame.
What would it do to him? Drag him out into the wet, down to its dripping, dark nest in some cave along the creek? Or, like a croc, drown him and tuck him away under some roots to wait for the water to soften him up? Or just tear him apart, limb-by-limb, and devour him hot and fresh right here? Christ, he was in the kitchen! How wrong was that?
Bang! The door flew open, smacked the wall so hard the pictures rattled. He dropped the torch, screamed, and fired.
The beam flashed around the room as the torch rolled off the table onto the floor. The rifle muzzle sparked red. Windows shattered. Wood chips flew from the wall. Again and again, fumbling with the bolt, sobbing, he fired until the gun clicked empty. His ears ached from the gunshots. Had there been a yelp amid the barrage?
He crept to the door. A dark shape lay on the veranda. For one insane moment, he thought he’d got it. Had put a red-hot round right through the fucker’s oily head. But the lightning strobed and he saw the familiar muzzle, the glint of those dull eyes.
He backpedalled, slammed into the table, grasped for the box of ammo. It flew, spilling bullets like dice. His clawing hand seized one, just one.
Sobbing, he sank to the floor and stared out from between the legs of the table and chairs, the floor covered in papers jerking in the wind.
There was no escape. He could drive as far as he could, fly to a different land, but the slither would never leave him alone. Its shadow would follow him, its long, dark tentacles always groping to drag him back here. To the creek and the mountain and this house, and those eyes on the wall and the bed of his childhood. He fitted the bullet into the breach, tasted warm metal and gunpowder. The long, dark tunnel opened before him, and night fell with a bang like a slamming door.<
br />
The Pit
Bill Congreve
Three Months Ago
Ken Greenfield dodged another shingleback crossing the highway. It was still early morning, he had left the pub in Penong before sunrise and the desert road was still damp from the pre-dawn rain. Somewhere ahead was the turn onto Hart Ridge Corp’s private road, and then he had another hundred and fifty kilometres of dirt through the Nullarbor Nature Reserve, across the Trans-Australian Railway, and through Hart Ridge’s desert mining lease into the site. His appointment was at 11am, but, given the 400-kilometre drive, he thought they might be sympathetic if he was a few minutes late.
All for a site inspection so the Minister could give a press conference. The SA Country Fire Service hazmat crew didn’t want anything to do with the place and, if anything at all happened out here, it would be a hazmat. Fire didn’t cut it —there was nothing to burn and Hart Ridge had its own firefighters for the site itself. It was the Federal Minister herself who had forced the hazmat response role onto National Fire & Rescue, over the blustering of Hart Ridge’s CEO.
A thud under the tyres of the rented 4WD dragged his attention back to the road. Now there was a dead shingleback amongst the live ones. Bugger. There were literally dozens of the lizards on the highway, one every fifty metres or so, but he still didn’t want to kill one if he could avoid it.
Idiot things. Worse than sheep. And too slow on their feet to duck and weave. There had only been a little rain, just enough to wet the road. In the desert, that was enough to bring the lizards onto the road to drink from the ruts left in the blacktop by the endless road trains.
Then Ken noticed dead lizards among the live ones. Suddenly the majority of lizards were dead, smeared against the road, and not just in a single lane, but dotted across both sides of the road.
Some bastard ahead of him was swerving from side to side, killing the lizards.
Cthulhu Deep Down Under Volume 2 Page 9