by Michael Bray
Kimmel.
He wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was Kimmel’s men out there, creeping around and trying to put the frighteners on him. He could imagine how they would laugh at him later, making fun of how the little man from the government had been so easily spooked.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he heard Kimmel say at his shoulder. “But it’s not my men. That much I can guarantee you.”
“Then what the hell can I see moving out there?”
“The dead. Those who are destined to stay here for eternity.”
“Come on, Kimmel, don’t screw around with me. I—”
Fisher turned, expecting to see Kimmel right beside him. However, the General wasn’t there. He was hanging back on the edge of the circle, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as his agitation increased.
“How did you do that?” Fisher asked, his voice wavering. “You were right here next to me. I heard you.”
Kimmel shook his head. There was at least ten feet between them, and Fisher knew it was impossible for Kimmel to have said the words which he’d heard so close he could feel hot breath on his neck.
Kimmel was looking at him now, a frown on his brow. Realization came to Fisher that everything the General had said was true. He turned to leave, and felt something stop him, an icy grip on his upper arm. He stared at it, his eyes seeing nothing but his suit jacket despite the feel of fingers digging into his skin. Without warning, the trees shuddered, a coordinated wave traveling from left to right, each flutter of every leaf and branch coming together in a crescendo of noise.
He heard Kimmel – the real Kimmel – his voice distant and distorted as if coming from miles away instead of the ten feet which separated them. Fisher bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, which seemed to increase the oppressive darkness stifling him. He was vaguely aware of men dragging him away from the inner periphery of the circle, fatigue-clad soldiers who wore the haunted expressions of men to whom this was nothing new. The soldiers half led, half dragged Fisher out of the clearing, back into the relative safety of the woods. It was a feeling akin to breaking the surface of the water after a particularly deep dive, gasping in precious air – clean air without the toxicity of that which existed within the clearing. Kimmel appeared over him, face looming in half-focus, a look of concern and smug satisfaction etched on his face. Fisher didn’t care though; he knew what had to be done. He swallowed, the taste of blood from his cut tongue thick and coppery in his mouth.
“Now do you understand?” Kimmel said, leaning close enough for Fisher to smell the minty scent of his chewing gum. “Now do you get it?”
Fisher nodded, unable to shake the vertigo.
“Then you know what we have to do? Damn it, Fisher, talk to me!”
“Close it down. Close the whole damn place down.”
Kimmel nodded, the relief on his face clear. “It’s about goddamn time.”
Fisher barely heard him. He could still feel the cold on his skin where the phantom hand had grabbed him, and hear the devious, sinister voice which he mistook for Kimmel. Worse than all of that was the fact that he couldn’t explain any of it. All he knew was Kimmel was right. Whatever existed there in the clearing was evil.
CHAPTER 5
Isaac Samson woke screaming again. This time it wasn’t the dream of the man with the knife, but the other one where he was dead, cold and alone in the dirt. Strangers surrounded him, staring, their voices distant echoes as the black things with slimy, slick tentacles emerged from the ground and grabbed him, pulling him under, the soft earth falling onto his open eyes and filling his mouth as he was dragged to whatever lay below. As he thrashed around in his sheets, his mother didn’t run to him, nor did she soothe his cries like she had when the dreams had first started. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table, head resting on her folded arms. This, after all, had become a regular occurrence. Physically and mentally exhausted, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. She had been offered help by the authorities of course; invitations to counseling and therapy sessions for them both. She didn’t want to put her son through that, however, and had decided to ignore the persistent letters. Even child services had made contact in regards to Isaac’s wellbeing. The carefully worded letter had infuriated her, and she suspected that her busybody neighbor had been responsible for having involved them. Like the others, she had ignored all attempts at communication. Her son’s screams faded as he found a calmer place in his dreams. Melody was glad he hadn’t woken up. She was starting to resent him for the almost nightly routine which was getting worse week on week. Her phone pulsed on the table, and she gave it a cursory glance. Another text message from her sister, the seventeenth, along with the twenty or so calls that she’d failed to return. Melody wondered if it was perhaps she who had contacted the authorities out of concern and not Mrs. Richter. God knew she could hardly blame her for it. Although it wasn’t a deliberate decision, she had cut herself and Isaac off from everyone, partly because people wouldn’t understand what they were going through, but mainly because of fear. She only had Isaac left now and was determined to protect him no matter what.
Isaac started to cry, low moans coming from his bedroom, calling for her as he always did. Still, she didn’t move. Instead she stared at her hands, flat on the tabletop. Her phone pulsed again. Another message from her sister. Isaac continued to whine and beg for her to go to him.
Three weeks.
The number reverberated around her mind. Three weeks since she’d had a full night’s sleep. Three weeks since she’d last been able to think, or to function.
Three weeks since Isaac had slept without crying, or wanting, or needing.
Three weeks.
Rage, alien and unexpected, exploded within her. She swept the cup of cold coffee and the fruit bowl onto the floor, both of them shattering. She half turned on her chair, and before she could stop, she was screaming at him to shut up, to keep his whining mouth closed and go to sleep. Melody was crying herself now, an outpouring of emotion that she’d held onto for what felt like a lifetime. Isaacs’s cries took on a different tone. They were cries of confusion rather than fear. She barely heard them. Instead, the outpouring of anger continued as she raged at her son, then, as quickly as it came, it faded. She leaned her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. Isaacs’s cries echoed around the apartment, not stopping until the police arrived.
CHAPTER 6
James Fisher stood on Oakwell’s Main Street, watching as Kimmel’s men loaded the last stubborn residents onto busses ready to be transported out of the town. He remained impassive, eyes hidden behind reflective aviator glasses, as the proceedings unfolded. Some of the residents, those who had decided to try and sit out the slump or had only known life in Oakwell, had been difficult to move, and it had taken the presence of soldiers with weapons to persuade them the alternative accommodation that had been arranged was for the best. Fisher hadn’t spoken of his experience at the clearing to anyone, and even though he was some distance away from it, he could still feel its clammy, sickening touch on his skin. He checked his clipboard, marking off another bus as it closed its doors and took its unwilling passengers away.
Kimmel strode over and stood beside him.
“Any trouble?” Fisher asked.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle. We should have the town emptied within the week.”
“Are they accepting the story?”
“Mostly. The old timers don’t seem too convinced. They’ve lived here long enough to know there are no sinkholes under the town. I suppose it’s going to have to suffice. What I want to know is what happens then?”
“What do you mean?” Fisher asked, turning toward the General.
“Once you empty this place. What then?”
“Nothing. We seal it up and forbid access. A small team will be stationed here on the outskirts of town for a while to deter the curious. With luck, the forest will reclaim this godforsaken place and that will be the end of i
t.”
“What about what we found under the house. Surely that changes things?”
“You don’t sound much like a man who wants to be out of here, General Kimmel. Why all the questions?”
“Come on, Fisher, you know what I’ve had to deal with up here. You visited for half an hour. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks. I’m just having trouble leaving a mission half-done. It’s not in my blood.”
Fisher nodded, then took off his glasses, folded them over and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “I think under the circumstances, this one is best forgotten. You did your best, General. Nobody can ask any more of you.”
“It’s my men I’m worried about. The ones I’ve already lost.”
“How so?”
“Do you know what it was like to tell their loved ones? Good men who didn’t deserve to die that way. Men with lives… families. Telling a family member that their nearest and dearest died valiantly in battle is easy. How do I explain what they did to themselves up there?”
“We both knew how difficult this would be to keep a lid on, General. There will always be questions, there will always be curiosity. Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing at all. Let it fade from people’s memories.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question about what’s under the house. Those tunnels go deep. We need to explore them.”
“And you can rest assured they will be. Just not yet.”
“When?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m curious. I want to know why I was sent up here to investigate then barred from entering the one location that might give us some answers. Pardon my French, Fisher, but this whole situation fucking stinks.”
“Look, I won’t insult your intelligence, General. I did that when I got here and regretted it instantly. You know how this works. There’s a chain of command. We all have our orders. You follow yours, I follow mine and so on up the ladder. Your involvement is done here. You did a fantastic job but we can handle it now.”
“I can’t say I’ll be sad to leave the place, no matter how curious I am,” Kimmel sighed, staring out over the sorry-looking town.
“I’m glad we have an understanding. Go ahead and pack your belongings. You’re free to go.”
Kimmel looked down Main Street, beyond the crowds and the busses to the sloping green landscape of trees beyond. Like Fisher, he could feel the clearing up there, somehow watching him, somehow aware. He shuddered, and walked off down the street, anxious to leave the town of Oakwell behind for good.
CHAPTER 7
The office was cold, clinical almost. The man behind the desk stared at Melody with sharp eyes, his expression neutral. Aged somewhere in his fifties, he was dressed in a pristine charcoal suit, his graying hair swept into a side parting. She could smell his aftershave, strong and expensive, and was increasingly aware of how bad she must look. Her hair was frizzy and wild, eyes darkly rimmed from lack of sleep. She folded her hands on her lap and waited for the man to speak.
“Mrs. Samson, as you know, child services are concerned only with Isaac’s welfare. We have no intention of causing undue disruption.”
“When can I see my son? It’s been two weeks since you took him.”
“Please, try to understand, we want what’s best. For both of you.”
“I know that, Mr. Styles. But I’m fine now. It just all got on top of me. Since my husband died…”
She lowered her eyes and picked at her thumbnail.
“We appreciate the difficult circumstances. We also appreciate the strain you must be under. I understand you rejected all offers of help from the authorities?”
“I don’t need their help. I’m just tired. Isaac… he’s having these nightmares. I’m just… it all got a little bit too much for me.”
Styles nodded and referred to the file on the table. “Yes, we read the report. Night terrors. Probably post traumatic due to the recent events in Oakwell. Our concern is making sure the correct support network is in place.”
“It sounds like you’re saying I’m a bad mother.”
Styles smiled. Patient and calm. “Mrs. Samson, how much do you know about PTSD?”
She looked back at him blankly.
“Don’t worry, I’ll explain it all. PTSD stands for post-traumatic stress disorder. It manifests itself in people who have suffered a particularly violent or traumatizing experience. After reading your file, I think both you and your son may be suffering from this condition, which has caused the situation to escalate to this point.”
“Are you saying I’m incapable of looking after my own child?” she snapped.
“Not at all, Mrs. Samson. I’m simply trying to give you an explanation of why this situation has developed.”
She cleared her throat and folded her hands in her lap. “Go on.”
“Sufferers of PTSD usually relive their traumatic experiences. Sometimes in the form of flashbacks or vivid and terrifying nightmares, more so when faced with daily reminders of the event in question.”
“There are no reminders, Dr Styles. I moved away, started afresh. I don’t know what else could be affecting him.”
“There is one other common denominator, Mrs. Samson.”
“What?”
“You,” Styles said, giving her that smile again, the one which was mostly confidence mingled with just enough empathy not to be smug.
“What do you mean?”
“You were there, Mrs. Samson. When Isaac experienced the trauma of your husband’s death, he saw you too. You are his connection.”
“Are you saying I’m causing this?”
“No, or at least, not intentionally. However, I do believe that your continued presence in his life right now is having a detrimental effect on his wellbeing.”
“I love him. I love him more than anything,” she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a crumpled-up tissue.
“Your love for your son isn’t in question here, Mrs. Samson. I’m sure you’ll agree his wellbeing is our priority. The fact is that in the weeks since he was taken into care, he has shown a remarkable improvement. I think that warrants further discussions.”
“Are you suggesting I just give him up? He needs me.”
“Not at all. What I’m saying is that nobody expects you to have to do this by yourself. There is support available. Your sister has told us that she is there to help if you need her.”
“You spoke to my sister? You have no right to do that.”
“Please, calm down, Mrs. Samson. Try to work with us here.”
“How dare you go to her? This has nothing to do with my sister. Nothing to do with you. I want my son now.”
Styles leaned forward, his face a carefully engineered mask of sympathy and authority. “Mrs. Samson, I’m not sure you understand the seriousness of the situation. My job is to do whatever is best for the child.”
“I’m what’s best for the child. He’s my son. He’s all I have left.”
“I appreciate how you feel, Mrs. Samson, and believe me, I understand. Try not to see us as the enemy here. We’re trying to help you.”
She slammed her hands on the desk, causing Styles to twitch. “Then give me my son!”
She shrank back, knowing how she must sound. Knowing how she must look. Styles adjusted his tie and steepled his hands across the file.
“Frankly, Mrs. Samson, we have concerns, not just for Isaac, but for you too. Both of you have been through a very trying experience. I’m sure you’ll be the first to admit that you’re feeling the strain of the situation and you should have sought help. What we need to do is determine what’s best for you as well as Isaac. That’s the key here.”
“Look,” she said, voice trembling. “I know I should have accepted help. I see that now. If you want me to talk to your counselors, or your therapists, then I will. Just give me back my boy. He’s all I have.”
Styles said nothing, just continued observing her, then turned his attention to her file. “
I think one-on-one counseling sessions would be in your best interests, Mrs. Samson. I would also like to refer you to a doctor with regards to prescribing you some medication to help you during such a difficult time. It seems clear to me that, despite your best efforts, you are still struggling to cope with the tragic loss of your husband. I think both you and your son are suffering from severe PTSD, and despite it seeming otherwise, you are both negatively affecting the wellbeing of the other and hindering both of your recoveries. It’s for this reason that I have decided to place Isaac into short-term care until you’re in a better position to provide the care and stability he needs.”
“No, you can’t do that!” Melody said, gripping the edge of the table. “He needs me. We need each other. You can’t take him away from me.”
“What your son needs is stability, Mrs. Samson. He needs to be able to flourish in these important years. He needs a stable environment where he can receive treatment and get well. Surely you want that for him as much as we do?”
“Please, I’ll do whatever it takes. Just don’t take him away from me.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Samson,” Styles said, closing the file. “This is for the best.”
“What about second chances? Don’t you people see that I need him? I need to protect him?”
“Like I said, if you accept the help we are offering and show improvements within a reasonable timescale, this should only be a short to midterm solution.”
“I need him with me. What if those things come back for him?” she shrieked, immediately regretting saying anything. Styles sat there and took it. She imagined he was used to it by now. Bearing bad news, taking the backlash from aggrieved parents who were about to lose a child to the system. She cleared her throat and looked him in the eye, hoping to appeal to his humanity. “Please don’t take my son. He’s all I have.”