by Michael Bray
The air was cool and crisp as he stepped outside, pausing at the edge of their neatly trimmed garden. His breath fogged in the chill September air, but even that was nowhere near as cold as the ice which circulated his veins. He could see no sign of movement in the greenhouse, no shadows moving against the filthy, frosted glass. He set off towards the greenhouse, walking slowly, straining his senses. After the silence of the house, the chorus of birdsong around him was deafening. There were two more cats in the garden. The first bore all the hallmarks of a stray, its fur mangy and knotted. It’s head was twisted at a nauseating angle, and like the one in the kitchen its glassy eyes stared accusingly. The second was even more horrific, its clumpy grey fur flecked with blood. The kitchen scissors were embedded into the creature’s eyes, and it had been displayed spread-eagled on the birdbath, the drinking water now a diluted shade of red. Whilst he was asking himself what he would do if his wife was actually insane, a second, more important question came to him, one which he had no answer for.
What would he do if she wasn’t?
What if, when it came to it, she was perfectly rational? What if she was exactly the same woman who he had loved for the last twenty three years, twenty one of those as his wife? What would he do if she was fine apart from her desire to kill the local wildlife? Could he, over time, learn to live with it? Could he treat it like some kind of sordid affair and ignore it? Perhaps sweep it under the rug and go on as if nothing had happened? He didn’t think so. He was pretty sure that if he could, he wouldn’t be inching his way towards the greenhouse at the end of the garden.
The glass and steel construction was just ahead of him now, and he paused at the door, waiting for his knotted stomach to settle. On the ground in front of him was a single spot of blood. It was something that, under ordinary circumstances, he might have never noticed, in fact he would never have been over at the greenhouse in the first place, but that was before he came home early from work to a house and garden filled with dead animals and a wife who was still missing.
Alice.
His wife’s name hovered in his throat, but try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. A light, cold sweat had formed on his arms and back as he tried to force himself to open the door and face whatever was inside.
It’s not too late, just turn around and go back to work. If you love her, you would. She obviously doesn’t want you to know about this.
No, he couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t. He had to intervene, to sit her down and talk to her, perhaps pay her more attention, make sure they did more things together. But first, he had to face whatever was inside.
He quietly opened the door and stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately.
Mannering blinked, unable to process what he was seeing.
The twin shelves which lined each wall of the greenhouse were filled with withered, brown overgrown plants, most of which were dead or dying. Alice’s clothes were neatly folded and placed between two cracked red plant pots. At the furthest end of the greenhouse was a natural earth bed which had been excavated to allow Alice to grow potatoes and carrots, but now, as Mannering watched, he saw that they had been used for an entirely different purpose.
Alice lay on her back in the dirt, moaning as she rubbed the moist earth into her body and over her face. She had her eyes closed and was murmuring as she scooped the soil against herself. Buried within the dirt were bodies - putrid, rotting carcasses of birds, cats and dogs. Whenever her hand would fall upon one, she would drag it towards her and crush it against her body, displacing flesh and allowing liquefied organs to spill out, turning the soil into a thick mud paste.
Mannering was bizarrely reminded of their first wedding anniversary when they had made snow angels in Paris.
He watched in sick fascination as she rolled in the dirt and pulled another mound towards her. A human arm flopped out of the mud, touching her stomach. It was putrid and rotten, and Alice grabbed at the maggot infested appendage and touched its dead fingers to her cheeks, kissing the blackened nails. Mannering could only look as he saw for the first time beyond the writhing shape of his wife to the other arms which protruded out of the earth like strange exotic plants. Some were brown and leathery, but many were still disgustingly recognisable, even in their putrid state.
He stopped counting at seven, knowing that his mind wasn’t equipped to take much more. He was just an insurance salesman. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him. Without knowing that he was going to do it, he backed out of the greenhouse and gently closed the door, shutting away the horrors inside.
You need to call the police.
He staggered back up the garden path, unable to focus, unable to breathe. The dead cat in the kitchen now seemed of little consequence. After all, how could it shock him after what he had just seen? Mannering knew he had to get out, had to get away.
He staggered to his car, dropped the keys, picked them up again with shaking hands and managed to unlock the vehicle. He drove away from the house, looking but not seeing as he left his little slice of suburban hell behind.
He made it as far as the docks before he pulled over and threw up into the grass verge. As he stood there sobbing and panting with his hands on his knees and the bitter taste of vomit in his throat, it finally hit home just want he had witnessed. Things had changed, and would never be the same again.
You need to call the police. Now.
It was true. He loved his wife, but she was obviously sick. There was something inherently wrong with her that needed to be fixed, or at least that was what the rational side of his brain was telling him. On the other hand, she was his true love, his soul mate, his one and only thing in the world that he cared for. Could he do it? Could he bring himself to make the call? He wouldn’t be there when it happened, but the neighbours would. And as the police arrived en masse and led Alice away in handcuffs, questions would be asked, asked of him.
Mannering fished his phone out of his pocket, stared at it, and then knew what he was going to do. It was for the best.
Alice was just finishing washing the dishes. The kitchen was filled with the delicious aroma of pot roast. She heard the car pull up to the house, and paused. It was earlier than normal, and her eyes went towards the knife block on the side. She heard the car door close, and waited, hand hovering over the carving knife.
Mannering walked through the door, and Alice relaxed. He looked jaded, exhausted even as he slipped off his jacket and walked towards the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner?” He asked as he fixed himself a drink, flashing a quick glance towards the spot where the dead cat had been displayed earlier.
“Pot roast.” Alice replied. “You look exhausted. Tough day?”
Mannering nodded as he drained the glass of whisky then poured himself another.
“Why don’t you go and drink that in the sitting room? Dinner isn’t quite ready yet. I got some wonderful potatoes to go with it.”
He almost laughed, or screamed at the idea, but instead took a sip of his drink and did as he was told.
Although it seemed impossible now, he was sure that he would learn to live with Alice’s hobby. Although the vows of marriage didn’t mean as much these days as they once did, he was determined to honour the commitment that he had made to her. And that was to love and cherish her until death. Was a life alone worth the price of doing the right thing?
Probably.
Just not to him. Everyone had quirks, and everyone had imperfections, but like any good husband, he was just going to have to learn to live with the ones his wife had and try to make the best of them. He was sure that in time, he would learn to live with it. Mannering kicked off his shoes, switched on the television and sank down into his favourite chair whilst he waited for dinner.
JASPER
Jasper Collins had been a patient at Leafields Hospital for almost five years, and today was his first real chance at getting out. He was nervous as he was led into the room and sat i
n front of Dr. Ronson, not because he had the power to deny Jasper his freedom, but because of the window in his office. It ran the full length of the wall, and looked onto the beautiful, lush gardens which appeared somehow even more magical under the rain, which probed and tapped at the glass.
Jasper forced himself not to look at it, otherwise, Ronson might see that there was something wrong, and the game would be up.
“Is everything okay Jasper?” Ronson asked, breaking his train of thought.
Jasper fidgeted, licked his lips, and ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair.
“I’m fine. Just… nervous. This is a big day for me.”
“It is.” The doctor agreed, offering a thin smile - a token gesture which bore little humour.
Ronson had been Jasper's doctor since he was first admitted. Although, Jasper knew well enough that committed was a better word for what had happened to him. People were admitted to places when they were ill, and still had the opportunity to leave whenever they wanted. For Jasper, however, there was no open front door, no option to leave. They thought he was mad, loopy, a few buns short of a dozen. And he supposed, as he sat there trying his best not to glance out of the window, that they might be right.
He at least felt comfortable enough with Ronson though. There was a familiarity to the salt and pepper haired old man, a kindness in his eyes that put people at ease, which was a world away from his feelings towards the bullying, asshole orderlies who worked out on the wards.
“We can close the blinds, if you prefer.” Ronson said, following Jaspers' gaze to the window.
Although he was desperate to say yes, Jasper remained calm and shrugged, even managing to sound calm when he replied.
“It’s fine. Really.”
Ronson nodded and made a note on his paperwork, which was the only thing between Jasper and his freedom.
“So.” He said, looking over his notes. “You have been with us for almost five years now. I’m told you have made great progress, particularly over these last eighteen months.”
Jasper nodded. “I feel good now, I think I have come a long way.”
“How old are you now Jasper?”
“Twenty three.”
More notes were scribbled, and Ronson folded his hands on the desk and smiled. Jasper couldn’t help but look at the doctor’s fingers, how manicured and perfect his nails were. He looked down at his own chewed to the skin appendages and hid them out of sight on his knees.
“How do you feel now, about what happened before you came here?” Ronson asked.
Jasper felt a flicker of the bad stuff, the darkness that sometimes fizzed and bubbled in his stomach. For a split second, he saw himself launching over the desk and tearing Ronson’s tongue out. Instead, he smiled.
“Of course, I feel bad, sorry and ashamed.”
It was a lie. He actually didn’t know how he really felt about it all, however, they were the words that Ronson would have wanted, and so they were the ones he gave.
“And what about the crows? How do you feel about them?”
A surge of emotions coursed through Jasper all at once. Rage, terror, paranoia. It took an incredible force of will for him to avoid glancing to the window, especially since that was exactly what Ronson was watching for.
Fuck you Ronson.
“That’s something else I’m ashamed of. I... don’t want to talk about it.”
For all the deceit that he had planned, that was the first true thing that Jasper had said since the assessment began. Ronson was staring again. How he hated that stare. It had switched from kind and friendly during the introductory small talk, to one that was purely judgmental, and seemed to burn into Jaspers' very soul. He was suddenly certain that Ronson knew everything. Knew about the lies, knew about the plan to bluff his way to freedom.
Knew about the crows.
He coughed into his hand. “I really would rather not bring it all up again.”
“Look Jasper, I’m not against you here. But we need to talk about this. I need to assess that you do, in fact, have a firm grasp on reality. Until I can satisfy myself and the board of this hospital that you truly are ready to go back into society, then I won’t be able to agree to your release. Please, talk to me about the crows.”
Jasper hesitated, and couldn’t help flick his gaze to the window. He instantly regretted it, because Ronson saw it. He cleared his throat and looked the doctor in the eye.
“They don’t speak to me anymore, if that’s what you want to know.”
“So I understand from my reports. How do you feel about that?”
Careful. He’s trying to catch you out here.
“Well… I know now that they never did. Not really. I know I can’t blame them for what I did.” He said with a shrug.
“You admit responsibility for what you did to your mother and brothers?”
Jasper paused, as a series of quick fire images came to him, images forever burned into his memory.
Bloody kitchen tiles.
The knife clutched in his shaking hand.
His mother’s glassy, dolls eyes, horrified and staring into oblivion.
The crow at the window. Watching. Always watching.
He shuffled again, and looked at his feet.
“I know what I did, and I know I have to live with it for the rest of my life.”
“Jasper, when the crows used to speak to you, what was it like? How did they sound?”
He paused to consider the question, desperate to look out of the window but afraid of what he might see if he did.
“It was always just one. A big one. At first, I didn’t think much of it. It started showing up in the garden. I didn’t realise at first, but every time I saw it, something bad happened. That first time, my dog Toby was run over in the street. I loved that dog. I remember going out there where he lay, broken and panting in the street, and as I was cradling his head, I looked up and saw the crow. It was just standing on the lawn watching me.”
“I see,” Ronson said, making more notes.
He pushed his glasses back up his face, and then looked at Jasper. He was now in full on professional mode. Gone were the friendly smiles and encouragement. He had a look in his eyes which said he was looking for information, and wouldn’t rest until he had everything he wanted.
“When did you see it as more than coincidence?” He asked, pen poised over paper.
“When they started to read my mind.” Jasper replied immediately, then hesitated, and offered a nervous smile. “I mean, when I thought that’s what they were doing.”
He searched Ronson's face for any inkling of a reaction, but the doctor only looked back, waiting patiently as he always did. After all, what was time in a place like this? Jasper flicked his eyes to the window and the green gardens beyond, and when he saw that it was empty, he continued.
“I saw it again, that same bird a few weeks later on the day my dad had his heart attack. I know what you must be thinking. How can I know it was the same one?” He grinned, but it was a pained gesture which felt alien, and he quickly reverted to his neutral frown.
“It’s kind of hard to explain. Somehow, I just knew it was the same bird. I knew it as a certainty. That’s when I first heard it in my head. I heard it telling me I was right, that it was the one that had been there when my dog was killed, and that if I ever told anyone, they would come for me.”
He paused again, and began to rub his thumb and forefinger together.
“My father died in the hospital that night, although in a way that didn’t matter as much as the crow. Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was there, hovering in my head, listening to my thoughts, invading my privacy.”
“This certainly still seems to be stressful to you. Would you like to take a break? If you don’t feel ready for this we can postpone.”
“No, that’s alright. I don’t mind. It’s just not something I like to talk about, that’s all,”
“I just wanted to be certain. Please, continue. You are d
oing really, really well.” Ronson said, giving Jasper one of his best encouraging smiles.
“I’m unsure if I should. How do I know this isn’t a trick? What if you’re trying to get me to say something that means I’ll have to stay here?”
“Jasper, you should know by now that I only want what’s best for you. Since you came here, I’ve done everything I can to help you.”
Jasper nodded. It was true, Ronson had always tried to help, and seemed to have a genuine interest in his progress. “And besides,” Ronson added, looking around the empty office, “it’s just us here. Talking like the friends. I hope, by now, we are. Please, continue.”
Jasper scratched at his hair, snatched a quick glance out of the window, and continued.
“Well, it went on like that for a few months. At first, I would only see it every few weeks or so, and when I did, something bad would always happen.”
“What kind of things?”
“You know this.”
Ronson didn’t reply. He simply waited. Good old ever patient Ronson. With a sigh, Jasper continued to talk.
“Nothing too serious at first. Just minor stuff. I broke my leg. The kitchen somehow got set on fire, stuff like that. No matter what happened, it was always there, watching me from the garden. And even when I couldn’t see it, I could hear it in my head. Talking to me, taunting me, threatening me.”
“How did it feel? The voices inside your head?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain.” Jasper mumbled as he looked at the window, not a glance this time but a full on stare. He looked out into the gardens beyond, satisfied himself that all was normal, and then turned back to Ronson. “It’s like… you know when there’s a wasp in the house, and you can hear it buzzing, but it’s kinda quiet?”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Ronson said. “I grew up on a farm in Texas. It was a problem we had a lot.”