Writers’ Circle of Durham Region published Wicked Words, an anthology of the best entries from its 2009 prose competition.  Wicked Words attracted more than 125 entries from across Canada and around the world, one of the most successful contests WCDR has ever offered.  I am thrilled that my short story was included in the anthology …

Four Forty Four

After Grandpa died, Grandma, so overwhelmed with grief at the loss of her childhood sweetheart, became steadily quieter and less active.  She adamantly refused to climb the stairs to the bed they had shared for over 50 years, preferring instead to sleep in front of the TV in the large kitchen that had been the hub of their lives.   She often forgot to eat, seldom got dressed and didn’t bother to bathe unless gently coaxed by others to do so.

Once the pattern of deterioration became clear, the family worked out a schedule of day visits.  She didn’t seem to mind the intrusions especially when it was my turn.

It’s mostly luck getting clear of city traffic on a Friday, and today fate is against me. The longer I sit idling in six lanes of westbound traffic going nowhere and fretting over Grandma’s worsening situation, the gloomier my thoughts become. 

How long will the family keep this up?  Will she survive if we move her to a seniors home?  Does she even want to survive?  

I arrive much later than planned trembling with anxiety that Grandma has been alone for several hours.  And now, menacing clouds churn in the distance forming dark towers oddly tinged with the radiant pink-gold of a late-day sun.  A peevish wind plucks at the wash pegged on the line, and my first job is to rescue Grandma’s tea towels and ‘dainties’.

Returning to the Jeep for my backpack I lean into a much angrier wind that tosses about bits of debris.  The air has turned a luminous, yellow-green charged with static that excites the hairs on my arms, its sinister caress making my flesh shiver and twitch.   The storm obliterates the western horizon and appears to be travelling in a line straight at the farm.

I find Grandma in her nightgown, wedged into the corner of the sofa in the large kitchen that takes up most of the main floor.  Her face reflects the only source of light in the room, a silver-white glow from the television that has already surrendered to the hostilities of the approaching storm.   I hug her gently and plant feathery kisses across her forehead, our signature kiss. Grandma had placed countless numbers of those on my brow as a child when she repeatedly rescued me from the maelstrom of savagely warring parents.

I slip onto the couch next to her, our hips touching, and slide my arm gently around her thin shoulders.

“Hi, Grandma!  Are we having a slumber party?”

She turns toward me and for one fleeting moment, stares hard into my eyes, a somber message there, something dark and urgent, something that can’t be said aloud.  My heart pitches wildly, dips and slides to the place where my stomach should be.  I don’t want to see or to understand.   She turns slowly back toward the buzzing television screen.  And that’s it, the connection lost.

“Can’t have a pajama party without pizza, right, Grandma?”

—-

“Will you be paying for this order by cash or credit card, M’am?”

I picture my visa card standing in the cup holder of the Jeep where I left it after the last stop for gas.

 “I’ll call you right back.”

Outside the view of neighboring farms, undulant and distorted, the field pitched askew, makes me feel off balance and alarmed.    I can hear gravel and dirt pinging off the Jeep as I push all my weight backwards into the furious wind, digging in my heels to prevent being blown right past it.  I retrieve the credit card and then gripping the door handles with both hands pull myself to the back of the Jeep to get my laptop.

I’m struggling to open the back hatch when a towering black cloud suddenly shape shifts into a malevolent hand and reaches down for me.  My heartbeat goes nuts in a moment of pure terror, and I claw my way back along the vehicle climbing into the driver’s seat as two things happen simultaneously.  The driver’s door is ripped from its hinges and a bomb goes off at the rear of the Jeep.   The front end bounces violently once, twice and then slowly lifts off the ground.  I hook my arm through the seatbelt and hold on as the vehicle pitches backwards into darkness.

—-

The Jeep has landed mostly upright mired to the undercarriage in a deep canal.  Everything is dripping wet and slippery with silt and putrid water.

I’m slogging through marshy, knee deep muck, then scrambling on hands and knees up a sloped bank, getting tangled in my soggy, waist-length hair.

My head is so heavy.

I flop onto my side at the top, exhausted.   Even in the dark and from this peculiar angle I realize something is very wrong about Grandma’s house, which is not this red brick and has two storeys unlike this one-floor cottage.

Oh my God … Grandma!

I’m standing at the bottom of three wooden steps leading up to the front door of the cottage.    My hair hangs over my face, a sodden curtain forcing my chin into my chest.   The inside door is open and through a tattered screen I see beams of light doing a wild dance on the walls of a long hallway.

I’m feeling weaker with each movement and drop to my knees on the middle step.  Through the veil of wet hair I watch my hand stretch out to tap and scratch at the bottom of the rough wooden door frame, my head rests in the crook of my elbow.  My throat feels thick, bruised.

Help me!

I hear heavy footsteps racing toward the front door from inside the cottage.  

Help!

My head lolls forward again as I lower my arm.  Someone bolts through the screen door, a big boot slamming onto the top step beside my head.

“Check the baby, Ally.  I’ll see what that crash was all about.”

A man’s voice?  Where did he come from?  Ally?  A baby?

The man leaps off the top step and runs toward the corner of the house.  The screen door flaps on its hinges.

Hey!  What about me? 

I slip sideways onto my bum cradling my heavy head in both hands.

So tired.  Grandma needs help!

I lurch to my feet and follow the man around the corner.

I’m back at the top of the canal.  The Jeep sits at the bottom perched precariously on the edge of fast running water, the driver’s side partially submerged.  It’s covered in reeds and a thick layer of mud.  The back hatch is gone and, like a canned ham, the hood is rolled all the way back to the shattered windshield.  Strange, how I didn’t notice all this damage before.

You’re in shock.

A small boy, maybe two years old, crouches on the ground in front of me peaking under the edge of my hair, smiling up into my face.  I don’t want to frighten him and try to smile back.   Below us the man is straining to get to the front of the Jeep on the passenger side.

“Is Josh OK?”

Josh!  This must be the Newton’s place, three farms over.  How …

From beside me a woman answers.

“He’s just a little confused, Jim.  He slept through it all.  Can you believe that?  The back wall of his bedroom is completely gone!”

“You better see if the cell phone’s working, Ally.  Call for an ambulance.  There’s a woman in here.  She’s all twisted up in the seat belt.”

I see the woman’s hand reach down and take hold of the boy’s just as the man succeeds in wrenching the Jeep door open.

“Ally!  Wait.  Call the Sherriff instead and tell him to send the coroner.  Looks like this woman’s neck is broken.  She’s dead, Ally.”

—-

I bolt into a sitting position, my hands move automatically to examine my neck and then my hair.  The LED panel on the digital clock registers a glowing, green 4:44.  Peter is sitting up beside me, and even in the dim light I can see real terror on his face.

“What the hell was that all about?”

“What?”

“That scream … it was the worst sound I’ve ever heard!  I have goose bumps.  It must have been one bloody wicked nightmare … another one of your weird, full-length features.”

“It’s so odd, Peter, it didn’t feel like a dream at all.  It was so vivid … so real.  I was there!”

Peter falls back into the pillow with a big, noisy yawn.

“So, what time are you heading out to your grandmother’s place?

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