The Turning

Part 2: The Turning

17

Brett Stephens was edgy.

After confiding in Kyle about what had happened that morning at his front door between he and Davis, Kyle agreed to help Stephens pack as much as he could. After all, it was the least that he could do after what he had done the day before, breaking into his yard.

Brett had packed his war medals and other memorabilia into a big trunk and it had seemed remarkable that the two of them alone had managed to get it up onto the tray of the ute. After the major of the assortments had been loaded, he followed Stephens around the house like a lost pup, surveying what was left. Most of it was tip worthy left on the shelves and in the cupboards- a lot of empty bottles, a few faded paperback books with the spines bent and twisted, jars of dead flowers from a time when home decoration had seemed of only slight importance to Stephens. Venturing from room to room and examining the high, white paneled walls, the cobwebbed ceilings and windows and the ever-circulating dust, it occurred to Kyle that the old man had probably had more space than he had been able to utilise. There was something a little saddening about the sight of such an old, empty building that was to be left alone in the dark, its future uncertain.

They made their way back downstairs, Kyle helping Brett who kept complaining about his hip. Finally, the old man paused on the last step and lowered himself shakily.

"Sorry son gotta take a spell," Brett said, lighting a cigarette. "I think I've done as much as I can here. You should go home now, try and convince your mum and dad to come here so I can explain what's goin' on. If we can get you and your parents out of here before they start… with whatever they're got up their sleeve… it'd be for the best. I dunno what good it'll do but it's better than nothing I s'pose."

Kyle stood there and nodded, saying nothing. Brett had scared him slightly when he had pulled the boy into his house earlier and had begun circling his living room, ranting about Davis and about the town and the people- the monsters he had referred to them as. Now Brett was assuming that the kid was going to go along with him and Kyle was kicking himself for ever having got involved. Yet again he had gotten himself into trouble and now he was in this situation. What if the old man decided to rock up at his house and spill his lunatic story to his parents? It would undoubtedly be more trouble for him, trouble he could really do without.

Why couldn’t I have just waited for mum to get me those bloody boxes from the supermarket, he thought.

"Well I suppose I should get my bike now," Kyle muttered. He watched as Brett put out the cigarette and then they migrated outside, crossing the junkyard to the chain-link fence. Kyle glanced around, searching and when he was finally convinced that what he was looking for wasn't there, he asked the old man. Brett stopped, shoved his hands into his pajama pants pockets, eying the red bike leaning against the corrugated back wall of the neighbors shed.

“Shot him.”
Kyle’s mouth fell open.

“What? Why?”

“Because there was nothing I could do with him. No one would have wanted Buster, he was an old bitter bastard and not good with children. You were lucky he didn’t tear your face off yesterday.”

Kyle was brimming with more questions but managing to hold them back, knowing that to talk about the dog would be a painful exercise. Already Brett had averted his eyes and was clearing his throat. The old man's face said it all. How long had he owned the pit-bull? Five years? Ten? His own father treated Sage like an honest member of the family and on the one occasion when Sage had been young and had found his way out of the yard, Ben had gotten all three of them to pile into the ute and go trawling the streets and surrounding roads and forest until almost two am. In the end, it had turned out that he had been under the house and his father hadn't scowled the dog but had simply patted his back and had roughed the fur on his belly and had simply been glad to have him back, and for that matter so had Kyle. He watched Brett Stevens, so tired and yet alarmed, so sad and alone in the world and yet seemingly scared to death of everyone around him, to the point that he was about to pack up and leave based on a fantasy (for which Kyle had to firmly remind himself was).

“I’ll go then. I’ll try and see if I can get mum and dad to come.”

"If they don't I won't be here at eight. I'll promise you that. I'll stay as late as 6, maybe 7, but after that, I'm gone. Tonight's the night when the s**t hits the fan, I can guarantee it," Brett said.

The two wandered towards the side gate in silence, both surveying the surroundings like two chaps who had just gotten off a plane. There was not a sounds in Wilton. No dogs barking. No cars passing. No banging of a hammer in a tool shed or a lawnmower droning in some backyard. Even the birds were seemingly absent that day.

Brett slipped the keys out of his pajama pocket and slid them into the padlock. He unbolted the gate and pushed it open with a screech of rusted hinges. The old man and the boy peered at each other and, although no words were exchanged, they both seemed to understand each another.

Kyle made his way out of the vacant patch beside Brett’s property, watching the grass carefully for snakes. He heard the gate whine as Brett closed it behind him and some minutes later the sound of the back door slamming on its hinges followed.

He mounted his bike, glancing once more at the old man's house and wondering if he would ever see him again. Then he rode off, tires crunching beneath loose, sandy gravel. In his travels, he saw no one, no cars, and no people. At almost every house he passed, glancing into front yards, the shades were drawn, the lights out. This did not surprise him as much as the empty swimming pool. Despite the ever climbing heat and the fact that it was the first Friday of the school holidays, the place had appeared deserted. Lynette Rose's car was absent and the high, wrought-iron gates were closed.

He tried to peer through the fence to see if there were any signs of maintenance going on but saw none. The kiosk was only just visible, the mesh roller door locked down. The pool itself might as well have had its winter tarp stretched over. The sprinklers were running, and a small river trickled down the slight hill to the fence line where it formed a huge puddle. It occurred to Kyle that Lynette must have left them on for a long time. Perhaps she had even forgotten about them.

He cycled onwards, hurrying past houses so as to avoid peering into them and seeing more mounting evidence that something wrong was going on in Wilton. He didn't want to verify to himself that perhaps the old man had been right. But when he happened upon the car standing in the middle of the road with its driver's door propped open and its engine idling, it was difficult to simply brush it off. He stopped and peered through the open door and into the car's interior. A cigarette still smoldering in an ashtray propped in the cup holder. For some reason, this fascinated him and he was almost tempted to ride around to the driver's side and turn the ignition key to off and save the owners fuel. He was thinking about that when out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. Kyle glanced down and screamed, jumping back. From underneath the car and seemingly charging out towards him were hundreds of black and white spiders, each no bigger than a fingernail. He stepped backward, giving them a wide berth, wondering where the hell they had come from. He could see that they had four legs instead of eight and it seemed that they wanted to go towards him. He didn't like it, the spiders or the empty car left in the middle of the road with its running engine, and he quickly turned his head and peddled on fast. A bad, brooding feeling was beginning to develop fast in the pit of his stomach, the way a thunderstorm will on a humid, spring afternoon.

His mother had probably gone into Griffith for groceries but his father would still be in bed when he got home, either that or lying on the lounge watching some old war film. He had complained that he was coming down with something the night before after coming home from the pub, and had gone directly to bed. His mother had warmed up a tin of Campbell’s Pumpkin and he had eaten only two spoonful’s along with a few bites of garlic bread before falling asleep with the bowl resting precariously on his stomach.

The house possessed a deserted look, not unlike the town, but both cars were still in the driveway. His mother must have decided to stay home after all. Initially, he leaned the bike against his father’s ute before better thinking of it, wheeling it instead towards the corner of the house and jutting it against one fibro wall. His father had had words with him on countless occasions about leaning his bike up against cars, saying he could scratch the paint.

A lazy breeze blew, the leaves chiming like a thousand beads. In the backyard, the clothesline sang a whining, sea-sawing song of age.

Kyle had no intention of returning to Brett’s place later just as he had had no intention of going back that morning until he’d realised he’d left his bike. Stephens was lonely and old, his senility taking a little more of his mind each day like some foraging, scavenging animal that knows it can get away with it. Kyle felt sorry for him but knew he shouldn’t get involved any more than he already had.

He opened the screen door, kicked off his shoes and stepped through the laundry and through the kitchenette, into the living room. The couch was empty. Through the big front window, the dog was barking. He wondered why. He glanced to his right, eyeing the hall. His parents' bedroom door at the end was slightly ajar. The entire house was still, like something that had been switched off and left to stand. The kitchen tap dripped and the clock ticked. It was half-past one.

“Anyone home,” he called, not liking the sound of his voice with the empty walls. He might as well have been hollering down a storm drain. There was no answer. Quietly, he made his way down the hall, stopping a few feet short of the bedroom. He listened. He could hear the peddle-stool fan in there rattling away. He inched closer, laying a hand on the cool wood, and bumped it open. The covers and the pillows lay heaped around the edge of the bed, the underlining sheet unfastened from one corner. A shopping bag sat on the floor by of his father’s side, tissues spilling from it. The floor was littered with clothes. Two of the cupboard doors were open, one of them revealing a long mirror on the inside. He saw himself, a small stick-figure with large eyes and shaggy brown hair.

He glanced at the bag of overflowing tissues and saw a flash of red. He edged closer. More than half of them were covered with dried blood. Had his father had a nose-bleed?

Of course, he did, he thought, blocking away any darker assumption.

He decided he was going into the living room to plonk down on the lounge and watch TV. Maybe The Simpsons marathon would be still on. Either that or some midday movie. His mother and father would be around somewhere. Perhaps they had gone to the shop in Biloela.

But the CARS are here…

"They're around somewhere," he said aloud and realised in addition that neither of them had told him that they had had any plans of going anywhere that day. He had seen his mother a few times that morning, eating breakfast, packing the dishwasher, drinking coffee and reading her iPad out on the front deck.

He found himself circling the bed, moving the covers and hoping to dear Christ that no one came through the door while he was checking

(snooping)

around. After a while, he concluded that there was nothing more interesting here except a few bloody tissues. The room was unusually messy and unorganized- his mother liked to keep the house in order- but he told himself that this was nothing to be concerned about.

Go put on The Simpsons and have something to eat.

He left the bedroom and darted back down the hall. In the kitchen he met the sink, drew a glass of water and began to gulp it down, peering out the window as he did. From here he could look right out over the backyard and see the expanse of the common down the hill, the row of trees on the far west side and the wide vacant patch of yellow, coarse grass, kept short and clear by the local council. He finished the glass and went to the freezer, plucking an orange Zooper-Dopper from the far back. After snipping the top, he stepped outside.

The shade from the hanging eves on the back stoop was the only relief from the burning midday sun. He got two or three feet when he spotted a bounding dark blue shape hurtling towards the house. It was Sage, running full pelt, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. The dog reached the back fence and leaped over it, halting at Kyle's feet. His tail wagged but his ears were pricked back and he whined slightly. Kyle ran a hand over his back.

“What’s up mate?” he said. The dog seemed to calm a little at his touch and laid on his side by the back stoop while Kyle ate his ice-block. The dog peered fixedly out towards the common from where he had come. Frowning, Kyle craned his neck to see what was up.

“Goin’ mad, you are,” he said. “Madder than Brett Stephens even.”

Suddenly the dog took off running, jumping the fence again and veering down the hill across the common and towards the line of trees. Already its shape had become a wavering blue dot in the distance. Faintly he heard the dog barking again. Kyle stood to see what was going on but saw nothing. He crossed the yard to the fence to get a better look and when he glanced up again the dog had disappeared.

He’ll be back he thought, thinking that Sage had probably found a rabbit warren and some bunnies to terrorize.

He ate his Zooper Dooper, Brett’s strange assertions about Wilton dulling in comparison to the tranquility of the afternoon. He went back into the house to retrieve a second ice-block, having spied a purple one wedged beneath a bag of sausages towards the back. When he’d found it and had snipped off the tip, he stepped back out and tried to find the dog.

He caught a flutter of movement where the forest began in the distance and turned. There was a man out there. The man was walking towards the hill in no great hurry and although he thought he knew who it was, he wanted to be sure.

His bag was sitting in the lounge, a stupid place to leave his assorted treasures where his mother would find it. He took out a small set of binoculars he had found in his father's shed one day, carried the bag to his room and tossed it under the bed. Then he stepped back outside and brought them to his eyes. It took a moment for him to spot his father, but when he did a deep gripping unease seized him. Ben was covered in blood. He was wearing his green jumpsuit with overalls, the attire he wore whenever he was busy fixing something in his ute, the belly region now streaked maroon. Kyle couldn't see his face well but he immediately knew something was wrong with it. It had become malformed, his skin irritated to the point that it was beginning to crack around the edges. His eyes were hollow and blank. He was wearing a guileful grin, a line of spittle dangling from his lower lip. He no longer looked like a man but something eldritch and haunted, like some Grimm's fairy-tale creature that had just strolled out of another reality. In one hand he was holding something but was moving too quickly for Kyle to focus on.

Kyle dropped the binoculars, rocking back uneasily on his heels and yet not entirely sure why he was uneasy. His ice-block was lying in the dirt and the ants were swarming in to investigate. He could still hear Sage barking in the distance but couldn’t see him.

“Mum,” he heard himself mutter. It was a high, fragile note on the wind to which there was no reply. He kicked the ice block away and scooped up the binoculars and set them to his eyes.

He found the dog first this time, trotting close behind his dad. Ben’s head was craned forward, his bloody wet clothes clinging to his body. He realized that his father had a tomahawk in one hand. He saw the tomahawk in his father’s hand. He tried to focus on it. He could see the blood but what else was on it, something…

Mushy. It’s mushy and there’s hair on the blade. Or am I imagining it?

Kyle bolted into the house, slamming the back door behind him. For a moment he did nothing, just stood there and then adrenaline kicked in and he was turning the lock in the knob and standing on tip-toes before the sink. He was nowhere in plain sight now and Kyle knew he’d be coming up the hill. Not long and he’d reach the back gate and enter the yard, the dog trotting casually behind him, oblivious of…what? Ben’s intentions?

The thought disintegrated as soon as he heard Sage bark, much closer this time. Kyle scanned the room desperately. What could he do? Should he stay or should he go? Should he arm himself with something? Had his dad killed someone or something? These thoughts seemed crazy to him and yet the spontaneous panic told him he had to get away.

I should go his mind whirred. I should go, I’ll get trapped in here and he’ll get in he has an axe.

He hadn’t intended on glancing out the window again but it had sort of just happened. He screamed. His father was climbing the back fence, the extent of the blood obvious and the meaty chunks and hair on his overalls like scattered glitter on glue, face infected and pulsating. He could actually see it throbbing as though something was growing inside him. Blood was trickling from his ears, rolling down his eyes and cheeks but despite that, Ben was smiling. The man had gone insane. Although Kyle was young he could tell by those distant, haunted orbs in his fathers head that something had snapped. He was going to kill his son, just like he had killed…

Mum, he thought but didn’t dare contemplate the question further. Instead, he moved back through the kitchen, into the living room, and towards the front sliding door. He flicked the lock over and began to back away, sure that his old man would leap out of nowhere like some horror film villain and break the glass.

I can’t get out now, s**t I can’t get out, he’s HERE already!

Kyle hurried down the hall to his bedroom. As soon as he burst in he drew close to his window to see if he could spot his dad. He was halfway when the hand holding the tomahawk shattered the window, glass raining across his bed and onto his dresser. His father was there, grinning but silent like some stalking cat. Kyle lifted his bag off the floor and bolted out, slamming the door behind him. He ran straight into the hall wall, rebounded and took off.

“What ARE YOU DOING!” he screamed. As though to answer there was a splitting crack of wood and the bedroom door flew open behind him. Thunderous foot-falls pursued. Kyle rounded the corner into the laundry and yanked at the knob. Of course, he had locked it. He turned just in time to see Ben appear around the corner, raising the tomahawk.

Kyle flinched and ducked as the tomahawk swooped down. The tip struck the door just above Kyle's head, stopping it from slicing into his skull. Ben lost all of his already impaired balance and toppled forward. Kyle desperately wriggled out. His father's hand seized his son's leg, gripping his calf painfully as though he were nothing more than a slab of meat in his shop. He screamed, kicked out at Ben and struck his face. The grip loosened and the boy staggered to his feet, glancing back in time to see half of Ben's face sliding off his skull. He saw something peering back at him as though through a crack in a wall. It was inhuman, but even then terribly familiar. His father began to pick himself up, grabbing the handle of the tomahawk once more.

In a single desperate move, Kyle ran to the front door, flicked the lock and leaped off the step. He dropped and rolled across the dirt, a feat he could never have mastered in gymnastics at school but had then. He didn't look back but simply charged around the side to where his bike was leaning.

He saw movement in his peripherals and glanced back towards the common. The townsfolk were down there making their way up towards the hill, faces revealing the same ailments as his father. They were carrying axes, mattocks, hoes, knives, and bats. Farm and domestic tools. A few of them had shotguns glinting beneath the sun and at the sight of this he leaped on his bike, slipped the backpack on and peddled hard. Halfway out of the driveway he heard a gun go off and the leaves and branches of the orange tree to his left explode.

“s**t!” he screamed, ducking. He adjusted the gear to the highest setting and pumped his legs hard. He was dripping sweat but now traveling fast. He could hear the thunder of shoes, steadily growing further away. When it seemed that they had lost him, rounds of gunfire filled the sky. No one came out of their houses to see what was happening, no cars came and stopped to see what the unfolding drama was about. His world had transformed into a nightmare for no apparent reason. Except that perhaps, after all, crazy old Brett Stephens had been right. Perhaps what he had been so afraid of was now happening.

Kyle took a sharp right, almost missing the back lane and running into the corner of someone's fence. The lane would take him directly to the main street, connecting onto the lane that ran along the back of Brett Stephens's house. It was only there where he would feel safe.