The February Editor's Pick Writer is Trevor Denyer
Please feel free to contact Trevor at: tdenyer@ntlworld.com
LITTLE GIRL LOST
by Trevor Denyer
Though it didn’t seem right, Ben was becoming bored with the news coverage of the abduction of five-year-old Mandy Jacobs. Every day there were pages of newsprint devoted to it, most of which summarised and repeated what had already been printed.
In fact, it was annoying him now and he wondered why he bothered to continue buying a newspaper each day. Force of habit, he supposed, and something to read on the train journey to work; something undemanding.
But there was another reason, one that he didn't like to admit. Since the abduction two months ago, he had started to feel uncomfortable when by himself, as though he wasn’t by himself. It was a feeling, no more, but unsettling and irritating.
Ben lived alone. He preferred it that way. His mum had been the centre of his universe and when she died two years ago, he had fallen apart for a while. At forty years of age he had been vulnerable. He’d never had a dad, certainly not a man who had been present at any time. He had no memory of him and had summarily dismissed the idea of a father figure existing. It was a time in his life when he had begun to think about what his future might hold.
He was not unattractive; only slightly overweight at thirteen stone, mainly due to an expanding belly, which he felt that for his 5’10’ height wasn’t too bad. He wasn’t completely sure of his sexual orientation. He enjoyed the sight of young good looking females (with tight, tidy arses) and young, good looking males (with tight, tidy arses).
He’d never had sex with anyone other than himself and hadn’t really ever desperately desired it. ‘What you’ve never had you never miss’ was his philosophy.
At forty, he’d begun to reassess that philosophy. He’d started to examine himself more critically, noting the lines on his face, the way his skin was becoming drier and how tiny grey hairs were beginning to show amongst the slightly receding, though still abundant shock of wavy brown hair adorning his head.
Just as he was starting to come to terms with himself, his mum died of a heart attack. He hadn’t been there when it happened and he hadn’t found her. He had been away in Scotland for a short break. A neighbour had seen his mother lying on the kitchen floor and called the emergency services. She had tried to contact him, but he hadn’t got the message until he returned from the wilds of Sutherland to the austerity of Edinburgh. Only then had he checked for messages on his mobile phone. In a panic, he had returned the hire car and flown home to Heathrow, picking up the shuttle bus from there to Woking.
When he arrived home, there was no sign that anything had happened, just a hastily repaired lock on the back door.
What had distressed him more than anything was the lack of continuity. Mum was just gone; that was that. Despite her efforts to impress upon him the certainty of an afterlife, stressing the significance of an omnipresent God, when she died he had felt as if she had vanished. She hadn’t ‘passed on’ anywhere, she had just vanished.
*****
In the dream he stands on the small flowered green in front of the house. There is a triangle of flowers, edged in orange, with pinks and yellows forming a heart in the centre. The triangle is within a diverging path that appears to present the house to him. The bright colors of the flowers offer sadness, like flowers on a grave.
The house is a demon, staring through windowed eyes, the blackness behind the net curtains hiding secrets he dare not contemplate. The door is blood red, with a square of glass above a golden letterbox, flashing reflected sunlight. Two smaller squares hover ephemerally above the light, glinting in the afterglow.
Between the two gabled sides of the house is a tower. The door is recessed within an archway and above it is a rectangular window on the first floor. Above that are two smaller windows with cream coloured lintels like thick eyebrows, presenting a startled appearance. The sentient effect chills him. The house is alive.
The roof resembles a wizard’s hat, scaly grey and rising to a point on top of which a weather vane rises; a cross with a grey ball hanging from each arm. It reminds him vaguely of the Old Bailey, weighing the prospect of justice against the hopelessness of faith. He knows he is there to bring together the two ideologies, but something stops him from moving forward.
There is an elusive presence that holds him back, despite the towering rage that fills him, from the depths of his toes to the miasma of his mind. The rage is white hot, melting all memory of its cause. There is a whispered plea that forces him to focus on the beauty of the flowers.
He cannot be distracted for long, though. Inside, the rage swells and he takes a faltering step forward, feeling the presence torn away by an overwhelming need to confront the demon. Sadness fills him and fuels the rage. Behind him he senses a figure standing forlornly, but he cannot turn. The demon beckons and he walks towards the house.
*****
Ben folded his newspaper and laid it on his lap. He felt tired and the constant reporting of the abduction of Mandy Jacobs didn’t help. The train was busy at this time in the morning. He observed his fellow travelers, mainly business people on their way to the City. They were either napping, some snoring with mouths hung open, or busy metaphorically chasing their tails. Newspapers were flourished and unnecessarily loud impenetrable conversations duelled for prominence over mobiles that buzzed and sang tinnily. Ipods and Ipads absorbed concentration, heads bowed to the electronic highways as the train slid smoothly towards Waterloo.
Ben sighed. The thought of another week of tedium depressed him and he closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sounds and thoughts of the working world.
He decided that in September, he would go on holiday somewhere. That was a nice time of year, less than two months away, and the weather was often good. Best of all, in September there were very few kids around. He considered his options. Would he go abroad?
He preferred England; if he headed North where the roads were clear, there would be fewer people, things were cheaper and the quality of life was better. Move away from the seething masses in the South, like cornered rats, biting, scratching, killing, spreading disease...
He jolted awake, finding himself still on the train. He had been on the verge of...verge of...and then there was Scotland...
He felt himself sinking into a semi-conscious state that felt uncomfortable. His teeth ached and his body became heavy. He felt like a stone sinking into a drowning pool and deep down in that pool, she waited. Her presence drew him down as his discomfort increased.
He couldn’t see her or hear anything, but he knew she was there. He felt her anguish suffocating him, her insistent silent plea filling his mind; a ball of sadness that leached into his soul.
He awoke again with a gasp like a drowning man finding air. He had slid down in his seat, and he pulled himself upright, looking around. The drones on the train feigned disinterest or pretended not to have noticed anything untoward.
His heart pounded and he was sweating despite the air conditioning in the train carriage. His white shirt would be drenched, he realized, but that seemed to be fairly inconsequential. The predominant thought that throbbed and pounded dully through his head was insistent:
Little Girl Lost...Little Girl Lost...Little Girl Lost...
*****
In the dream the red door swings open. It isn’t locked and that seems strange. He hasn’t had to knock and he can hear the sound of the radio coming from the kitchen. Someone is moving around, dancing to the music. He knows who she is and he moves into the house.
He thinks he speaks but his lips don’t move:
“You have the girl.”
She turns, alarmed. Her long brown hair frames a pale, weather-worn face that appears older than her thirty years. Her large brown eyes widen in surprise.
A flood of emotions ripple across her face, then anger steals the softness from her eyes. Her lips part, exposing startlingly white teeth. She growls at him, “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
He hears a noise behind him and turns. Little Amy stands forlorn, her brown hair hanging in straggly, tangled profusion, needing a comb. She holds a naked doll in one hand and a piece of her cot blanket in the other. She brings the thinning, greying fabric to her mouth to suckle upon it and smell the safety of her fading babyhood.
“Daddy,” she mumbles from behind her comforter.
*****
The next day, Ben dozed on the way to Glasgow. The early morning flight was scheduled to land at 7.30 am. He hadn’t managed to sleep much during the night. There were too many thoughts crowding his mind. The question remained: why was he traveling to Scotland? Why was he not going to his job?
The truth of it was because of a feeling that the dream was reality; a haunted, uncomfortable and insistent voice that he could not hear yet understood subliminally. The Little Girl Lost remained hidden, just out of sight behind a veil at the edge of consciousness. The Little Girl Lost insisted and he knew that if he ignored the voice he would never be free of her. She told him to go to Loch Lomond. There he would find Mandy Jacobs.
As he drove the hire car onto the M8 out of Glasgow, he knew nothing beyond the Little Girl Lost’s insistence that he head towards Loch Lomond. He mused as he drove, wondering where all the other drivers were going. The idea that they were all heading towards annihilation unsettled him, but that was the truth of it. Death was the ultimate destination, but what lay beyond that? Once again, the memory of his mum overwhelmed him and the emptiness he’d felt when she died saddened him.
From that sadness, she came: the Little Girl Lost. For the first time, he saw her in the rear view mirror, sitting in the back seat and the shock of her corporality caused him to swerve, eliciting urgent, panicked hooting from his fellow travellers. He recognised her from the photographs in the newspapers. She was Mandy Jacobs.
His heart hammered in his chest, threatening to burst. He pulled onto the hard shoulder and turned towards the back seat. It was empty, but her presence remained. He heard her voice now. It whispered from the space where she had been: Daddy.
*****
In the dream the house gloats. The Demon waits patiently as he turns to the woman.
“What I want,” he says through grim lips, “is to take care of my little girl.”
The thirty-year-old woman laughs at that; a raw, animal sound like a hyena’s baying. “It’s a bit bloody late for that,” she says.
“No! It’s never too late. I’m taking her.”
She bristles. The Demon feels her contempt like a furnace radiating heat that sears him.
“Never!” she screams, grabbing a carving knife from the kitchen rack. He can hear Ken Bruce in the background, his Scottish brogue introducing the next record.
The Demon’s rage ignites once more and he pulls the shotgun from inside his coat.
Amy screams.
*****
The A98 took Ben to Loch Lomond. The Wednesday morning traffic was easing now as people settled into work. The sun was bright and warm in a blue summer sky. A few wispy cirrus clouds streaked icily across the troposphere. The loch sparkled and rippled in the light as the breeze gently ruffled the wide, deep expanse of water. Inchmurrin Island and the hills beyond were sharp in the clear air.
Ben pulled off the road and waited. His mind was a confusion of conflicting emotions. Why had the Little Girl Lost called him Daddy? Why did she look so much like Mandy Jacobs? He didn’t have any children. He was certain of that because he’d never had sex with anyone.
One thing was certain, his dreams had compelled him to come here in searchof her. Why Scotland? Mandy had disappeared at Covent Garden in London after her parents were distracted by a street performer – a mummer miming being trapped inside an invisible box.
It had been quick, the distraught parents claimed. One minute she was there, standing next to them, enjoying an ice cream and the next she had disappeared.
There were no witnesses as the crowd was focused upon the mime show. It seemed impossible that no one had noticed a small child being led away from her parents, or that Mandy had not protested. It was as though she had disappeared into thin air.
Had the abductor been someone the child knew? Did he or she discreetly cover Mandy’s mouth to stop her raising the alarm and whisk her away? Mandy would only have needed to be constrained for a few seconds until she could be bundled into a vehicle or a nearby building.
She interrupted his thoughts: Hello Daddy.
He could see her in the rear view mirror. She sat on the back seat, a diminutive figure, slight and pale with...brown hair hanging in straggly, tangled profusion, needing a comb...the description echoed within his mind, a last gasp from the dreams.
He didn’t turn this time, but stared at her in the mirror. She stared back, her clear brown eyes studying him. She raised the cot rag to her mouth and suckled.
“My little girl,” he sobbed. He didn’t understand how, but felt the certainty within, welling up and overwhelming him. He wanted to comfort her and take away the sadness. “I’m sorry, so sorry...”
Find the Lodges, she whispered in his mind. Her eyes were hard and resentful, nurturing something malevolent that seemed to seep into the air around him. He shivered, feeling cold despite the July heat. He started the car and pulled onto the highway.
*****
In the dream he screams, “Carol, don’t!” but she launches herself at The Demon. There is a massive detonation and Ben watches her face disintegrate and explode through the back of her head, drenching the cupboards behind with blood, brain and skull fragments. She is flung backwards and sinks to the floor like a broken doll. Stillness fills the house, absorbing the horror. The sound of the gunshot rings in his ears.
He knows he’s dreaming and can’t understand why he hasn’t woken before this point.
The sound of something solid hitting the floor behind him makes him turn. Amy stands there, the naked doll lying at her feet. She clutches her comforter, sucking hard, hoping to elicit sweetness.
He wants to turn the clock back, to try again, to make amends, but the house locks him into the nightmare. There is no escape and only one solution.
******
‘The Lodges’ was a drive off the main road that led towards the edge of the loch. A profusion of shrubs provided privacy for the residents who occupied the small, grey stone buildings set back from the drive. The rhododendrons and azaleas were no longer flowering, but buddleia and abelia were in full bloom, maintaining the natural screening in a blaze of colours from bright pinks through grades of white and yellow to deep blues and purples.
Here, she whispered and he stopped the car. When he looked in the mirror, she had gone.
Ben got out of the car and began walking towards one of the lodges. Its grey stone block walls rose up to a gabled end and slated roof. Small wooden framed sash windows were inset into the walls. He could see one rectangular window on the ground floor next to an arched doorway and a smaller window on the first floor. The door was set back in the shadow of the arch, its deep brown wood forbidding entry. The waters of the loch sparkled in the background, bathed in sunlight. As he approached, Ben noticed that heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows.
He turned to check that the Little Girl Lost had not followed. She was nowhere to be seen and her presence was gone. In its place came a deep sense of foreboding and he felt like a trapped animal, set upon an irreversible course. He did not know whether he should be cautious as he approached the lodge or boldly announce himself by knocking on the door. In the absence of any better idea, he decided on the latter.
The door was opened by a grey haired man, balding on the crown and bearded. His beard was as grey as his sparse hair and had been clipped, leaving a grey curtain of hair that extended a couple of inches from his chin. Ben estimated that he must be in his late seventies. He wore small, black framed glasses that perched upon a thin nose. He smiled at Ben, though this belied what his deep brown eyes betrayed. There was something dark and hateful in the eyes, making Ben flinch.
“I...um...felt I had to come here,” Ben stuttered.
“Yes,” the old man said, his voice thin and dry. “Come in.”
It took a couple of minutes for Ben’s sight to adjust to the darkness inside the lodge. Gradually chinks of light became visible where the deep orange curtains were not fully drawn. An orange glow pervaded the space and it felt hot. Sweat pricked Ben’s forehead as he followed the stranger into the living room.
“Sit down, please,” he said.
Ben sat down, sinking into the tired fabric of the large sofa. In the gloom, it appeared to be black, matching an armchair where the old man seated himself.
“I don’t know where to start, really,” Ben said.
“I know why you’re here. Amy brought you, didn’t she?”
“Amy? No, it was Mandy – Mandy Jacobs. I saw her, but then she wasn’t there...”
He ignored the question. “You’ve come to find her.”
“Yes. Is she here?”
“Perhaps.”
Ben felt annoyance, rising like a tide within him. He stood up. “Look, if you know where Mandy Jacobs is, you have to tell me. I don’t understand how or why I came to be here but now that I am here, I have to find her.”
“Sit down, Ben,” the old man said quietly, “or should I say, Robert. I need to explain some things to you.”
******
In the dream there is only one course to follow. He knows that there is no hope of redemption for what he’s done. The horror of it will stay with Amy forever and he cannot bear the thought of that.
There is movement in the living room. He briefly wonders why. Then he turns the gun upon Amy and pulls the trigger. In the split second before she dies he sees a shadow pass across the doorway. There is someone else here.
He hears a young boy’s voice yell above the percussive sound of the gunshot: “Robert!”
He realizes that James is in the house. He should have thought of that. He should have remembered. Somehow he knows that his stepson will be all right. The horror will impact upon him, but he’s tough. He’ll have to be.
Robert stuffs the warm gun barrel into his mouth and pulls the trigger.
******
They stood by the edge of the loch. Its vastness spread away to the hills beyond. Under the sun, the water sparkled in the clear air and lapped against the bank. That and the sound of birdsong calmed him.
“So where is Amy, or should I say Mandy Jacobs?” he asked.
James smiled, his eyes bright and no longer haunted by the past. “She’s living happily with mum and dad.”
Ben was still trying to digest that James was his stepson from a horrific past life. “So I was Robert. And the things we do in any life, past or present, never go away.”
James had survived the trauma of what Robert’s internal demon had done, and the Little Girl Lost – Amy then and Mandy now – found him and brought them together. Ben accepted the reality of what James, now an old man, explained to him.
And so time reset itself.
Ben turned away and gazed across the loch. He wondered just how deep the deceptively calm waters went.
Trevor Denyer has been published in magazines including Scheherazade, Nasty Piece of Work, Enigmatic Tales, Symphonie’s Gift and Night Dreams. He received an Honourable Mention in the ‘Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror’ and has appeared on-line at ‘Time Out Net Books’ and ‘Gathering Darkness’.
His work has appeared in several anthologies including Nasty Snips and Gravity’s Angels. He has recently been published in the Evil Jester Press anthology, Help! Wanted: Tales of On-The-Job Terror and the e-zine Estronomicon from Screaming Dreams Press. His collection, The Edge of the Country is available through the website below.
Trevor is the creator and editor of the critically acclaimed Roadworks, Legend and currently Midnight Street magazines.
Visit Midnight Street Magazine HERE
Learn about Trevor Denyer HERE