HomecomingA Story by Jeremy BakerThe sky bled as the sun drowned beneath the horizon, and from the hills a coldness somersaulted down and fell upon the young boy, chasing him, stumbling as he returned home. Looking behind him, over his shoulder, his pace quickened as the light faded. The barren branches in the broken footpath bent towards him, their shadows chasing him up the pathway through the grey garden to the heavy door of his house. It closed with a bone-jarring slam, and he sank into the couch in front of the TV for an hour whilst he awaited his mother’s return. The overwhelming silence of the house only became apparent to him when the room was plunged into darkness, a low rumble of thunder in the distance. He shivered in the gloom, nervously straining to make his eyes focus. Lightning flashed in the clouds above as he scurried around, looking for candles. After a few minutes of fruitless searching he returned to the lounge room, hoping his mother would remember to buy candles on her way home. In the deep darkness, the winds and thunder began to throb in unison, casting burgeoning shadows as the house rocked and shook, recoiling as if in fear from the violence surrounding it. The boy, barely ten years old, flinched at the barrage of wind, noise and rain, shivering harder, eyes searching the shadows. With giddy relief he heard a knock at the door, and he raced to welcome his mother home. But all that greeted him was a black emptiness. Nothing. No-one at all, only the shadows, growing larger and advancing on him, as if to reach out to take him, to pull him down, to steal him away. He slammed the door again, shaking his head. Had he imagined it? From behind the door the wind howled, and then laughed. ‘Grow up,’ he thought to himself. ‘It’s just the rain,’ he stammered, as if to prove it to himself. ‘It’s just the rain ...’ Forcing a smile, he returned to the couch in front of the dead TV, arranging the cushions and blanket as he stretched out. The pelting rain soon turned to hail, hammering at the roof, like bullets, with the wind threatening, shrieking under the eaves. Gradually his racing pulse subsided, and he settled comfortably. He began for a second time to wonder where his mother was, when he heard her footsteps come to the door. He leapt up and made for the door, flinging it open. A gust of wind flung hundreds of angry raindrops back into his face, stinging him. But as before, he faced an empty doorframe, lit by flashes of lightning that left a sulphurous smell in the air, his tense cries to his mother unanswered. The hair on his arms and neck stood on end as he closed the door, and he rubbed his skin for warmth. He felt his heart flicker, and he swallowed nervously, trying to allay the panic that rose in his throat.
Straining for the slightest sound, he tiptoed back to the couch, placing himself carefully on the seat. His groping hands felt for the blanket and cushions, but only the cold, sticky leather met his touch. They were gone. Quietly he dropped to his knees as he felt for them on the floor, thinking he had dislodged them as he had gone to the door. Where the hell were they? From just outside the window, laughter grasped his ears; a breathy, throaty laugh, like a fat man exhaling. Throwing aside the curtains, though, he could see no-one, just shadows amongst the trees, moving strangely in the wind, lit like demented Christmas trees by the lightning. He forced his breathing to slow as he wiped the steam from the window in front of his face. Someone was breathing on his neck. He whirled around, his hands reaching out to fend off whatever had crept up on him in the darkness, finding emptiness, knowing that unseen eyes were targeting him. His feet rooted themselves to the floor, his eyes darting around the room. The footsteps and knocking began again in earnest, over the cacophony of the storm belting the house from outside. Quickly he edged back to the wall, slowly, silently, backing down through the passageway that led to his mother’s room. The door seemed to slam as he reached the doorway of the bedroom, and he darted to her bedside table, hiding himself. With a flash he remembered that his mother kept a loaded pistol by her bed, in case they were burgled. He could see in his memory her frightened face as she had told him how to use it if anything were ever to happen, that he ‘couldn’t trust anyone these days.’ With both hands shaking, he blindly searched the drawer for the pistol, hearing once more laughter and footsteps from outside. He snatched it up, fumbled, and then grasped it tightly in both hands, the cold dark metal against his skin, shivering, pointing into the darkness. Resolutely he started back toward the passageway, lightning flashing with every step, inching along, not breathing, until he reached the front door. Slowly, carefully, he reached for the handle, hearing louder than ever the hideous footsteps and dangerous breathing coming closer to the house. As his fingers touched the handle, the door opened itself, and a blinding flash illuminated a figure reaching toward him, thunder crashing as its fingers stretched for his throat. He jumped back, falling, knowing death was imminent, and closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger. The lightning flashed again, and he slowly opened his eyes to the wet, bleeding figure of his mother, whose arms were lifted up towards him. ‘My son ...’ And outside the wind danced for joy. © 2012 Jeremy BakerReviews
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Added on May 24, 2011Last Updated on August 22, 2012 Author
Jeremy BakerBusselton, South West, AustraliaAboutI'm a former English & Literature teacher who has always enjoyed the magic, power and simple romance of words well written. My favourite writers include Pablo Neruda, Liam O'Flaherty, Anthony Eaton.. more..Writing
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