Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts

Friday 29 October 2021

Counting Black Sheep, (Phase 3)


The next morning, I decided to see my grandmother, Etta Wardell. She's lived in Hollow Falls much longer than Dad and me, and she's the only person I trust as much as him. Maybe even a little more, since she understands stuff that a boy often can't. I can always rely on her, when I need advice.
It's just a short walk, so I knock on her door with my good hand and wait. She answers the door wearing a grey skirt and a nice, white blouse, with her long, gray hair neatly twirled up in a bun. Despite her age, she's always looked pretty youthful, with barely any wrinkles besides crow's feet.
  "Bianca?" she says, frowning. "Shouldn't you be in school, love?"
  "No, I can't go," I say. "Grammy, I need to talk to you about Grandpa."
  "Alright. Come in, I'll make you a cup of tea."
She leads me through her house, and I follow like an obedient puppy, closing the front door behind us. The place is lush, and well-kept, her lounge room full of photographs and little figurines of animals and dominated by a grandfather clock that ticks along reliably. We head into her cosy, little kitchen, and she puts a kettle on the stove, as I wait, staring.
  "What did you do to your hand?" asks Grammy, pointing to my bandaged hand. I'd wrapped it up with some gauze from the bathroom cupboard.
  "Oh, it's... I got it from a, uh... a sheep bite," I say.
  "Oof... nasty things, them." say Grammy, walking over to sit at the kitchen table. "You're lucky you didn't lose s finger. Sit down, sit down."
  "Sorry," I mumble, and I pull out the chair and drop into it. "I'm a bit out of it."
  "You look tired, Bianca. What's the matter?"
  "I can't sleep," I say. "I haven't slept in five days."
  "Five days?" says Grammy, concerned. "How are you still standing?"
I don't know what to say, so I just shrug.
  "Grammy, I want to ask you something. I know it's weird, but..." I trail off, as I try to find the words. "am I cursed?"
  "Cursed?" she asks, frowning so deeply, you can actually see her subtle wrinkles on her forehead. "What are you talking about?"
  "Like... I dunno," I say, gesturing with my hands to try to show what I'm trying to say, but I just end up waving them around like an idiot. "Like, my Mum died, and Grandpa died, so what about me? Is our family... doomed to die in our sleep?"
  "No, it's not a curse," says Grammy.
  "But, what did Grandpa see?" I ask. "Were you with him in the end? Did he see anything?"
  "I don't know, Bianca, he died in his sleep. I don't think he saw it coming, but we'll never know."
  "But, before," I insist. "Did he see anything weird before he died? Like visions of a reaper, or black sheep?"
  "No, he never saw anyone comign after him, if that's what you mean. But, as for sheep, he definitely saw a black sheep." The sound of the kettle whistling interrupts before I can speak, and my grandmother gets up to fetch the pot. "Cup of tea?"
  "Uh, yeah..." I say. "Grammy, what do you mean, he definitely saw a black sheep?"
  "When your grandfather was alive, we owned a sheep farm, dear. Ten-twenty-two Eureka Highway," she says.
  "Oh, right," I mumble. I remember Mum telling me that my grandfather was a sheep farmer. It was so long ago, I must have forgotten about it. "And they were black?"
  "Not all of them, but quite a few. He thought they were good luck, since it meant they had good stock, a nice mix of genes." Granny puts a cup of milky tea in front of me, and sits across from me again, this time holding a steaming mug.
  "But when he died, he didn't talk about... I mean, did he have trouble sleeping?"
  "Your Grandpa kept to himself, Bianca. If you want to know what he was going through, you'd have to ask him."
  "But he's dead, Grammy!" I say. "That's why I'm asking you."
  "Just because he's dead, doesn't mean he's gone," she says, reaching over a hand to squeeze mine. "When I'm feeling lost, looking for answers, I sometimes go and talk to him."
  "Talk to him? How?"
  "I go and visit him, at the churchyard," says Grammy. "I tell him what I'm going through."
  "Visit him?" I say. I slowly pick up the warm mug of tea and take a sip. It's warm, and although it tastes a little bland, my stomach grumbles instead of retching, so I gladly drink it down.
  "If you want answers, maybe you should talk to him as well. It can help..."

Even though it was still early morning, the cloud cover made it look late and dreary in the afternoon as I head through the open gates of Hollow Falls Cemetery. There are gravestones cluttered closely together, plots outlined in concrete and headstones of all shapes and sizes, from squat, little plaques, to large statues of angels, and I can even see two mausoleums, those little houses for dead people. I stumble around on my unsteady feet. How do they organize graveyards? Chronologically? Alphabetically? I look from one headstone to another, looking for 'Henry Wardell', but I don't even know where to even start. That's when I see those familiar, red eyes. There are several of them, waiting deeper within the cemetery, standing amidts the gravestones. I head over, careful to walk around each plot as I make my way over. There are four of them waiting for me in a little group, all facing towards me, all as black as smoke, with eerie, dark faces and eyes like blazing rubies.
As I get near enough, I see that they're standing close together, on a grave, and as I get close enough to touch them, they step aside, two on the left, two on the right, flanking the grave. Sure enough, the epitaph on the gravestone reads: 'John Harrod - 1925-1991'
The sheep are staring at me, but otherwise just standing there. Maybe they're waiting for something. Well, my grandmother said I should talk to him, so...
  "Hey, Grandpa," I mumble. "I've never spoken to you before, but I know what you look like from your pictures. I'm your granddaughter, Bianca. I'm, like, your only granddaughter..."
I feel stupid, but I trust my grandmother. She said it helps her, so maybe it can help me.
  "What did you see before you died? Do you know what killed you?" I ask. "Was it... uh... was it the reaper that I see in my dreams?"
I wait quietly, staring at the grave, swaying slightly from standing up so long on tired legs. But, I don't hear any answers, or see anything. I'm not sure what I was expecting.
One of the black sheep to the left of me moves closer towards me, and reaches out its face towards my bandaged, left hand.
  "No!" I snap, yanking my hand away. The sheep backs away, scared, and bumps into the sheep behind it, and the two move to the side. I notice that they were standing on a grave that was right next to Grandpa's, with just half a foot between each headstone. I recognize the name.
  "Mum?" I say, stepping closer. I didn't realize they were buried so close together. But, sure enough, it says "Rachel Elise Wardell 1975-2002"
Maybe I should have talked to her, instead. I never even knew my grandfather...
  "Mum, what should I do?" I ask. But now I just feel silly. I know she can't hear me. This is stupid. I look over at the sheep, still standing around on top of the graves. Surely that must be disrespectful.
  "Shoo!" I say, stepping forward. "Get off! Get out of here!" I yell. The sheep back away, still staring at me. That's when I see the headstone on the other side, and stop dead still. I recognize a third name: 'Michael Wardell 1971-2002'
  "Dad?" I walk over, staring at the stone. That doesn't make any sense, my father is alive!
Then I see the gravestone right next to it: 'Bianca Wardell 1992-2007'
No... no, this is impossible. I stand over my own grave, staring at the untended grass. This is a dream. But how can this be a dream? I woke up, didn't I?
The bony fingers of a skeleton burst out of the grave, and wrap around my leg.
  "Aaagh!" I shriek. I try to kick it off, but it quickly pulls into the grave, and drags my leg with it. I feel the cold dirt drag me up to my knee. "NO! Let Go!"
I fall over as it drags me deeper, pulling me up to my waist, and I feel the dirt scraping my skin as it spills under my shirt, the cold earth clinging to me. The black sheep surround me, as it covers up to my waist, and the sheep look down at me, staring that thousand-mile stare.
  "Please, help!" I call out, pawing at the dirt around their hooves, but they just watch coldly as dirt spills over my shoulders. Then my chin, then I'm dragged into the darkness.

  "AAAAGH!" I scream, sitting up on the couch.
  "No, it's okay, it's okay. You're in my office," says Dr Jacobs.
  "What's going on?" I say, glancing around. I'm in the psychiatric clinic again, sitting on the couch.
  "You fell asleep," says Dr Jacobs. "I didn't want to wake you."
  "How did I get here?" I ask.
  "I think your father brought you by car," she says.
I look at my hands. The bandage is gone, and there's not a scratch on me.
  "How long was I asleep?" I ask.
  "Only a few minutes," says Dr Jacobs.
  "That's impossible," I say. "I dreamed that... I mean, it felt like so long."
  "It can be hard to keep track of time in our dreams," says Dr Jacobs. "Can I ask what you were dreaming about?"
  "I don't know, I... I don't know when it started."
  "Well, why don't you tell me about the last thing you remember, and we'll go from there."
  "Okay..." I say, readjusting myself on the couch. "Well, I was at the cemetery, at my grandfather's grave, and I saw my Mum's grave. Then my Dad's - then mine."
  "You saw your own grave?" says Dr Jacobs.
  "Yeah, and then a hand came up and grabbed me, and dragged me down. That's what woke me up."
  "That's pretty intense," says Dr Jacobs. "And, what do you think it means?"
  "That I'm gonna die," I say. "I mean, pulled into my grave isn't exactly 'subtle metaphor', is it?"
  "And how many sheep were there?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "Four. There were four this time," I say. "But I don't know what it means. My grandmother said that they're good luck."
  "Well, that's possible," says Dr Jacobs. "What we see in dreams can mean a lot of things. Sheep can mean good fortune, but some people believe that black sheep represent in dreams someone close to you that you can't trust. In Scottish folklore, they represent the devil, but it might just represent that you feel like a black sheep in your family... like you don't fit in."
  "I think I can trust them, though. They lead me to the graves in the first place."
  "But, one of them bit your hand, earlier. Isn't that a sign of aggression?"
  "I don't know, I, uh..." I look at my hands again. "Wait, how did you know it bit my hand?"
  "Because you told me about that before."
  "Before what?" I say. "That was the same dream."
  "No, that was on Tuesday, Bianca."
  "It is Tuesday!" I say, annoyed.
  "No, Bianca. It's Thursday, your follow-up appointment. I think your memory problems are getting worse. You've been awake for seven days, now."
  "No no no... no, that's impossible, I've only been awake for five days."
  "But, your appointment is on Thursday. If it was still Tuesday, then why are you in my office?"
  "Because this isn't real... this is a dream," I say.
  "No, Bianca, we talked about this."
  "No, we didn't! I never talked to you about my dreams!"
  "You did, Bianca, you just don't remember..." says Dr Jacobs, with a look of concern. "I know this is confusing, honey. Try to remember. But, it's okay if you can't."
I put both my hands on either side of my head. I feel so tired... what's going on?
  "This can't be real... how can I forget two whole days?"
  "It's been known to happen."
  "But then, when was I dreaming? And, how did you know about the black sheep?"
  "You mentioned you first started seeing black sheep, in your first session," says Dr Jacobs.
  "My first session?"
  "Yes, last Friday." says Dr Jacobs.
  "My last..." I try to remember. "No... no, you're lying. I didn't see black sheep until the next day, after I tried the meditation!"
  "No, I'm not confused. This... this is a dream. Nothing else makes sense."
Dr Jacobs sighs.
  "Alright, let's say for just a moment that this is a dream. Then what?"
  "Well, then, I should wake up," I say.
  "And how are you going to do that?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "I don't know," I say. "Usually, something comes and grabs me."
  "Well, nobody is going to come grab you in here," says Dr Jacobs. "Like I said in our first session, this is a safe place. Nobody is allowed in here, without my say so."
  "Okay..." I say. "Well, how can I wake up?"
  "Bianca, why would you want to wake up? You haven't slept in a week. If this truly was a dream, and you believe that you're asleep, shouldn't you stay asleep? Wouldn't that be best for you, at this stage?"
  "No!" I say.
  "Why not?" asks Dr Jacobs. "I thought you wanted to sleep."
  "Because..." I shrug. "Because I can't tell what's real."
  "Okay, well, we talked about this... if you want to tell what's real from what's not, you need to ground yourself, meditate on this reality, in this moment in time."
  "I don't want to ground myself in this reality, I want to wake up."
  "Bianca, you're not asleep."
  "Doctor, you told me that it's up to me what my goal is in therapy, right?"
  "Yes..." says Dr Jacobs, frowning. "That is true."
  "Well, my goal is to wake up."
Dr Jacobs sighs.
  "Okay... well, it's goot to have a firm goal. But it should also be achievable."
  "Then let's say this is a dream. How do I wake up?"
  "Well, if you were sleeping, I know of three ways that you can wake up from a dream. But I should say, this isn't psychiatry, we're talking about lucid dreaming, here."
  "Okay, well, how do I wake up?"
  "Well, some people try reading," says Dr Jacobs
  "Reading what?"
  "Anything. If you're dreaming, then it's more difficult to read, because your mind has to write the words and read them at the same time, even though the speech centres of your brain are switched off. But, reading can sometimes turn it back on, and that wakes you up."
  "Okay, do you have a book I can read?" I ask.
Dr Jacobs takes one of the books from her desk and hands it to me. It's a book about something called 'cognitive behavioural therapy'. I open to a random page and read the words. It's pretty dry, but I can read most of the words fine, so long as they're not big, sciencey words.
  "Okay, that didn't work. What else?" I say.
  "Well, some people pinch themselves," says Dr Jacobs.
I grab some skin on my forearm between my fingers and squeeze.
  "Ow! Shit... that hurt."
  "Well, of course it hurt... this is real, Bianca! Please, I don't want you to hurt yourself."
  "What's the third one?" I say.
  "Blink," says Dr Jacobs, with an exasperated sigh.
  "Blink?" I say. I blink my eyes a few times.
  "No, you have to really shut your eyes tight," says Dr Jacobs. "See, when we're asleep, our eyes are closed. Most people don't blink in dreams at all. But, if you shut your eyes tight, then open them, it can force your body to open your actual eyes."
  "Okay," I say, closing my eyes tight. I squeeze them shut.
  "Bianca, I think it's time you admitted to yourself that this isn't a dream," says Dr Jacobs. "I know you've gone through a lot, in the past week, but-"
I open my eyes. I'm staring at the ceiling, which is being lit by the sun streaming in through the window. I try to sit up, but I still feel a but fuzzy from the dream. I slowly push myself up against the headboard, and look at the window. The curtains are open, but there's a thin, white, lacy curtain, letting light spill into the room. I hear a familiar, soft ticking sound. It takes me a second to realize that it's a grandfather clock, like in my grandmother's house.
  "Grammy...?" I say, but my throat is so dry, it sounds like a whisper. I roll my tongue around my mouth and swallow. "Grammy?"
After a few seconds, I head footsteps on the other side of the wall. A door off to the side opens, and I see Grammy come in, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders, over her white blouse.
  "Bianca, you're awake?" she says.
  "Yeah," I say. "How long was I asleep?"
  "Three days," says Grammy. "I was worried after the last time you woke up, how are you feeling?"
  "I'm okay... my throat's a little dry," I say.
  "I'll get you a cup of herbal tea," says Grammy. "Wait here."
She stands up and heads out of the room, walking past the tall post on the corner of the bed. It's then that I realize I'm in a big, old-fashioned bed, with four tall poles on each corner, and I'm covered with a lush, warm blanket, cream-coloured with pink flowers patterned all over it. After a minute, Grammy comes back with a cup and saucer.
  "Here you are, dear. Drink up," she says. I shakily take the cup and saucer, and take a sip. It's very sweet, but it's warm and helps wet my dry throat, so I gulp a mouthful.
  "Thank you," I say.
Granny takes the cup from me, and places it on the wooden, bedside table.
  "Where am I?" I ask.
  "This is my guest room," says Grammy.
  "It looks just like my dream," I say.
  "What dream?" asks Grammy.
  "It was weird..." I say. "I couldn't sleep for days, because I'd had this nightmare that this dark figure, a reaper, came and strangled me in my dreams. It was in a room just like this."
  "I am sorry about that," says Grammy.
  "It's not your fault," I say.
  "I'm afraid it is, my dear," says Grammy. "The last time you got out of bed, I panicked. I had to stop you. So, I strangled you, until you fell unconscious."
  "What?" I say, giggling. "What are you talking about?"
Grammy's face looks stone-cold serious.
  "I couldn't let you leave, after all this time..." says Granny. "But I'm sorry that I had to choke you. That must have been terrifying."
  "But you..." I lift my arm to point at her, but my hand weakly falls on the bed and shivers. "What's happening?"
  "Good, the tea is working," says Grammy. "If you're paralyzed, hopefully you won't go waking up anymore."
  "Paralyzed? But, I have to go home."
  "This is your home." says Grammy. "You've lived with me for ten years now. After I killed your parents..."
I feel a cold shiver down my spine.
  "Buh... why?" I stammer. As I speak, my mouth is starting to go numb, and I can barely move.
  "When I killed your grandfather, it was a mercy. Alzheimer's - terrible way to die - so I saved him from those last few years of misery, and took them for myself," says Granny, pulling me down into bed like a ragdoll, and tucking me under the covers. "There we are... but, I didn't know that along with his life, I'd taken his death as well. I started to lose my memory. So, I was forced to kill Rachel, take her years, to put off that death for a while. But, I was still losing my mind. Magic is a fickle thing, child..."
As she fluffs up my pillow and fixes my hair, I feel her cold, thin fingers on my face, and as she leans over me, I see the shadow of her hair against the sunlight, it looks like a black hood... it really was her. She was the reaper I saw, in my nightmare. You've already lost your mind... I want to say - but I can't. I can't speak. I can't move my mouth.
  "I realized that the only way to slow the disease wasn't just to take years from someone's life, but their life force, and their mind as well. Your father tried to stop me... he died slowly."
I want to scream, I want to jump out of bed, slap her and run out of this house, but my body won't co-operate. I'm as stiff as a corpse. My grandmother keeps talking, enjoying her captive audience.
  "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I had no other choice," says Grammy. "But don't worry, I won't strangle you again. I truly am sorry about that. This time I'll do the spell properly. I promise, this time the dream will seem as real as before. Now, close your eyes..."
I stare at her, stunned. Frozen still, and terrified.
  "Oh, sorry, I forgot. Paralyzed - you can't blink..." says Grammy. she touches my face with a cold hand, and pushes my eyelids closed. "Goodnight, Bianca. Sweet dreams..."

THE END

Wednesday 27 October 2021

Counting Black Sheep, (Phase 2)

I walk down the school hallway, feeling like some kind of zombie. My first class of the day is chemistry, with Mr Hill, and I feel like a lamb going to the slaughter... man, I really do have sheep on the brain.
The thing is, I hate science, I just don't have the brain for it, and Mr Hill is so boring. I feel like I'm going to fall asleep during science at the best of times, but after four days without sleep...
I rub at my throat as I remember the nightmare from last night. I don't want to go through that again... I can't fall asleep in class.
I head into class early and pick a seat near the back. Mr Hill usually only picks on kids at the front of the class. I sit down, and rub my eyes. My eyelids feel hot under my fingers from my dry eyes. I glance out the window, at the school oval. It seems to shine green under the bright, summer sun.
  "I hate you, sunlight..." I groan.
The bell rings, and after a minute the rest of the students pour into the classroom. Mr Hill comes in, in his usual, grey pinstripe suit. I take a book out of my  bag, and put it on my desk, to look like I'm paying attention.
  "Hello..." mumbles Mr Hill, heading over to his desk, and putting down his briefcase. "Right. So, today, I wanted to move onto the next module for organic chemistry; but first, we should pick up where we left off, and finish our lesson about sugars... so, can we please re-open our text book to page forty."
Everyone takes out their books and flips to the page, and I slowly do the same. I don't remember much from that lesson except that sugars were sweet, so I turn to the page and stare at the words without reading them. What is the point of learning all of this?
  "Harry, can you tell me, what is a monosaccharide?" Mr Hill asks, and one of the kids murmurs out an answer I can't hear, before Mr Hill writes something on the blackboard...
I wish I didn't have to go to school, I even told Dad it was pointless, but he said that "feeling tired" wasn't an excuse not to go to class. I mean, I don't see the point if I can't learn - I can barely focus on the blackboard, let alone what the teacher is saying - how can I learn anything?
Honestly, the only reason why I'm not skipping school entirely is that the thought of seeing my friends at lunch cheers me up a bit. The idea of staying home all day, alone, unable to sleep would probably drive me insane.
I look out the window, at the oval. The bright sunlight hurts my eyes, but I still think I'd be happier out there, doing laps. I've always enjoyed sport, and maybe if I could go for a run - get my blood pumping - that might keep me awake. I rub my eyes again, feeling a headache from staring at the brightness too long. I bury my head in my hands, rubbing my face, and with a sigh, look out the window again. I see red eyes staring back at me. They're all the way down on the oval, but I can see black sheep. Not just one, there's two of them. They're standing close together, and with their identical, smokey wool, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, but those blazing, red eyes are unmistakeable, and I can see two pairs, looking up at me. Am I hallucinating? I rub my eyes again.
  "Bianca!" snaps Mr Hill, from the front of the classroom, and I flinch, as I open my eyes, looking at the teacher. "Perhaps you need a bit more energy, if you're having so much trouble staying awake."
  "What?" I say, confused.
  "Have you been paying attention, Miss Wardell?" asks Mr Hill.
  "Yeah," I lie. "I just thought I saw sheep..."
I look out the window. Sure enough, the sheep are still there, glaring at me.
  "Excellent," says Mr Hill. "Then, would you mind explaining the chemical process of glycolysis to the class, please?"
  "Uhh..." I look down at page forty in front of me, scanning for the word glycolysis, but I can't see it. "Glycolysis-sis-sis-sis..."
  "Bianca, come here please," says Mr Hill, he points at me, and then upturns and curls his pointer finger towards himself, beckoning me forward.
I stand up from my chair, and head for the front of the classroom, as I do, I hear some of the other kids snickering. Mr Hill points to the board. "Bianca, what is this?"
He is pointing at a chemical structure diagram.
  "Uhh... sugar?" I say.
  "Yes, this is glucose..." says Mr Hill.
  "Uh huh, okay..." I say.
Several of the other kids are giggling. I glance back at them, confused - why are they laughing at me?
  "Don't look at them, look at-" Mr Hill stops, and glances at my legs. "Bianca, where is your skirt?!"
  "Skirt?" I say, glancing down. I see bare legs, and a hint of panties. I squeak, as I grab my shirt and pull it down. What happened to my skirt?
All the kids in the class burst out laughing.
  "Bianca, this is unacceptable!" snaps Mr Hill.
What happened to my skirt? I was wearing one to school... Did it come off when I was... wait. This is a dream...
  "I must have fallen asleep..." I say,
  "Bianca, what are you talking about? Where is your clothing?"
  "This is a dream," I say.
  "Bianca, please, be serious," says Mr Hill, his face turning red with anger. "This is real, you're not dreaming."
  "I'm not..." I say, glancing around. Some of the kids are taking out their phones to take pictures. Mr Hill looks annoyed, and a little embarrassed.
  "No," says Mr Hill. "If this were a dream, I'd be doing this..."
Mister Hill takes a step closer, and grabs me by the throat.
I grab his hands, and in my fingers his warm hands grow thin and cold, as they tighten around my neck, and I can't breath. I watch as his whole body darkens, and decays into bones, and his clothing deteriorates into wispy blackened rags. His breathing gets heavy and ragged as he becomes the reaper, squeezing my airways shut. No, please, not again... Please! Not again!
I try kicking at the creature, but there's no legs under the wispy, black cloth, and it holds me up by the neck. I grab the bony arms by both wrists, and try to pull them away, but it's like they're made of stone, they won't budge.
My lungs hurt from straining to breathe against my blocked windpipe, and I see my vision fading. I gasp weakly against the choking hands, desperately trying to stay alive... but I can't breathe... I can't...
  "AAAAARGH!" I scream, jumping up from my seat. I put both my hands by my neck - the fingers are gone. I glance around the room, and see that several of the other kids are looking at me, some of them look annoyed, others look scared.
  "Bianca?" asks Mr Hill, turning away from the board. "Are you alright?"
  "Yeah, I'm... I'm alright," I stammer.
  "Are you sure?" asks Mr Hill, walking towards me. "Your eyes... you look like you haven't slept in days, girl."
  "I haven't," I say, honestly.
  "Why don't you head to the nurse's office?" says Mr Hill placing a hand on my shoulder. I flinch at his touch, and take a step back.
  "No, I, uh..." I look at Mr Hill, and his look is one of deep concern. Maybe I should go to the nurse... at least then, I won't fall asleep in his class again. I nod, and say "Okay, yeah."
I pick up my bag, and push in my chair. As I do, I glance out the window.
I don't see any black sheep.

The school nurse said I was showing clear signs of sleep deprivation. I mean, I thought that was obvious after I told her I hadn't slept in four days, so whatever. She also said I should go home and get some sleep, and even gave me a blue slip - a medical exemption - to show to the front office.
I took the slip from her, left the nurse's office, then put it in my pocket and went to the oval to run a few laps. I don't want to go home yet. I might fall asleep again. I want to sleep... God, I really just wish I could sleep, but I don't want to be left on my own. What if I fall asleep, and no one else is around to wake me up? What if I can't breathe, and no one is there?
I keep running laps, around and around, until the bell rings. I finish my twelfth lap, and head for the bubbler to get a drink before heading into the lunch room. I take three gulps of water, and stand up, but as I stand up straight I feel queasy. I put a little pressure on my chest, to try to settle my stomach, but it takes a minute before my guts stop churning. I take a few calming breaths, then pick up my bag from beside the bubblre and head into the lunch room.
As I head for my usual table, I glance at the other kids. I feel anxious, like they're all judging me. I don't want them to laugh at me again... wait, no, that didn't happen. That was a dream.
I sit down at the table, with Ruby and Anna. Ruby is a short girl, but has a big personality, and Anna has these amazing, blonde curls. I don't know where Josie and Ruth are, they usually beat me to the lunch room, but Ed and Ralph are probably getting food from the tuck shop. Boys are obsessed with food.
  "Hey, Anna; Rube," I say, sitting down.
  "Hey, Bee. How are you doing?" asks Anna.
  "Okay, I guess," I say.
  "We heard about what happened in Mister Hill's class," says Ruby. "Are you sure you're okay?"
  "You heard about that?" I ask.
  "Gossip travels fast in small towns," says Anna. "You look tired, love."
  "Olivia asked us what we knew about it, I think she's spreading it," says Ruby. "Seriously, they're saying you screamed at the teacher?"
  "I didn't scream at anyone," I say. "I just fell asleep, and I had a nightmare."
  "Was that the same nightmare as... as before?" asks Anna, leaning forward.
  "Yeah, the one I told you about on Friday."
  "What nightmare?" asks Ruby. "Why's this the first I'm hearing about this?"
  "It was Friday..." says Anna, rolling her eyes. "You were studying Friday lunch."
  "Look, it wasn't a big deal, until now," I say. "But I haven't slept since.
  "You haven't slept since Friday?" says Ruby, shocked. "That's three days."
  "Four days. It started after Thursday night," I explain. "Whenever I try to sleep, I dream about this creature trying to strangle me..."
  "And that's why you screamed at Mister Hill?" says Ruby.
  "I wasn't screaming at him!" I snap. I sigh, and rub my eyes. "I fell asleep, and it came after me again. I woke up, screaming..."
  "Jesus..." says Ruby, looking concerned. "No wonder you can't sleep..."
  "I'm telling you, it's every night-"
  "-G'day, girls," says Ed, moving to sit beside me. "What's up?"
Ralph sits across from him, on the other side of the table.
  "Bee hasn't been sleeping," says Anna.
  "You didn't sleep last night?" asks Ralph, frowning.
  "Last night, or the night before... or before," I say, looking in his eyes. "Four days, now."
He looks at me, and he looks a little shocked seeing my face, and the bags under my eyes. God... how bad must I look? Ralph has a bit of a crush on me, he has since Grade 5. If he's disturbed by my face, I must look like death warmed up...
  "Four days?" says Ed, snickering. "That's nothing... last year, I stayed up for six days, to cram for Miss Crought's Biology test."
Six days? He almost sounds proud of himself...
  "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I say. The others at the table stare at me, but I am glaring at Ed.
  "What?" says Ed, smirking.
  "'I stayed up six days...' Do you think this is a game?"
  "Hey, calm down. I was just sayin'."
  "Just SAYING?!" I yell, standing up. "Don't tell me to calm down - do you think I'm doing this on purpose?! Do you think this is fun for me?"
  "Bianca, he didn't mean it like that?" offers Ralph.
  "Didn't mean..." I slam both my fists into the table. "I can't SLEEP Ed! Do you think I want to stay awake for four nights? Six nights? Ten?! Let's see how much longer Bianca can stay awake until she loses her god-damned mind!"
Ed looks scared down at the table. That's when I realize I'm standing up.
I look around and realize the girls are looking up at me, a mixture of shock and concern. Then I turn around, and see that a few of the other kids are looking over at me as well.
  "This was a bad idea..." I say, rubbing my eyes.
  "Bee, I'm sorry," says Ed.
  "DON'T... Just, don't." I say, stepping out from behind the table.
I grab my bag and head for the lunch room exit. I don't look back. I don't need to see more concerned, judging faces.

I showed the blue slip to the front desk, and went to the bus stop. As I waited at the bus stop, I took my lunch box out of my bag, and bit into the vegemite sandwich Dad made for me. It tasted good, but when I swallowed it, that same queasiness from before came back, and I felt like I was about to throw up. I put my sandwich away, and sat there rubbing my stomach.
After the bus came, I went to sit in my seat, but the queasiness wasn't going away. I had to stand up, because the rattling of the bus felt like it was going to shake the sandwich back up and out of my throat. So, I held onto the passenger strap for the whole ride home.
I can't sleep, and now I can't even eat... how am I supposed to survive if I can't eat?

When I got home, the first thing I did was go to the phone and call Dr Jacobs. I recognize the voice of the receptionist.
  "Hollow Falls Psychiatric, this is Irene. How can I help you today?"
  "I'd like to talk to Dr Jacobs, please. She said I could talk to her?"
  "Of course, can I ask who's calling?"
  "Bianca Wardell."
I hear her humming to herself for a second.
  "Okay, I'll just pop you on hold for a moment, while I go get her."
Immediately, I hear crackly electro-jazz music playing. I grab a kitchen chair, bring it closer to the landline, and sit down as I wait.
The wait probably only takes two minutes, but with my racing heart, and the feeling of half-chewed sandwich sitting in my throat, it feels like hours.
  "Hello, Bianca?" says Dr Jacob's familiar, American accent.
  "Hey, Doctor Jacobs. This is Bianca," I say, with a sigh of relief.
  "Okay, what's the matter?" she asks.
  "I didn't sleep last night," I say. "And I've been... all day, I've been off. I've been seeing sheep. And, I screamed at a teacher, and now I can't keep any food down. Everything I eat, I feel like I'm going to throw up - even water."
  "Okay, it's okay. Have you been doing your meditation?"
  "Yeah, I tried it last night, but it didn't work. I still had a nightmare."
  "Do you remember what I said yesterday? You shouldn't wait until you're panicking before you work on self-care. The trick is to identify triggers before, you panic, and look out for signs within yourself. It's good to meditate throughout the day."
Did she say that? I think she did, but I don't remember...
  "No, I haven't been meditating. I should do that- I'll do that when I hang up. But, Doctor, I can't eat. I don't know what to do."
  "That's probably nausea," she says. "When you don't sleep, it messes up your body chemistry - basically, your stomach is asleep so it's causing indigestion. Make sure you eat bland food - dry toast, crackers, mashed potato. Avoid grease, sugar and spices, they'll just upset your stomach more. And try drinking tea without milk - do you like tea?"
  "Uh, I don't know..." I say.
  "Well, warm tea, no sugar, might settle your stomach. If that doesn't help, you should call a doctor."
  "...aren't you a doctor?" I say.
  "Of course, but I'm a psychologist, honey. You need a G.P. if you have an issue with your digestion."
  "Oh, okay... okay," I say. "But, doctor... I still couldn't sleep."
  "It can take time, Bianca. Your brain is panicking as a reflex, you have to train it to settle, so it doesn't flare up with the drop in cortisol before bed... but you should try to get some sleep now, if you can, okay? Now, I should get back to my other patient, is there anything else?"
She's with another patient? I guess that makes sense, but now I feel bad... I don't want to make someone else wait, just for me.
  "Uh... I don't..." I stammer. "My Dad isn't home yet, and I don't want to sleep..."
  "Why not?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "What if I die in my sleep?" I say. "There's no one to... wake me up."
  "You won't die in your sleep, Bianca," says Dr Jacobs. "You said it yourself, you don't have sleep apnea, you don't even snore. It's all in your head."
  "Okay..." I say. "Okay, I'll try. Goodbye, doctor."
  "Alright, I'll see you for your Thursday session. Bye, Bianca."
Dr Jacobs hangs up the phone, and I stand up.

I find some potato chips in the pantry - original flavour, just salted - and eat them slowly. Each mouthful seems to sit in my throat, threatening to come back up, but after a minute, it seems to go away... it sucks, but at least it doesn't last for as long as it did before.
Then, I head for my room, and sit on the edge of my bed. Dr Jacobs is right, I need to sleep even if I'm alone in the house. It's all in my head... I just need to relax. I put some notes in the dream journal, about how I'm feeling. More tired. More stressed. Nauseous.
I don't bother taking off my school uniform, I just lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. All the lights are off, but the daylight still brightens up my room. I ignore it, and close my eyes. I decide to try some belly breathing... I place my hands on my stomach so my fingers touch, and take a deep breath, pushing with my diaphram, and trying to fill my lungs all the way to the bottom. The full breathe makes my stomach bulge a little so my fingers separate - like Dr Jacobs showed me - then I exhale slowly. With this exercise, you don't have to empty your lungs, you can breathe out normally, which is a little comforting. It's just about getting as much oxygen as you can. When you panic, shallow breathing makes your heart race, so the deep, belly breaths are meant to give you a good dose of oxygen, so your heart can beat slow and easy.
I take three deep, belly-breaths, then place a hand over my heart. It's beating slower. Thump-thump... thump-thump...
I should try some of the grounding exercises she showed me, to calm my mind. There was one she called The Countdown... I need to identify five things I can hear, four I can feel, three I hear, two I smell, one I taste... it's meant to anchor me to the present moment. The taste one is hard, but she said I can think of my favourite food...
One... my ceiling, lit by the sunlight. I sit up in bed.
Two... my dream journal on the table beside my...
Three... three black sheep.
In the doorway of my bedroom, I see sheep, their dark faces looking at me with those fiery, red eyes. I blink my eyes, and rub them, but the sheep are still there. I know I'm hallucinating, sheep don't have glowing eyes like that, but this is a persistent hallucination...
  "Go away," I say. "You're not real..."
One of the sheep is chewing idly as it stares at me, but the other two just stand there. I notice that the one nearest to me has two, dark horns on either side of its face, it must be a ram. I hear one of the sheep behind it snort.
  "I said, go away!" I say, getting out of bed. "You're a hallucination!"
I step closer, I can see the smokey wool on them, and they all look up to follow me with their crimson gaze. I notice some twigs caught in their coats, and dirt on their cloven hooves as I get closer. They look so real...
But no, no, they're not real, how could they have gotten in the house?
I step forward, and push the sheep nearest me - yuck, The wool is warm, and slightly oily in my fingers. Brrehrrr bleats the ram.
  "Get out of my house! - out of my head!" I yell. I move to shove the ram again, but it wrenches its head around, and bites my hand.
  "Aaagh!" I yell out in pain as the teeth dig into my skin.The sheep steps back, and lets go, and I stumble backwards, and trip over.

"Woah!" I call out, throwing my arms out. My hand smacks against my bedside lamp, tipping it over, and I glance around the dark.
  "What?" I mumble, blinking. It's dark, and I'm... I'm in bed? I sit up in bed, and look at the doorway of my room. In the skewed light of my bedside lamp, I can see there's no sheep. It wasn't a hallucination, it was a dream. I sigh, rubbing my eyes. I still feel tired, but it's dark, I must have slept for several hours... That's good, right?
I smile to myself, as I reach over and grab my lamp, turning it back upright. As I squeeze my hand around the stem, my hand hurts. I must have smacked it against the lamp pretty hard.
  "Ouch," I hiss, bringing my hand closer to my face. Sure enough there's a fast-swelling, dark mark on the back of my hand. I feel my whole hand throbbing as I watch as the blood rush under my skin, into an odd, crescent-moon shape. I wonder why it left such a weird mark, but then I see blood drip from my hand, and hear the light pay of blood dripping onto the soft blankets.
  "Oh, damn..." I say, putting my other hand under it. I didn't think it was bleeding. I see more blood drip from my hand. Huh, that's weird, it's not coming from the mark on the back of my hand...
I turn my hand over, and I see a nasty cut on my palm, it's the same shape as the other side, a mirror image, but deep enough to tear the skin. It looks just like a bite mark, just like where the sheep...
No, no, that's impossible, that was a dream.
I watch as a rivulet of blood trickles down my wrist from my upturned palm. But that's impossible... isn't it?

Monday 25 October 2021

Counting Black Sheep, (Phase 1)

Whenever I shut my eyes, I see my own death. I see the dark figure in wispy cloth, I hear the heavy breathing, and I feel those icy fingers wrap around my throat. For three days now, I haven't slept.
I told my father about it yesterday, and now he's taking me to see a shrink. I don't think I'm crazy, but maybe I am. Most people aren't afraid of going to sleep. I mean, I'm not scared of sleep... not really. I'm scared of dying.

The car pulls off Bell Road into a small carpark in front of a squat, square building. Dad parks the car and switches off the engine.
  "Do you want me to go in with you?" he asks.
  "No, I'll be okay," I say.
  "Are you sure?" he says. Before I can answer, he adds. "I'll be back in an forty minutes."
  "Okay, Dad."
Without taking off his seatbelt, Dad leans over, and wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. I wrap my arms around him, in an awkward, but still comforting side-on hug.
  "You'll be okay," he says, and he kisses the top of my head. By the way he seems to be shaking, I think he's trying to convince himself, more than me.
  "Yeah, Dad," I say.
He lets go, and I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car. I head to the front door of the building. I don't look back, but I know Dad is watching me, making sure I go inside. I don't know if it's because he's worried, or because he wants to make sure I actually go inside. I really don't like the idea of talking to a therapist. When Dad suggested it, there was a lot of yelling. Mostly from me.
I open the glass door and head inside the air-conditioned waiting room.
  "Are you Bianca Wardell?" asks the receptionist. It's bright outside, so I blink a few times to focus on the lady in a colourful, floral dress.
  "Yeah," I say, wandering up to the counter. "My Dad booked an appointment for me today?"
  "Yes, Doctor Jacobs is just with another patient, but they'll be done in a minute. Please, take a seat."
The lady nods towards to a comfy-looking, pale blue couch by the door, and I head over to sit down. On the opposite wall, there's some abstract art, and one of those water-coolers with the big, plastic tank on the top. I glance around at the art on the wall. I can't tell what it's supposed to be. Is this some kind of test? Sit the patient down, and if they think they see faces in the art on the walls, they're crazy? Well, I don't see any faces, I just see swipes of paint. I'm not crazy.
I look at the water cooler. There's a soft humming in the waiting room, and I don't know if it's coming from the water cooler, or the air-conditioner. I feel so tired... I sigh and rub my eyes. I wish I could sleep... I hear heavy, ragged breathing. "Bianca..."
I feel cold fingers crawling across my shoulder, and snap my eyes open. The receptionist lets go of my shoulder. "Bianca? The doctor is ready."
  "Did I fall asleep?" I ask, feeling a tightness rising in my chest.
  "Doctor Jacobs will see you now. Room number six, just down the hall," says the receptionist, gesturing behind the front counter.
I take a deep deep breath, trying to slow my beating heart, and stand up.
  "Uh... thanks," I say, and I head down the hall. She has cold fingers... at least, I hope those were her fingers I was feeling, and not the fingers of death.
I head for room six, which is waiting with the door open, and I head inside. The room has a couch in front of the window, with the blinds drawn, some plants in the corners, a filing cabinet near the door, and a desk with a computer and several files. At the desk, in a swivel chair, is sitting a thin, African woman with long, straightened hair wearing a business suit, and with thin, wire-framed glasses prominent on her nose.
  "It's lovely to meet you, Bianca," says the woman, standing and offering me a handshake. "I'm Doctor Jacobs."
She has a soft, American accent. I wonder when she came to Australia from America. I take her handshake, and I'm comforted to note that she has warm hands. She offers me a seat on the couch, and closes the door.
  "So, can you tell me why you're here today?" she asks, as she sits down in the chair once more.
  "I'm not crazy," I say. Doctor Jacobs chuckles.
  "No, you're not crazy. You're here because you want help."
  "I'm here because my Dad thinks I'm crazy."
  "We're not here to judge people. People think that if they say the wrong thing, they'll be declared 'crazy'... but look," Doctor Jacobs opens up the drawers on her desk. "Do you see a stamp labelled 'Crazy'?"
The drawer is full of blank forms, with some scattered pens. I shake my head.
  "It's not my job to judge you," she says, closing the drawers. "It's my job to help you. So tell me, how can I help you?"
  "Well, I... uh, I had a bad dream," I say, with a sigh.
  "Oh? What kind of dream?" asks Doctor Jacobs, leaning closer.
  "I had a nightmare. It was... no, this is stupid," I say, folding my arms.
  "It isn't stupid," says Dr Jacobs.
  "I can't sleep, because I had a bad dream! I sound crazy..."
  "Nobody is calling you crazy," says the doctor. "Nobody except you. But why does it matter if you're crazy? What do you think will happen?"
  "Well, if you're crazy, you're... y'know, crazy. They take you away."
  "Nobody is going to take you away," says Dr Jacobs. "This is my office, and nobody is allowed through that door unless one of us is in danger," she says, gesturing towards the door.
  "Crazy people are dangerous."
  "Are you planning on hurting yourself?" asks the doctor. "Or me?""
  "No."
  "Then nobody is going to take you anywhere that you don't want to go. This is a safe place," she says. "Now, please, tell me about this dream."
I sigh once more, looking into her eyes. She is staring at me, expectantly.
  "It wasn't just a dream. It felt so real..." I say. "I felt like I woke up in this strange bedroom. It was weird, and dark, and I didn't know where I was. The bed was different from mine, one of those ones with four tall posts on the corners. I tried to get out of bed. But, I felt so weak... it's like my body was being held down. I cried out for help, but I couldn't speak, my throat hurt... like I was dehydrated, y'know?"
Dr Jacobs nods, so I continue.
"So, I pulled myself out of the bed, it felt like the blanket weighed a tonne, but I got out, and I fell on the floor, and I was stumbling to get up. I called out again, and when I got to my feet, Death was standing there."
  "Death?" asks Dr Jacobs, frowning.
  "See, I knew you'd think I was crazy..."
  "No, no, what I mean to say is, how did death look? Was this the classical skeleton, with the big... uh..."
  "it didn't have a scythe. It was this shadow - the room was dark, but this thing was like pitch-black, inky black, but I could see, like, a ragged hood over its head, although I couldn't see the face, or skull, underneath. It was wearing wispy, ragged clothing, hanging off it- uh, off of it..."
I glance at the therapist, but she waits patiently for me to continue.
  "Then, uh... that's when it, uh..." I feel my breathing get shallow as I remember the dream. I can still feel its cold, skeletal fingers around my throat. "Then it grabbed me - my neck. It grabbed my neck, and it, uh, it just squeezed, choking me."
  "And that's when you woke up?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "No! No, that's... it, I mean I did, but no... it just kept squeezing, and I could hear it breathing heavily. I was so weak, but I remember, trying to stop it, for like, over a minute. It was strangling me to death. I only woke up when I died."
  "Okay..." says Dr Jacobs. "And you haven't been able to sleep, since?"
  "I've tried," I say. "But every time I try, I see it. It's like it's waiting for me..."
  "Do you think it's real?" asks Dr Jacobs.
The right answer is probably 'no', but... I want to tell her the truth.
  "Yes. I mean... obviously, it's not, right? It's a dream. But, it felt so real."
  "If you know it's a dream, why do you say it's real?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "Because I felt like I was dying," I say.
  "Have you ever felt like that before?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "No," I say.
  "Then, how do you know that you were dying?"
  "Because I couldn't breathe!" I snap.
  "I'm sorry, what I meant is... sometimes, traumatic memories can cause us to have trauma dreams. I wasn't trying to dismiss your words, I simply meant to ask, are you sure that you've never felt like you were choking, or drowning, ever before? Or, ever had anything tight around your throat?"
  "No," I say. "Not until after the dream."
  "And this is the first time you've had this dream?"
  "Yes."
Doctor Jacobs opens a drawer, takes out a form, and places it on the desk.
  "Have you had trouble sleeping before?"
  "No, not at all," I say.
  "And, anyone else in your family?" she asks. I feel a tightness in my chest.
  "Uh, yeah..." I mutter. "My Mum, she died in her sleep. And my grandpa."
  "On your mother's side?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "Yeah," I say. "They just stopped breathing. They said it was sleep apnea."
  "Is that why you can't sleep?"
  "No. I don't have sleep apnea," I say. "My Mum wasn't overweight, and neither was my grandfather. So, when I was ten, Dad took me to a sleep clinic in Darwin, to see if there was something genetic. But, I don't have sleep apnea... I don't even snore. They said there's nothing wrong with me."
  "That's not what I meant. You've lost two members of your family, in their sleep, do you think that's why you can't sleep?"
  "Grandpa died before I was born," I say.
  "And what about your mother?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "That was five years ago," I say.
  "And, did you have trouble sleeping then?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "No..." I say. Then quickly, I add, "I mean, I loved her. I cried. Like, a lot. I still miss her, even today."
  "It's okay," says Dr Jacobs. "I'm not accusing you of anything. People grieve in different ways. But, two people in your family - forgive me - but, they both suffocated in their sleep. Now, you're having dreams where you're being strangled. I don't want to coerce your opinion, so if you think I'm off-base, then please tell me. But, do you think these are connected?"
  "...I don't want them to be," I say.
Dr Jacobs cocks her head to the side, listening. I sigh.
  "Look, they don't know it was sleep apnea, do they? All they know is that she stopped breathing. And when the doctors said my grandfather had sleep apnea, of course they'll chalk that up to family history. But, what if it was something else?"
  "Something like what happened to you?"
  "Yeah..." I say. "I know it sounds crazy."
  "It doesn't sound crazy. I really don't like that word. Is it so crazy to be afraid of dying in your sleep, when two of your famly have in the past."
  "I guess not... but it was just a dream."
  "Dreams can mean a lot. People with P.T.S.D. often relive their trauma; anxious people have anxiety dreams... and if we listen to music, we hear it in our dreams. I'm not suggesting that your dreams are trying to kill you, Bianca, but what if you were having trouble breathing, and your brain conjured up this reaper to try to make sense of it - of this strangulation you were feeling."
  "So, you think I was actually choking in my sleep?"
  "Do you?" she asks.
I rub my hand over my throat. I can vividly remember those, cold bony hands.
  "Yes..."
  "Then, I believe it as well."
  "Alright... so, then, what do I do about it?" I ask.
  "Well, that's up to you," says Dr Jacobs. "What do you want to do about it?"
  "I want it to stop," I say. "I want to be able to sleep again, without this thing creeping up on me."
  "Okay, that's good. It's good to have a clear goal. Is there anything else you'd like to work towards?"
  "No, nothing," I say. "I just want to sleep. I'm so tired..."
  "You said you've been awake for three days, is that right?"
  "Yeah... three days and nights."
  "Have you tried taking sleeping pills?"
  "NO!" I snap, "I don't want to take drugs..."
  "That's okay," says Dr Jacobs. "Like I said, it's up to you. These are your goals, and your decisions to make. If you want to avoid chemical therapy, then I won't prescribe you anything."
  "Okay... sorry," I say, rubbing my eyes. "I don't mean to be so cranky. I'm just tired, that's all..."
  "It's okay," she says. "I understand what you're going through. When I had my son, he cried constantly, and I didn't sleep for eight days. In the first few days, I was grumpy and cruel. After a week, I started hallucinating."
  "Hallucinating?"
  "Oh, yes. Your brain craves sleep. Without it, we can't function, and your mind starts playing tricks on you."
  "And after eleven days, you die," I add, grimly.
  "Eleven days? Who told you that?" asks Dr Jacobs, frowning.
  "I read it on the internet."
  "Well, it's just not true. You will die without sleep, yes; but it can take several months, up to a year," says Dr Jacobs, smirking. "So, if you're afraid that you'll drop dead in a week, well, you can relax. We've got time."
  "Okay... well, that's good to know." I say.
  "Alright then. So, it sounds to me like this fear of dying is keeping you up, because as you drift off, it's triggering a panic response that's snapping you awake again, does that sound like I'm in the right ballpark?"
  "I guess so, yeah," I say, with a shrug.
  "Alright. Now, I know you said you don't want drugs, but I have to ask, have you taken anti-anxiety medication before, or would you give that a go?"
  "No, I don't want drugs," I say.
  "That's okay, there's several methods of dealing with anxiety, drugs are just one of them. For you, why don't we try a combination of meditation, and a dream journal?"
  "Okay, but what's a dream journal?" I ask.
  "Oh, it's a combination of a sleep diary, and a dream report," says Dr Jacobs. She opens the other drawer of her desk, and takes out a small, cheap exercise book. "If you're having bad dreams, writing them out can help you to come to terms with them."
  "But, I'm not sleeping," I say, taking the book from her. "How can I write down my dreams, if I don't have any?"
  "This is also to write down what's keeping you up, when you try to sleep, and what's on your mind. The idea is to work on your sleep hygiene - to identify what's keeping you awake. But, give it time. You might even get a night of sleep before our session next Thursday. Then we can talk about your dreams."
  "Okay," I say, flipping through the little book. I see that she's written headings on the first two pages. Tiredness Level, Time to Bed, Caffeine, Time to Wake... "Wait, did you say 'next Thursday'? Isn't that a little soon?"
  "It's just to monitor your progress. We don't want you going too long without sleep. It can be dangerous."
  "I thought you said it wouldn't kill me in eleven days. It takes months."
  "It does... I'm not worried about you dying, Bianca. But, going for weeks without sleep can make you sick. You'll have problems with your memory, have terrible mood swings, hallucinate, feel nauseous. I'll do everything I can to keep you healthy, and if you ever need me, here" Doctor Jacobs takes one of her cards from her desk, and holds it out to me. "-this is my card. You can call me during business hours. After hours, if there's an emergency or you want to hurt yourself, call Lifeline. Their number is on there as well."
  "Okay, thanks," I say, taking the card.
  "Alright. Now, I'd like to show you a couple of ways to meditate, and hopefully these can help you calm down before bed."
  "Meditate? Isn't that, like, a Buddhist thing?"
  "Not really. Would that bother you?"
  "I dunno. It just seems... I mean, I'm not religious."
  "Religions don't hold a monopoly on meditation. Prayers and chants can be calming, but it's not because of religion, it's because focusing on one thing, helps to clear your mind. Yes, you can meditate on God, or a holy chant; but, you can also focus on something simple, like a campfire... or, you could even count sheep, to try to clear your mind."
  "Count sheep? You want me to count sheep?"
  "It doesn't matter what you focus on, so long as it helps you get to sleep. Counting sheep isn't the best option, but I have a few we can try. These don't all work for everyone, but we'll see what works for you. Does that sound good?"
  "Yeah, I'd like that," I say.
  "Okay," says Dr Jacobs, smiling. "Let's start with some breathing exercises..."

Breathe in slow, count to four; hold your breath, count to five; then breath out slow, count to six. I practiced it more on the car ride home. Dr Jacobs showed me a whole lot of breathing exercises, and that one was the most relaxing. But now, for the moment of truth...
I sit on the edge of my bed, wearing my long, comfy nightshirt. On my bedside table, I have the dream journal that Dr Jacobs gave me. I take out a pen, and fill out the Left page, labelled "Before Sleep". Time to Bed: 9 o'clock. Day Naps: Drifted off in Waiting Room. Caffeine: No. Pre-sleep activity: Wrote in this Journal, About to Meditate. Tiredness Level (0-5): 4. Stress Level (0-5): 4.
There's a space underneath to write what I did that day, but I leave it blank. I don't want to spend too long on this, I just want to see if I can sleep.
I put the dream journal on my bedside table, by the lamp. Dr Jacobs said that it's better to make it totally dark, when I try to sleep, so I switch off the lamp before lying down. I'm staring up at the dark ceiling. I'm not used to sleeping in the dark, but I close my eyes. My eyes are stinging, they hurt from staying awake so long, so I press my head into my pillow, ready to sleep. I still feel a tightness in my chest, so I start meditating.
Breathe in, one... two... three... four.... Hold breathe, one... two... three... four... five...
Breathe out, one... two... three... four... five... six...
Like before, as I breathe out, I feel like my body is deflating, and taking all of the tension out with it. I feel that tightness in my chest loosen.
Breate in, one... two... three... four.... as I hold my breath, I can feel my pulse slowing.
My frantic heart is calming down... Breathe out, one... two... I can feel myself drifting off...
Breathe in, one... two... three... four.... Hold breathe, one... two... three... four... five...
Breathe out, one... two... three... four... five... six...
Breathe in-
I feel a cold hand grasp around my throat. I snap my eyes open, and I see an impossibly black figure looming over me. My empty lungs strain against the fingers, and I grab at my throat, feeling the wrinkled, bony hands, cold like ice and vice-like in their grip, and I hear the ragged, heavy breathing as the thing squeezes tighter and tighter.
No, Stop! Please! I can't Breathe!
The blood is rushing to my head, and I feel like my face is going to explode from the pressure. I reach for the thing's face, but it's arms are longer than mine, so I desperately paw at the things arms. But my vision is getting blurry... the darkness is taking over... I can't... breathe...
I gasp for breathe and sit up in bed.
It got me... it got me again...
  "D... Dad?" I gasp. I can breathe, but I can still feel those fingers around my throat. "Daddy?!"
I call out, but he can't hear me. He's still asleep. I'm all alone... it didn't work. I feel tears welling in my eyes.
  "It didn't work..." I say, burying my head in my hands.
I just want to sleep. Please, just let me sleep... Why won't you let me sleep?! I sniffle, and wipe the tears out of my eyes, gasping from the wetness in my throat.
I switch my bedside light on, and breathe slowly, as I wipe away the tears.
  "Come on, Bianca..." I say to myself. "You're fifteen, this is silly."
I lie back down on my pillow, and take a few more deep breaths.
I consider doing more counted breathing to calm down, but the idea of exhaling all of my breath at once sounds terrifying right now. Okay, no more breathing exercises... Dr Jacobs showed me a few more ways of meditation.
I've tried Counted Breathing. Coherent breathing? No... Belly breathing?
Ugh, why do so many of these have to involve breathing?
I stare up at the ceiling, lit by my bedside lamp, remembering what Dr Jacobs said about focusing your mind. So, as I stare at the ceiling, I imagine a wooden, picket fence... and visualize a cute, fluffy sheep, wandering over, and jumping the fence. One.
I imagine another, identical sheep, wandering over, and jumping. Two.
Then another sheep jumps the fence. Three.
I wonder how many it will take before I drift off to sleep.

I didn't sleep that night. I counted over one thousand, three hundred and twenty sheep before I realized it was past midnight. Then I stopped and just laid there, staring at the ceiling until sunrise. Now, I'm sitting on the school bus, headed for school, staring out the window.
Four days. I've now been four days without sleep. When Dad asked me if I slept this morning, I told him the truth, that I only slept for an hour before I woke up. But, I didn't tell him that I saw the reaper again. I still felt uncomfortable about crying in the middle of the night... I didn't want to tell him I'd called out and he hadn't answered. He already blames himself for being a single-parent, for not being able to save my Mum, I don't want him to blame himself for not saving me...
I stare out the window, trying to give my mind some kind of rest before I get to school. The houses drift by, as we head down the road. I watch the people wandering past, heading to work, or going shopping. I'm sure they all got a good night's sleep last night. Why am I the only one that can't?
The bus comes to an intersection, and stops, and I glance at the people waiting. As I do, I feel something staring at me, two glaring, red eyes on the other side of the street. I blink my weary eyes, and focus on the face looking at me. I can't see who it is, so I blink my eyes, to focus on the person standing under the shelter of a shopfront, but as my eyes focus, I realize that the reason the person looks so dark is because they're coloured completely black. And it's not a person, it looks like a sheep. A black sheep, with two red, glowing eyes on either side of its head. It's standing perfectly still, staring at me. Why is there a sheep in the middle of the Hollow Falls town square? Nobody else seems to be looking at it, but it's standing alone in the side of the road. Its woolly coat is a smokey, grey-black, but its face is as black as coal.
As I watch, I see its jaw move, like it's chewing something, but otherwise, it is perfectly still, staring right at me. I hear the engine of the bus revv, and a car horn from behind us. I flinch at the sound, looking around, then I look back at the sheep. It's still there, staring. As the bus moves, the sheep turns its head to follow the bus - to follow me. I lose it as the oncoming traffic comes the other direction, blocking my view. I sit back in my chair. That was weird, it's like it's eyes were glowing... I've never seen sheep with such red eyes before. I glance out the window again, and everything looks normal. Maybe it was just my imagination.
Or, more likely, it was my mind playing tricks. Four days without sleep...
Doctor Jacobs warned me that I might start hallucinating. Maybe I'm hallucinating sheep? After counting over a thousand of them last night, I must have sheep on the brain. I try to ignore it, but the rest of the ride to school, I can't get it out of my mind. Those staring red eyes, they looked so real. If that was a hallucination, how will I be able to tell what's real, from what isn't?

Friday 30 October 2020

Scary Tales for Children


I've never been a fan of trick-or-treating. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, buying unhealthy food so that strange children wearing cheap costumes can come to your house and steal it from you.
Don't get me wrong, I mean, I get the concept behind it, that kids are dressing up like monsters, because of a multicultural mixture of mythologies that says Halloween is a time when evil spirits and monsters are more likely to roam this Earth because of... reasons (I think mostly having to do with religion), and you can stop these monsters and evil spirits from harming you or your family by appeasoing them with tributes and offerings. So, people dress up as monsters/demons/spirits, either as a representation of the evil you're appeasing, or as a parody of those monsters so as to trick people into giving them appeasement, so you give these costumed people offerings. But since these "representations/parodies" of monsters are children, you give them candy and stuff that kids like. That's why they say "trick-or-treat", if you don't appease them with a treat, they're supposed to trick or curse you, play tricks on you, and generally make things unpleasant for you.
So, it's a lot of weird mythology and American culture, wrapped up in sugar and child neglect, so I'm glad that it's not very common in Australia... but, things have started changing, recently.

I don't know if it's because of globalization, or media - but, to be honest, I blame Aldi. That's right, the grocery store chain ALDI. They've been around for just a few years now, and I remember the first year around Halloween, they started selling Halloween buckets. Y'know, little buckets for kids to collect candy in, with bats and pumpkin faces all over them.
And when Aldi started selling trick-or-treating stuff and people figured that since it was available, other people must be buying it and using it, which means other people must be celebrating Halloween by trick-or-treating. And then, because Aldi is a super-cheap store, they often sell stuff for like half or three-quarters the price of other stores (because they hire less staff, and have a really streamlined storefront), so other stores tried to compete, by selling the stuff Aldi sells for the same price - so, other stores started selling Halloween buckets, and trick-or-treat candy and lots more costumes for little kids. So, the infection is spreading...

So, more and more people seem to be trick-or-treating in Australia. And, I don't like it, because I don't like the idea of taking a dumb, American idea and adopting it warts and all. I like the Halloween Horror Party thing that's more popular here, that's what Australians do, if they do anything at all. Don't go to random people's houses, go to your friends houses, and share food there, and if you're old enough (or know someone who looks old enough), you can even drink alcohol and be merry.

But... that being said, I'm also shameless. See, I got this idea, two years ago...
Have you ever heard of Chick Tracts? They're comic strips from an Extremist Christian organization, and if you've never heard of them, I highly recommend you check out the Chick Tract readings by Hannah & Jake, since they make fun of them, making the hatred more tolerable. But after reading a few tracts you can see just how sexist, racist, homophobic, anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, anti-Catholic, anti-atheist, anti-freedom, regressive and hateful they are. They are so backwards that they believe in the devil, witches and magic (yes, really), so Chick Publications absolutely hates Halloween, so if you visit the website for Chick Publications, Chick.com, it has a page all about how they use Halloween as a chance to give propaganda to children, and teach them that by enjoying Halloween, they're all going to Hell. So, they talk about all the different ways you can offer candy and chick tracts, or wrap candy up in chick tracts, or just put out an entire table of chick tracts without any candy, so people can, and I quote "choose their favorites".

Now, whilst I do enjoy scaring children, I highly disapprove of scaremongering, especially in the form of propaganda for bigotry, regressivism & religion.
And I was thinking, if not for the propaganda, that would be a cool idea, giving kids candy and something extra. I mean, it's Halloween, what if you gave kids a horror story for Halloween? I mean, I write horror stories, I'm sure I could write a better story than a chick tract... and that's when I had my idea.
     What if I gave out some short horror stories with candy?
Now, I don't approve of the candy aspect... but, I can't deny that if a child comes to my house this Halloween, they probably want candy. I mean, I've heard stories of people giving kids toothbrushes or apples for Halloween. Dude, that's a dick move. Whilst I disapprove of trick-or-treating candy, I much more highly disapprove of dick moves. So, I've written four different horror stories that are small enough that I can print them out on small pieces of paper, and I can staple them (carefully) to some pre-wrapped snack-sized chocolate bars, and hand them out to kids.

So, why am I telling you? Well... because of COVID-19 (of course).
See, here in Australia we have had very few cases (at least, not in this state), and so it's actually relatively safe for people to go around to other people's houses. Of course, I'm not going to be stupid about it. When I make everything, I'll wear gloves, and I'll put it in a container with a lid, and I'll make sure I'm not risking contaminating everyone by cleaning, and offering hand sanitizer, since there's no telling where children have been, and they usually have disgusting hands...
But, I'm lucky. Australia has fared pretty well, but if you're in say... oh, I don't know, America right now? Yeah, don't trick-or-treat this year. Stay home. Everyone is cursed with deadly lung-snot demons, don't go to strange people's houses and share space or air or food. And if you're at all high-risk, definitely don't let strange children come anywhere near your doorstep.

So, to encourage others to stay home, I figured that I would offer you all the same thing I'm offering the kids this year - some short, horror stories. Okay, I won't be giving you any candy, but let's be honest... I've only bought a few bags of chocolate anyway, and you can get chocolate at any time of the year! Besides, I didn't like the idea of this being about candy, so if you want to trick-or-treat, but can't, well hear's my treat for you this year...

These are the four, short horror stories I wrote for Halloween this year...


Mrs Warth’s Garden
by Matthew A.J. Anderson

The tennis ball bounces in front of me, then flies overhead. I turn to see it crash through a hedge.
  “Shame,” says Paul, “that ball had good bounce.”
  “What are you talking about? Go get it,” I say.
  “I’m not going in there, that’s the Warth house!” says Paul, pointing at the dark, tall building.
  “So what?” I say. “Don’t be a dork, go get it.”
  “I don’t want get hit with her cane!”
  “Fine. I’ll get it...” I say, shaking my head.
I cross the road and head to the hedgerow. There’s a gap between two plants, so I step over the stone around the garden’s edge and head in. Behind the hedge, the branches are wild with thorns, but after edging past, I see the tennis ball resting by a statue. I head over and pick it up. As I stand up, I’m face to face with the statue... eye to eye. That’s when I realize, it’s not a gnome or a stone angel, it looks like a kid my age, and the detail is incredible. In fact, it looks a lot like me.
I reach out and touch the shoulder. As I touch the cold and grey stone, colour and warmth slowly begins to spreads through it. I feel a cold chill down my back as the stone version of me comes to life.
  “Thanks,” it says, with a cheeky smirk.
You’re welcome, I want to say... but I can’t. I can’t speak. My whole body is stiff. The other version of me rips the tennis ball from my frozen fingers.
  “Paul! I got it!” it calls out; then it steps around me and heads out of the garden, leaving me in its place.
Knock, Knock
by Matthew A.J. Anderson

It was getting late, so I decided we should try to trick-or-treat just one last house. There was one at the end of the street that didn't have a whole lot of decorations, but there was a bloodied body hanging from a rope in one of the windows, and they'd splattered red around the front porch. It wasn't much, but the lights were off, so you couldn't see how fake it was, making it pretty creepy.
  "This one, then we go home, okay?" I said to my brother. He nodded, and put his eye-patch over his eye again. I went up to the front door and knocked, but as I did the door pushed open.
  "Hello?" I called, but there was no answer from the dark hallway. I checked inside, but there wasn't a bowl of candy or anything. Just darkness. I stepped back and noticed a small button, so I rang the doorbell. After a moment, I heard a loud thump coming from one of the rooms. A minute later, a man with angry, bloodshot eyes came charging down the hallway, and swung the door open.
  "What do you want?!" he growled.
  "Trick or treat," I said, gesturing to my brother in his pirate costume. He held out his bucket with a smile.
  "We don't celebrate Halloween!" snapped the man, slamming the door.
  "That was just rude," I mutter, turning away. As I turn around and take my brother's hand, I just smile and say "Come on. Let's try another one."
The Bravery Club
by Matthew A.J. Anderson

My three friends and I were sitting around a table in the dark basement, with a ouija board lit only by a single lightbulb, but I wasn’t game to touch it.
  “If you’re too scared, we can stop. Maybe throw more rocks at Mister Brume’s house,” says Jack.
  “No no, I’m not scared,” I lie, staring at the board, “I helped catch Sarah’s cat, didn’t I?”
  “Ha-ha, yeah,” says Theo, bouncing excitedly in his chair. “And we have the tail to prove it!”
  “So come on, then, be brave,” says Jack, pushing the planchette towards me.
  “Come on...” says Robert, “don’t tell me you believe in ghosts now, do you Danny?”
  “Daniel! What’s going on?” calls my Mum.
  “Oh no! Hide it!” I say, sliding the board away. I stand up as Mum walks down the stairs.
  “Daniel? What are you doing down here in the dark?” she says.
  “Nothing,” I say. “My friends and I were just...”
I look at the table, but there’s just an upturned ouija board, and empty chairs.
  “Mum... where did all my friends go?” I say.
  “You can’t see them?” she says.
  “No,” I say. Suddenly, she grabs me in a tight hug.
  “Thank God! The medication must be working!” she says. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”
  “But... my friends,” I say. I look around at the empty chairs again. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I just hope I’m brave enough to bring them back.
Made with Love and Care
by Matthew A.J. Anderson

  “Don’t eat them all at once, now,” says Mrs Warth, her old hands shaking as she drops a handful of candy into my bag, “You’ll make yourself sick.”
  “I won’t. Have a good night, Ma’am.”
She grins and closes the door as I join my friend.
  “See, I told you” says Karl, unwrapping one of the treats. “She gives you a whole handful!”
As we keep walking, I reach into my bag and take out one of the candies wrapped in red cellophane.
  “Do they taste good?” I ask.
  “Yeah. Old ladies always make the best desserts,” he says, popping it into his mouth.
I unwrap a chocolate, and it looks like a little flower so I pop it in my mouth and chew. It’s crunchy, and the chocolate tastes good, plus there’s something gooey in the centre, but I’m not sure what.
  “What is it?” I ask, swallowing it.
  “I dunno. Chocolate?” says Karl, eating another.
I unwrap another one, and pop it in my mouth, but instead of chewing, I sit it on my tongue, to suck off the chocolate. It really is good chocolate.
I roll it around in my mouth, and I feel something tickle the inside of my lips. I try to push it with my tongue, and it scratches my cheek, so I spit it out, and something black hits the sidewalk with a splat.
  “Dude, gross! Don’t spit at me!” says Karl.
I look at the black, slimy gob wriggle around, legs flicking wildly, until it rolls upright, and then the wet, black spider scrambles away into the grass.


These were fun to work on, and I hope you enjoyed reading them! And, if you're trick-or-treating this year, I mean... why? Please, stay home, unless you can do it safely. At least when I'm handing out candy, I can stay in my house. But, if you do, just be sure not to get too close to folks, bring hand sanitizer with you and wear a mask - heck, if you're giving out candy, feel free to turn away anyone not wearing a mouth-covering mask. Your safety is important, and so is the safety of the little kids coming to your door.
I know I'm safe since I was tested for coronavirus the other day, and it was negative, and I'm making sure the candy I want to give out is in a sealed wrapper, and I'm going to be taking precautions, but you do whatever is necessary to make sure you and everyone else is safe.

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and this is meant to be fun. Don't make it less fun by getting you or anyone else sick. I hope you enjoy these stories, feel free to share them around this Halloween - just make sure to leave the byline! I want credit for my writing; this is microfiction, not creepypasta - and Until Next Time, be safe out there everyone, and have a Happy Halloween...

Friday 23 October 2020

Howl

you have twenty-EIGHT days to pay... are you planning on staying in these Woods overnight?” “Yeah. Why?”     “Just be aware, there have been reports that some schoolkids were screwing around up there... So, just try to be careful."
The huge shelf of masking tape, tarps, paint thinner and tools loomed in front of her like an insurmountable wall. It was so overwhelming, that Theresa found herself staring through it into the middle distance, half-heartedly shaking her head.
     “What the hell am I doing...” she muttered to herself.
     “Can I help you, Miss?” asks one of the shop assistants, snapping her out of her daze. He was just a teenager wearing a green apron emblazoned with the store logo.
     “Oh, sorry, I’m uh... I was looking for something.”
     “Well, can I help you find it? It’s just, we’ll be closing soon. It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
     “Oh, uh, I was just looking for something... flammable,” she says, glancing at the paint thinner.
     “Well, there’s fire-starters and kerosene in the barbecue section.”
     “Kerosene... Yes, that sounds good. Where’s that?”
     “Follow me,” says the kid, and he heads down the aisle. Theresa grabs her shopping trolley, with a tent, a shovel and sleeping bag, and follows quickly behind. She felt guilty making this kid do most of the work for her, but she didn’t see another choice.
The boy leads her almost a dozen aisles down, to where several barbecues are displayed, but he stands by the aisle alongside them.
     “We have kerosenes, here,” he says, pointing at blue and clear liquid in various sizes of bottle. “But, we only have one kind of firelighter left, the white brick. This Friday, we’ll get more stock of the natural bricks-”
     “-What’s the difference between the white and the blue kerosene? Does one burn hotter?” asks Theresa.
     “Oh, no, the clear kerosene is odourless,” says the assistant, picking up a one-litre bottle to show her the label.
     “That’s what I need,” says Theresa, grabbing two clear, four-litre bottles, and adding them to her trolley. “And where are the fire starters?”
     “Just here,” says the kid, leaning down to grab a packet from the shelf. “Is that everything?”
     “Yes, thank you,” says Theresa, taking the packet from his hand. “You’ve been a great help, thank you. Just don’t... I mean... thank you so much, have a good night.”
Theresa turns her trolley around and quickly heads for the checkout, exhaling heavily as she leaves the kid behind her. She had everything, but she still felt a knot in her chest. She rolled her trolley up to one of the only three checkouts still open. A cheerful, old lady was waiting, and began scanning as Theresa unloaded the smaller items, making a painfully high-pitched beep for each purchase. Theresa rolled the trolley forward, for her to scan the tent, sleeping bag and shovel.
     “Going camping are we?” asks the lady, stepping out to scan the items. She took short steps as she moved, and Theresa guessed she had bad knees.
     “Yeah, I’m just going up to the Woods.”
     “You mean, Blackblood Woods?” asks the lady, reaching down to scan the tent. Theresa frowns.
     “No. Where’s that?” asks Theresa.
     “Just by the river,” says the lady, as she gestures vaguely over her head with her free hand.
     “Yeah, that’s where I’m going. But, I didn’t know it was called that. Everyone just calls it ‘the Woods’.”
     “Of course they do,” says the lady, shaking her head as she stood back up. “Everyone just wants to forget what we did to those poor blackfellas.”
     “Right...” Theresa murmured, watching the lady read her screen.
     “That’s one-hundred and ten dollars, and forty-nine cents. Cash or card, love?”
     “Card,” says Theresa, grabbing her wallet. 
Theresa pays, thanks the woman and pushes her trolley towards the door.
     “You be careful, now,” the lady calls to her. “It can be dangerous in those woods.”
     
     
     Theresa heads to her little, white Honda Civic hatchback and opens up the passenger seat. There wasn’t much room in the little two-seater car, but she managed to place the tent, shovel, sleeping bag inside, and even slipped the firelighters alongside the little grocery bag in the foot pan of the passenger side. But, the heavy bottles of kerosene were too big.
Theresa nervously stood up and looked around the sparse carpark. There were still a few dozen cars around, but she couldn’t see anybody near her. She picked up the two bottles of kerosene and walked around to the back of the car. Taking another quick glance around, she unlocked the back hatch and opened the boot. She jumped as she saw her husband staring back at her with wild, dead eyes.
     “Jesus...” muttered Theresa, as she quickly pulled the edge of a blanket to cover his face. The whole wrapped up mess looked distinctly, and disturbingly, like a body - it was a good thing no one could see - and the whole mess smelled like smoke, alcohol and body odour. Theresa quickly picks up the kerosene bottles, and places them by her husband’s feet, then slams the hatch shut again.
     “Fuck you, Pete...” she mutters. Even dead, he was still managing to make her jump out of her skin.
She heads over to close the passenger door, then walks around the car and gets in the front seat. Theresa closes the door and sits there for a minute, staring out at the dark sky around the car park.
She’d made it this far, already. After panicking over his bleeding corpse for almost an hour, she’d managed to mop up the blood, bleach the tiles, roll up his body and throw him in the trunk. If she could just dispose of the body, then she would be free of this whole mess. If she could get away with this, then she could get away from this town, and finally escape.
Theresa closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and starts the car.
     
     
     The Woods are just a twenty-minute drive from the hardware store, so Theresa leaves the carpark, and heads along Maine Street, turning left by the school. It was so quiet and dead, no distractions. It meant there was nothing to occupy Theresa’s mind from the fact that she was driving around with a dead body in the boot of her car.
It wasn’t an accident. He had drunk an entire wine bottle, and had begun talking to her. He was just talking, that’s all... saying those disgusting things he would always say. She knew what was coming, she knew what always came next, and that’s when she grabbed the empty wine bottle...
The sound of sirens makes Theresa jump, and she glances at her wing-mirror to see red and blue flashing lights. It was a police car.
     “Oh, damn...” she says, with a sigh. Had someone seen the body in the boot? She’d covered his face so quickly... but what if someone had seen? She glances at the road ahead. The side of the road looks a little bumpy, but after hesitating a moment, she pulls the car over, and switches off the engine.
     “You’ve done nothing wrong, Terri... it’s routine, you’ve done nothing wrong...” she mutters to herself. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, deep into her lungs, and exhales it all, like her therapist had taught her. After a few calming breaths, she opens her eyes and glances over her shoulder to see a female police officer walking up to the side of the car. Theresa quickly grabs the handle and starts winding the window down.
     “Good afternoon,” says the police officer, as she walks up to the window, “I’m Officer Carrafas. Can I see your license, please?”
     “Of course, of course...” Theresa mutters, getting her wallet out of her pocket. She holds her wallet up to the police officer.
     “Can you take the license out of your wallet for me, please?” says the Officer, impatiently. “Unless it is, you want me to rifle all through it.”
     “Oh, yeah, sorry,” says Theresa, sliding her card out.
     “It’s fine, I just don’t want to be going through your wallet, y’know,” the officer says, as she takes the license. She reads it over.
     “Is this your vehicle?”
     “Yes... I mean, no, it’s mine, but it’s in my husband’s name.”
     “Right, Missus Tibbley,” says Officer Carrafas, handing back the card. “So, do you know why I’ve pulled you up, today?”
     “No, was I speeding?” says Theresa.
     “Well, you should know if you’ve been speeding,” says the officer. “But, no, you actually went through the stop sign, back there on Mockstation Road.”
     “Oh, right, sorry... I didn’t see it.”
     “You didn’t see the big sign on the corner?” 
     “Yeah, I’m sorry, I must’ve just been distracted or something.”
     “Have you been drinking today?” asks the policewoman, leaning down to look her in the eye.
     “No, not at all,” says Theresa, shaking her head. The officer stands up again, and takes a notepad from her belt.
     “Can I ask you where you’re going?”
     “Oh, just... camping. See?” says Theresa, pointing to the tent and shopping bags on the seat beside her.
     “In the Woods?” says the officer, raising an eyebrow. 
     “Well, yeah, I usually work the weekend shift, so I’ve got a few days off, and thought, what the hell, right?”
     “Mhmm,” grunts the officer, writing down in the notepad. “Can you wait here, please? Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”
     “Yes, of course, ma’m,” says Theresa.
The policewoman walks back to her car, grabbing her radio as she does. Theresa sighs heavily. Her heart felt like it was caught in her throat, and her hands were shaking.
She so badly just wanted to go. Just turn the key, and go. Maybe she could get onto the main road and escape. Drive for a few kilometres without her lights on, and go through the paddocks along Eureka Highway. She’d already murdered a man in cold blood, so what would it matter if she tried to drive away from a traffic stop?
Theresa heard a car door slam behind her and turned around to see the policewoman walking back towards her car, holding something in her hand.
     “Alright,” says Officer Carrafas, handing a thin piece of paper through the window. “I’m giving you this infringement notice for failing to stop at a stop sign. That’s a one-hundred and twenty dollar fine, and you have twenty-eight days to pay.”
     “Okay...” says Theresa, taking the fine.
     “Oh, by the way... are you planning on staying in these Woods overnight?” asks the officer, leaning into the window.
     “Yeah... why?” asks Theresa, nervously folding the piece of paper in her hands.
     “Just be aware, there have been reports that some schoolkids were screwing around up there. Drinking, breaking things, making a racket... so, just try to be careful, and if you see anyone up there misbehaving, especially underage boys, please let us know.”
     “Of course. Yes, of course, thank you.”
     “Alright. Have a good night, ma’m,” says Officer Carrafas, she nods, stands up and heads back to her police car.
Theresa looks at her hands to see that she’s folded the ticket in half five times, so now it was smaller than a playing card. She puts the ticket on top of the pile of camping gear, and leans forward to place her head against the top of the steering wheel, and groans softly.
     “Ohhh, god-freakin’ damn it... you’ve ruined my life, Pete.”
Theresa exhales heavily, then takes another deep breath to compose herself and starts the car once more.
     
     
     There was a carpark just outside the dirt trail, leading into the woods. It was empty, but Theresa drove off the paved roads onto the dirt path through the trees. She didn’t want to risk anyone seeing what she was about to do.
The road rumbled and rattled her little car, the tent and shovel bouncing around in the seat beside her as she made her way. Her stomach dropped at the thought of the body rolling around in the boot. Finally, the trail narrowed for foot traffic, and she could drive no further, so she pulled the car over to the side of the trail and cut the engine. It was so dark, she left her headlights on as she got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. The trees were just black lines, with grey and dark blue in-between. She couldn’t see. It was perfectly quiet and empty for what she had planned to do, but it made her feel uncomfortable every time the wind picked up and she heard the trees swaying and brushing against one another.
Theresa grabbed the tent, slinging the bag over her shoulder, as well as the sleeping bag and the shovel, and stuffed the fire-lighters into the end of the sleeping bag, then she looked out into the darkness. She would need to head a good distance away from the trail - if she was going to get rid of the body, she couldn’t just leave upturned dirt in the middle of the path. She wanted somewhere secluded, and hidden away. Theresa tucked the shovel under her armpit, and reached into her pocket to get her phone. She switched on the light, and shone it in front of her. It was very bright up close, but the light was too dim to see more than a metre in front of her. She moved carefully, but as quickly as she could, heading into the trees. She’d never been into the Woods before, she’d only heard the stories people had told in town about it. She’d heard that there used to be an old uranium mine that had collapsed many, many years ago, as well as your usual campfire stories of monsters, ghosts and wild-men. But, she’d never stepped foot in it, so she’d never imagined that the trees would be so dense - she could barely walk two steps without there being another two trees in her way. She glanced back to see the headlights of the car disappearing behind the trees. It made her feel uncomfortable, but she had to go as far away from the path as she could, so that no one would ever find him again.
     That’s when she heard the howl.
     “Ah-wooooo!” called out a voice, in the trees behind her. Theresa turned around so quickly, she dropped the shovel.  She desperately turned her phone left and right, looking for the sound. Then she heard it again.
     “Yah-wooo!” it called, and the howl seemed to echo through the trees. Theresa couldn’t help but laugh. It didn’t sound like an animal, it sounded like someone doing a bad impression of a wolf.
     “Must be those kids...” Theresa muttered, reassuring herself. She laughed at how silly she felt, freaking out over some kids screwing around. It was too far away to worry her, so she picked her shovel back up and kept walking.
After another ten minutes of walking, she found the perfect spot. She’d have to put the tent between two trees that were quite close together, but there was a huge space in the middle, perfect for what she had planned. Theresa put the tent and sleeping bag by a tree, then she propped her phone up against the tent bag so that it shone onto the ground. It wasn’t great, but it meant she could see what she was digging without too much trouble.
She drove the shovel into the ground, and the moist soil gave way like wet cake. She lifted the wet ground up and dumped it to the side, and kept digging. She started by making a rectangular ditch, about the same size as a door, and worked to dig it deeper. After only twenty minutes of digging, she was only half a foot deep, but she was already sweating up her t-shirt and jeans, and mud had completely caked her sneakers. She wished that she’d thought about wearing something more appropriate, but it hadn’t been her main concern, when she’d come up with this plan. As she wiped the cold sweat from her forehead, she heard the howl again.
     “Ya-whooo!” it cried, way off in the trees.
     “Yeah, yeah, you said that already...” she groans, digging deeper. As she got down a foot deep, the soil was getting tougher, more like clay, but the hole wasn’t deep enough. It took another twenty minutes before the hole was up to her knees, so Theresa figured it was deep enough. She dropped the shovel out of the hole and she climbed out of the makeshift grave. She dusted herself off, although the mud on her legs was so wet, she basically ended up smearing it around. So, she scraped her hands cleaner with the bark of a nearby tree, then picked up her phone. She checked the battery, and it was still over 40%, so she meandered around the trees a little, grabbing large branches and sticks she could see, and throwing them towards her little campsite. She didn’t find very many, and some were very wet. but she figured the branches were basically an afterthought, since the kerosene would do most of the burning.
Theresa dropped the sticks and branches into the grave, then made her way back to the car. 
It was a fifteen minute trek, and she wandered aimlessly for half of the journey before she could finally see her headlights through the trees. Theresa headed over, opened the door and quickly switched off the headlights, to make sure the car battery wouldn’t go flat. Then, she headed around to the back of the car to open the boot. She found the right key on the car keyring, and shone her phone’s light on the back of the car. As she did, her stomach dropped.
     It looked like a bear had attacked her car.
There were about seven long scratches across the back of her car, each one with four lines from claws tearing through the paint, and although none of them had torn through the metal, the back panel of the hatchback had crumpled from the force of the blows.
Theresa turned around carefully, aiming the light all around the trail, but she couldn’t see a living thing.
     “Hello?” Theresa called nervously. Nothing answered and she turned back to the car. She didn’t know what had attacked her car. It looked like some huge beast. Maybe some animal could smell the body inside and tried to get at it, but bears, tigers and wolves weren’t native to Australia, so what could have done this?
Maybe it was those kids the police officer had warned her about... but Theresa had no idea how they’d managed to dent the car so badly. Theresa just sighed, and opened the boot. Once again, her husband was staring up at her, but she ignored him and just took the two bottles of kerosene out of the boot, placing them on the ground, then grabbed him by the legs and dragged him out of the car. She heaved him out, and the rest of his body hit the ground with a thump. First, she turned her phone off and put it in her pocket, then she unwrapped the sheets slightly, and put both the kerosene bottles in by his legs, before wrapping it up tight and starting to drag him towards the hole.
It wasn’t easy, as he was heavy and a dead weight, and she often had to stop to heave him over a root or large rock that he would snag on.
     “You’re such a pain in the arse, Pete,” Theresa groaned, as she dragged him along. “And it’s all your-” heave “-damned fault.”
After two more minutes of straining her arms, and dragging him through the forest, she couldn’t help but hate him even more.
     “I loved you, did you even know that? I actually...” heave “gave a crap about you... and you treated me... like a goddamned-” heave “-punching bag... so, go to hell, Pete. I hope you rot...”
     
     
     After dragging him for what felt like an hour, Theresa looked behind her. It was still hard to see in the dark, but her eyes had begun to adjust to the low light, and she could just manage to see the hole she’d dug, so she stopped to catch her breath. She leant against the tree, heaving, then smirked. She was still tired, but she was almost done.
Theresa unwrapped the blanket to grab the bottles of kerosene, then she dragged the body alongside the hole and kicked it.
Unfortunately, Pete was too fat to roll over, so she knelt down and shoved with both hands, and he dropped into the ditch, the branches and sticks cracking as the body dropped onto them.
The hardest part was over now. Theresa opened up the bottle of kerosene, and started pouring it into the hole.
     “I’m free of you now, Pete...” she says, as she covers him from head to foot. “I never have to dress up for you, or get screamed at, or play your disgusting games, anymore.”
Theresa emptied the bottle, then dropped it in the hole and grabbed the second bottle. she made sure to soak the blanket, so it would be easier to light. Then she dropped the second bottle into the hole, and went over to her sleeping bag. She got out the packet of fire-lighters and ripped it open, and reached in, and pulled out a small, waxy, white cube.
     “Okay...” Theresa mutters, she grabs the phone out of her pocket, and shines it on the packet. It was very bright after getting used to the darkness, but after a moment her eyes adjusted.
     “Instructions, use matches or a lighter to ignite a fire-lighter cube... I don’t have matches, I thought...”
Terri desperately takes all of the fire-lighter bricks out of the packet, placing them on the ground, and searches the packet, but it was empty. No matches, no lighter, nothing...
     “No... no no no no no!” Theresa searches her pockets, but she had no matches. And as disgusting as Pete was, he wasn’t a smoker. Theresa sits down against a tree and covers her mouth with her hand. She felt like a fool. How could she have forgotten matches?
She felt like she was going to cry. She was trapped. Stuck. Pete was going to win, again. She was never going to be free of him.
     “Maybe I...” Theresa grabs her phone and turns off the light, and tries looking all over the case. But, she couldn’t see a way to get a spark from it. All she needed was a spark, or a flame. Just a match, or a cigarette lighter, or....
Theresa jumped to her feet. Her old car still had a cigarette lighter. But would it stay hot?
Theresa picks up two of the white cubes and puts them in her pocket, then runs back towards her car.
     
     
     Her shirt was soaked with sweat, and her legs were burning, but she was running as fast as she could, bouncing off trees as she bolted towards the car. She was getting used to the path, so it was easier to find her way even in the dark, but it was still a long way from the hole she’d dug, to the car. It still took a good ten minutes before she was back at the car. But when she got there, she threw the door opened, and put the key in, and turned the car on. When she did, the interior light turned on, and she quickly saw the grey little, plastic button with the white cigarette symbol. She pushes in the cigarette lighter and exhales heavily.
     “Thank God for smokers...” she mutters.
     “Yah-ooooo!” calls out a voice, and Theresa snaps to attention, and steps out of the car, looking back at the path she’d just come. She heard the howl come from that direction.
     “Don’t tell me those kids are heading towards the body...”
Theresa glances around nervously, listening to the sound of her idling car, when she remembers the fire-lighters in her pocket. She couldn’t worry about the howling kids now. Surely they wouldn’t find her spot... but, she had to light the fire.
Theresa used the light from her phone to search for a small, but sturdy stick on the ground, not too dry, and she found one by the side of the trail. Then she took a fire-lighter out of her pocket, and skewered it like a marshmallow. It was a little heavy on the stick, but it meant she wouldn’t burn her fingers. She then went and sat in the car. She was nervous, breathing shallow, so it felt like ages, but after just two minutes the cigarette lighter popped out. Theresa turned off the car, then grabbed the little lighter nub. it was small, but when she turned to see the heating element, it was a coil of wires, glowing orange. She stepped out of the car, and placed the lighter against the white cube. It slowly lit, and the fire carefully crept around the surface of the cube, burning steady and slow like a candle. Theresa leant back into the car to put the lighter back, shut the door, and headed back to camp. She moved as quickly as she could, hoping the flame wouldn’t go out, but the fire-lighter did its job, keeping a steady flame, but she still couldn’t run while holding a light, burning stick, so she speed-walked through the trees. Every now and then, she glanced around, looking for any kids, or listening out for snapping twigs or people talking, but there was no one along the path. Maybe they hadn’t been here. Theresa had been told that sometimes sound can echo in unusual ways, that can change the direction. Maybe that’s what happened... maybe.
     Finally, Theresa came upon her makeshift campsite, once more. She leant down with her little flame, to look into the hole where she’d dropped his body, and she felt like she was going to be sick...
Blood, and flesh. She could smell the sweat, blood, bile and gore. Something had torn through the blanket, and clawed into the body. She could see a gaping hole where some of the organs were missing, and burst intestines had been tossed aside. She dry-heaved... she hadn’t eaten anything all day, but her stomach tried to leap through her throat. She turned away, and as she did, she heard something scratch against a tree, and she turned around. The flame wasn’t very bright at all, just a small light on the end of a stick, so she couldn’t see the creature. But, she could see two flickering pinpricks in the darkness... where the light reflected off its black eyes.
She stared at it, as it stared back at her. She held the flame out, so she could see a little clearer, and she heard the thing shift again. It was reacting to the fire.
The flame was so small, so Theresa decided that now was as good at time as any to finish the job. She turned, leant down, and placed the little torch onto the cleanest piece of white cloth that she could find. It worked better than she expected. The whole blanket was soon crawling with flame. Theresa turned back to the creature.
As the flame grew brighter, she saw the creature’s face - it looked like a man with leathery skin and pitch-black eyes, but he was covered in dark, brown hair, and he was almost twice her height. It squinted as the flame grew brighter, and bared its teeth, growling.
He sniffed and  snarled, then suddenly he stepped out from behind the tree and tossed its head back.
     “YAH-HOOOOOooo!” it howled. That familiar sound, that sounded almost human. It was a yowie. Or a yahoo. A yeti, a big-foot, a sasquatch - whatever you call it, the monster was staring at her, mouth dripping with spittle tinted red from blood. She could tell from its long nails, it was the same creature that had attacked her car. It started to hunch down, ready to strike.
Theresa wanted to crawl away, but she was right next to the burning pit. Her breathing became ragged, as she realized she was stuck.
Even dead, Pete had managed to trap her again. She couldn’t escape. Taking a deep breath, Theresa got to her feet, tears streaming down her face. If she was going to die, at least this once she was going to fight back. With a snort, the creature leapt out of the darkness...

     
     Officer Peyton walked unevenly alongside the long string of yellow police-tape strung between the trees. He took a sip of coffee  and exhaled mouthfuls of mist in the cold, morning air.
     “Jesus, you can smell it from miles away...” he says, as he comes into sight of Officer Wells, who was standing at the edge of a shallow grave. Wells was a stout man with a heavy moustache and severe eyes. Peyton asks him “What the hell are we looking at?”
     “Got a call about a fire in the Woods, thought it was the footy boys again,” says Wells, looking back at Peyton. “but now it looks like some kind of murder-suicide deal.”
     “In Hollow Falls?”
     “Yeah... I called for forensics, but it’s an hour out of town. So now, I’m corpse-sitting.”
     “Do we know who it is, yet?”
     “It’s too early to call it for sure,” says Wells. “Forensics will confirm, but we have reason to believe that it’s Peter Tibbley.”
     “Who the hell’s that?”
     “Local mechanic.”
Officer Peyton leans closer towards the rectangular ditch, to see a black and charred, human-shaped lump laying facedown on top of several logs, ash, burnt plastic and still-smoking embers.
     “So, who the hell was the guy?” asks Peyton.
     “Just a local. What are you prodding at?” asks Wells.
     “All I see charcoal, Mark. Did you turn the guy over? Did you find his wallet? How can you tell who it is?”
     “Last night, Carrafas was called in for a welfare check at the Tibbley house - the front door was left open.” says Wells. “When she got there, the car was gone and there was no sign of the Tibbleys anywhere. I’m thinking something bad happened, and Missus Tibbley decided to skip town and Mister Tibbley here didn’t like that very much, so things turned sour. No idea who the other guy is though...”
     “What other guy?” says Peyton.
     “The one under the big guy. There’s two bodies,” says Wells.
Peyton steps forward, and peers into the hole. It was hard to make out under the huge, charred body, but if he stood just right, he could see a pair of shoes sticking out.
     “Jeez...” he mutters, shaking his head. Both men are distracted by the sound of doors being slammed back down near the trail.
     “Must be forensics,” says Wells. “That was quicker than I thought... I’ll talk to them, you corpse-sit.”
     “Hey, wait,” says Peyton, calling to Wells. “You said the lady skipped town. How do you know that? Maybe she's at a friends or something.”
     “Well, her car’s missing and the kids didn’t show up to school today,” says Wells. “She must’ve grabbed them and run.”
     “Unless they’re in this pit too,” says Peyton, frowning.
     “Depends how deep it is...” says Wells quietly.
     “Yeah,” says Peyton, having another sip of his coffee. “Ain’t that always the way...”