“That’s not ours,” said Carla, her voice coming from some distant place.
Years ago, someone told me something strange that I’ve never forgotten.
It’s something that lingers, waiting for those 3AM moments when the mocking light of dawn is still a distant longing. It wants to prickle hairs and coax shivers. It wants to scare me.
And I want to write about it.
So I’ve done so below, fictionalising it into a short story. It’s in the third person, a style I’m not at all comfortable with. So, err, I guess this is also some form of practice for me.
(Perhaps it goes without saying that names have been changed, some specifics, too. But the bones—the things—those are all intact, excavated from memory.
I’m not usually one for content warnings, but a note to say this story includes notions of death, along with some swearing.)
Thom walked into the kitchen and stopped the moment he saw the watch. It was on the counter, its strap undone, and even from the door he could make out the second hand, rigid and unmoving.
Why is it out of the box?
“Hey hon, why’s the watch out?” he shouted.
Carla’s footsteps sounded across the landing, followed by the dull thump of a cupboard door.
“Hon?” he tried again, eyeing the watch as though it were some spider, the large kind that could jump several metres to land on your face. He blinked, shaking free of the thought as overhead Carla’s movements stopped.
“What did you say?” Her voice had the quality of someone putting on a pair of shoes.
“The watch,” he called back, walking toward the bottom of the staircase. “Why'd you take it out of the box?”
Carla appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing a slim black dress not entirely appropriate for the day ahead and one hand was at her ear, trying to insert an earring. She also wore a frown, deeply creased. “I didn't,” she said, still trying to thread the earring. “I haven't touched it. Why, where is it?”
Thom’s face wrinkled. “The kitchen,” he said, pausing before continuing. “You left it on the counter.” He extended a finger, pointing as though his wife might have forgotten.
Carla’s hand dropped to her side, the earring now in place. “What are you talking about?” she said, a trace of condescension in her tone. “I haven’t touched it. Why would I take it out of the box?” She came down the steps and moved past him, padding into the kitchen on her black pumps. Thom followed, trying to find his own memory of having removed the watch and putting it on the counter.
“Maybe it was me,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” she said, offering a wan smile as she picked it up, holding it at arm’s length by one of the leather straps.
Thom took it from her, feeling the cold of the metal on his skin, the indifference of the leather. He made for the sideboard by the front door where the flowers, card and little black box rested in a neat pile. He unlatched the box, then swallowed. It was empty. Of course it was. It had to be empty. A part of him, he realised, had hoped it wasn’t, and as he picked it up his mind began derailing. It was the same box the watch had come in—the same one he’d wrapped and gifted to Owen; the one that, for reasons he still didn’t understand, would today be given back to Owen’s wife. Thom tucked the watch back inside, thought of Ellie, and once more of that static second hand. Right at the very moment, the coroner had said, showing him the hands on the dial. With a shotgun, that’s quite common.
“We’d better go,” Thom said, ridding his mind of that day. He grabbed both of their coats from the hook by the door and turned to face the hallway. He could see Carla was still in the kitchen, staring out of the window.
“It’s raining again,” was all she said.
✤✤✤
“Don’t you think it’s weird? That it’s just too much of a coincidence?”
“It’s exactly that, Carla. A coincidence! A coincidence no matter how fucking bizarre.” Thom clenched his jaw, holding back anything further. When they left the church, Carla had slipped her arm through his, but now, as they entered the carpark and the conversation devolved, she unlinked herself.
“No. Not like this it’s not. Admit it, Thom. Admit it!”
Thom stopped, whirled on his wife. The coats he’d looped over his arm turned his movement into something theatrical. “Admit what? Admit that he was somehow there? That he said ‘It’s OK, don’t worry, I’m fine. Here, let me show you,’ and that he then just fixes it, sets it running again mid-service?” He was aware he was shouting, but he continued. “And what, unsatisfied that that’s enough, he does this?” He flung his arms up at the impossibly blue sky. “Is that what you want it to mean? Is that what you need?”
“What I need?” Carla’s face became hot ire. “Since when do you know what I need, Thom!” She turned and stalked off toward the car. Several guests, people Thom didn’t recognise, ambled past in awkward silence.
Thom tried to calm his breathing, hating the aftertaste of his words. He set after her, fumbling for the fob in his pocket, blipping the car doors open. Carla got inside, slamming the door shut. Letting out a long sigh, Thom got into the driver’s seat and placed his hands on the wheel.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not entirely meaning it. He turned to look at Carla but she was impassive, staring out of the front windscreen as the westerly sun cast a faint yellow light onto the dashboard.
“Fine,” he said, resigned. He turned the ignition and—
/// LET ME SAIL, LET ME SAIL, LET ME CRASH UPON YOUR SHORE ///
Thom’s hand snapped to the radio, killing the sound of Enya’s voice that blared through the car’s speakers. A chill etched its way down his spine as a thousand hairs pricked the nape of his neck. He looked to Carla. She had her hands at her mouth, shaking.
“What the … ?” was all he managed.
Carla’s hand edged towards the radio, hovering above the ON/OFF button a moment. She pushed it and the distinctive synth strings—the same ones that had closed out the funeral—filled the car, Enya’s ethereal voice repeating over and over. Carla dialled the volume down, but didn’t switch it off. Her fingers pointed to something on the radio’s display. She tapped the screen and Thom couldn’t help but look, his eyes resting on the circular symbol that had two letters alongside it.
“But …” he tried. “That’s not possible.” He pushed the eject button, flinching his hand away as the CD came sliding out, the music ceasing.
He held an Enya CD in his hands.
“That’s not ours,” said Carla, her voice coming from some distant place.
Thom let go of the CD. It clattered against the gearstick and came to rest by Carla’s feet. “I know,” he said. “What the hell is going on?”
✤✤✤
Thom woke up.
None of that had happened, of course. None of yesterday was real, he told himself. He was going to get up, have breakfast, put on his suit. Then he was going to go to the funeral with Carla. Their kids would be there, grown up enough not to be kids anymore. Thom would have to speak, pretend that he understood what had happened, offer his eulogy. He would have to face Owen’s wife. It would be sombre, awful, tragic. He wondered whether it would be closure.
There would be no watch on the counter. There would be no Enya CD in the car.
Carla stirred beside him.
“Did you sleep?” she asked, bringing reality along with her voice.
Thom glanced at the clock, focussing on the date as the false thoughts faded.
“A little,” he managed. “I kept imagining the stereo coming on. What I would do if that happened.”
She nodded. “I know. I’m scared, Thom,” she said.
Thom’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “I’m going to call Ellie. Ask her about it. I don’t give a damn if it upsets her.”
“You believe that? That someone did this?”
Thom shook his head. “I don’t know what I believe.” He thought of the CD, where they’d left it on the kitchen counter, and suddenly realised he’d put it in the same spot as where the watch had been.
Carla got up, wrapped herself in her dressing gown. “Call her,” she said. “I’m going to make coffee.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder, leaning in to kiss his forehead. Thom couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that.
“OK,” he said as Carla moved away and made her way downstairs. He checked the time, figured it was late enough to make a phone call. As he moved to pick up the receiver, he heard a scream.
“Thom!” Carla shouted from downstairs. “The CD’s gone!”
I should add that I don’t believe in the supernatural. Or rather, I am a scientist and live my life as an inherent sceptic. I’ve yet to witness or experience anything that I haven’t been able to explain or at the very least offer up razors for Occam to prick his fingers against.
But I’m fascinated by it. I might be terrified at the possibility. And I remain beguiled by this tale and how strange it is.
Do you believe in ghosts or the supernatural? Tell me of the weird stuff.
Wow, Nathan. This story is made even more believable by the subtle undercurrent of a stressed relationship against the backdrop of the creepy events. The story builds tension all the way through and more than once gave me the chills. Great work.
Well written, Mr. Slake. You do so much to invoke feeling in a single sentence that for other writers would be a throwaway line. But there isn’t an ounce of fat here.