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Authors: Gary McMahon
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kind of presence move a box a few feet across a cellar floor?
I bent down and looked closer at the box. The flaps were open. I’d closed them when I removed the book. I felt like replacing the book, resealing the flaps, and walking away. I didn’t want this; it wasn’t my problem. All I wanted was to be left alone.
Now I was getting nervous. I fell back on my old mantra and silently counted to ten in Japanese:
Ichi, ni, san, shi, go…
I reached again inside the box and fished around in the packing paper. It rustled as my fingers got busy, but I couldn’t find anything in there.
… roku, shichi, hachi…
I picked up the box—gingerly; afraid that it might start moving again—and upended it, pouring the strips of packing paper onto the cellar floor.
…kyu, ju…
Something else fell out. Several somethings, in fact.
At first I was unsure what I was looking at, but then I realized that they were some kind of seed. The seeds were flat, slightly oval in shape, and a dull off-white color. Clinging to them was some kind of orangey pulp. My fingers hovered over the small pile of seeds and pith. I was afraid to touch it, but wasn’t sure that I wanted to leave it there.
Leaning forward, I brushed my fingertips against the seeds. Nothing happened, so I picked them up. I brought a small handful up to my face and examined them.
They were definitely seeds, and the pulpy matter that clung to them was still moist. Unless I was mistaken, I’d seen seeds exactly like this before, but not often, and only on Halloween when I’d carved a lantern for Jess.
They were pumpkin seeds.
SEVEN
She’s Here
It was Friday, at last. I got up early, dressed in my running gear, and set off for a head-clearing three-miler.
Last night, after coming up from the cellar, I’d flicked through the book I found, but I was too tired to take much of it in. The text and the pictures had meant nothing to me. They soon became a blur. I wanted to have a proper look at the book today, but wasn’t sure if I’d have the time. Maybe tonight, when I could kick back, pour a glass of wine, and give it the attention it deserved.
But now…now was for running.
The sun was shining, making the sky look brittle. It was cold, but the sunlight took off the edge, made it pleasant rather than uncomfortable. I’ve always loved mornings like this one. I still do, even now. That’s something that can never been taken from me.
This time as I ran, I headed straight for the concrete underpass. When I reached its mouth, I stopped and pretended that I needed to stretch. As I leaned against the concrete upright forming one side of the entrance, I stared into the gloomy interior of the tunnel. It was short, grubby, and depressing. But there was nobody in there. Nor was there any indication that I should be afraid of the place. Yet still, I felt the same sensation as before. As I examined it, I understood that there was a sense of doom hovering about the underpass. I’m not usually a sensitive type, but I picked up on it as if I had some kind of doom-radar on my head that intensified such feelings.
For a long time, I just stood there, all pretense of stretching forgotten. I didn’t want to go inside, but I knew that if I failed to do so, this would become a thing : I’d start habitually avoiding the underpass and make perfectly reasonable excuses to myself about not going there.
Gathering myself as if I were about to fight in a karate competition—I remembered the routine from years ago—I braced my body and my mind, and stepped into the shadow of the underpass.
At first I thought it felt like the temperature had dropped, but then, as I advanced, I realized that the change was much more subtle than that. The air was different; the way it displaced around my body, the texture of the atmosphere, the ambience inside the underpass was completely different to that outside. It was like entering a new environment, one
I bent down and looked closer at the box. The flaps were open. I’d closed them when I removed the book. I felt like replacing the book, resealing the flaps, and walking away. I didn’t want this; it wasn’t my problem. All I wanted was to be left alone.
Now I was getting nervous. I fell back on my old mantra and silently counted to ten in Japanese:
Ichi, ni, san, shi, go…
I reached again inside the box and fished around in the packing paper. It rustled as my fingers got busy, but I couldn’t find anything in there.
… roku, shichi, hachi…
I picked up the box—gingerly; afraid that it might start moving again—and upended it, pouring the strips of packing paper onto the cellar floor.
…kyu, ju…
Something else fell out. Several somethings, in fact.
At first I was unsure what I was looking at, but then I realized that they were some kind of seed. The seeds were flat, slightly oval in shape, and a dull off-white color. Clinging to them was some kind of orangey pulp. My fingers hovered over the small pile of seeds and pith. I was afraid to touch it, but wasn’t sure that I wanted to leave it there.
Leaning forward, I brushed my fingertips against the seeds. Nothing happened, so I picked them up. I brought a small handful up to my face and examined them.
They were definitely seeds, and the pulpy matter that clung to them was still moist. Unless I was mistaken, I’d seen seeds exactly like this before, but not often, and only on Halloween when I’d carved a lantern for Jess.
They were pumpkin seeds.
SEVEN
She’s Here
It was Friday, at last. I got up early, dressed in my running gear, and set off for a head-clearing three-miler.
Last night, after coming up from the cellar, I’d flicked through the book I found, but I was too tired to take much of it in. The text and the pictures had meant nothing to me. They soon became a blur. I wanted to have a proper look at the book today, but wasn’t sure if I’d have the time. Maybe tonight, when I could kick back, pour a glass of wine, and give it the attention it deserved.
But now…now was for running.
The sun was shining, making the sky look brittle. It was cold, but the sunlight took off the edge, made it pleasant rather than uncomfortable. I’ve always loved mornings like this one. I still do, even now. That’s something that can never been taken from me.
This time as I ran, I headed straight for the concrete underpass. When I reached its mouth, I stopped and pretended that I needed to stretch. As I leaned against the concrete upright forming one side of the entrance, I stared into the gloomy interior of the tunnel. It was short, grubby, and depressing. But there was nobody in there. Nor was there any indication that I should be afraid of the place. Yet still, I felt the same sensation as before. As I examined it, I understood that there was a sense of doom hovering about the underpass. I’m not usually a sensitive type, but I picked up on it as if I had some kind of doom-radar on my head that intensified such feelings.
For a long time, I just stood there, all pretense of stretching forgotten. I didn’t want to go inside, but I knew that if I failed to do so, this would become a thing : I’d start habitually avoiding the underpass and make perfectly reasonable excuses to myself about not going there.
Gathering myself as if I were about to fight in a karate competition—I remembered the routine from years ago—I braced my body and my mind, and stepped into the shadow of the underpass.
At first I thought it felt like the temperature had dropped, but then, as I advanced, I realized that the change was much more subtle than that. The air was different; the way it displaced around my body, the texture of the atmosphere, the ambience inside the underpass was completely different to that outside. It was like entering a new environment, one
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