Haunted

Annie lay in bed, feeling drowsy from the wine, roast beef and vegetables her mother had cooked as part of her homecoming celebration. She was only staying for the weekend, leaving tomorrow night to drive further up the coast, but the stopover was worth it, if only to see her parents again and to relive those lovely summer days by the beach.

Her dreams, when they came, were pleasant at first. For a while she imagined she was outside, watching the moon rise overhead as the ocean roared in the distance. But gradually the crash of the waves turned into the rush of water in her ears, cascading over her body, filling her mouth and throat, dragging her deep beneath the surface.

She woke to the sound of her cries and stifled them with the pillow, her eyes staring not at the darkness that surrounded her but at her brother Peter, grinning at her and waving, sharing a joke or kicking the soccer ball across the backyard. She still found it hard to link her memories of the boy who had been her idol, best friend and protector with the ones of his death, the shock she had felt upon learning of his drowning in a lake at camp one night.

Annie turned over in bed, wiping her eyes on the quilt. She had expected her return to her childhood home would bring back memories, good and bad, but she hadn’t imagined they’d be about her brother, not now that it was ten years since his passing, ten years since she had stepped in his too-big footprints along the shore, following him wherever he went. Peter had always been going somewhere. She closed her eyes, saddened by the thought that in death her brother had succumbed to an eternal rest.

The steady beat of footsteps echoed from nearby and Annie opened her eyes, listening hard against her escalating heartbeat, sure that it was coming from the hallway outside her door. She was frightened enough to pretend she was twelve-year-old Annie again and shrink beneath the blankets, willing the monsters outside to go away, but there was something almost familiar in the deep sigh that sounded with the movement and the groan that could only belong to her father.

She went to the door, shivering with fear and the cold as she stepped across the floorboards and peered into the hall. A figure moved at the end of it, heading toward the lounge room: a big man in shorts and a polo shirt, thumping along the hallway like a dozing giant. The sight of her father like this made Annie want to laugh, but there was something chilling in his rhythmic movement, the thudding of his bare heels against the wood.

“Dad? What are you doing up?”

She followed him into the lounge room where he sat facing the television, staring into the darkness.

“Dad?”

She took the chair across from him, peering through the half-light at his face. His eyes were half-closed and his hands were moving, his fingers linked together with a circle of wool, and she recognised it at once as a game they used to play together on hot afternoons when the power was out, a game involving two people and finger actions that pulled the wool into different shapes as it moved from one person’s hands to the other’s and back again. It was a game neither of them had played since Peter died. Annie felt a chill go through her.

She reached out in silence, gently untangling the wool from her father’s fingers, and just as the last of it came loose from his hands he grabbed both of hers in his. Annie jumped, giving a little shriek, and pulled her hands away.

“Where’s Pete?” her father whispered in a dull voice, his sour breath floating on the air between them.

“Gone,” she whispered, taking his hands again. “You need to go back to bed, Dad.” She was half ready to lead him back to his bedroom, but at her words her father moved willingly, his head gently tipped to the side, his breathing close to a snore as he moved back down the hall.

The next morning rose bright and warm. Annie shrugged out of her pyjamas and changed into a pair of slacks and a sun-coloured shirt that would let the air blow through it, keeping her cool. Already the temperature was stifling in the small house and she wondered if her parents might join her for a dip in the ocean after breakfast.

Her mother was the only one at the table when she went into the kitchen.

“Your father’s already eaten,” she explained, nodding toward the door. “He got up early to cut down that bloody tree that’s been knocking against the window all night, keeping me awake.”

Annie shook her head. “It wasn’t a tree, Mum, it was Dad. I saw him last night sleepwalking.”

Her mother scoffed. “Darling, your father sleeps like a rock. He’s not the type to go traipsing around the house when he should be in bed.”

Annie didn’t blame her mother for not believing her. If she hadn’t seen her father last night she wouldn’t have believed it either. She rubbed her eyes, listening to the sound of the axe clacking against the stump of a tree outside and watched her mother prepare toast for breakfast.

“What are you doing?” She realised now why the sight had looked so strange, why the container of peanut butter stood out to her like a neon sign flashing against her eyes. “Why are you eating peanut butter on toast?”

Her mother frowned slightly, the knife hanging loose between her fingers. “I don’t know, Annie. Your father had it out this morning and I thought I might try something new.”

“It’s not new. Peanut butter on toast was Peter’s favourite.”

Her mother met her eyes, shock and sadness wandering over her expression. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t even realise.”

“You haven’t noticed anything strange about Dad lately, have you, Mum?”

She shook her head, her eyes flittering from the knife to the toast. There was something unusual in her expression, something more than the way Annie remembered her mother to look.

“Mum?”

She met Annie’s eyes, a displaced smile on her lips that reminded Annie of the way Peter used to look before he burst out laughing or told a joke. Despite the warmth of the room, Annie shivered.

“I’ll just go check on Dad, then.” Leaving her breakfast on the table, she donned a pair of slip-on shoes and pushed open the screen door.

The air outside was so hot that it hit her like a punch in the face. Annie steadied her breathing, feeling instantly lightheaded, and following the echoing clack of breaking wood toward the back of the house.

Her father was standing amid piles of broken limbs, sweat pooling on the back of his shirt and circles of it under his arms as he raised the axe, swinging it against the stump of the tree that had been at the house since Annie could remember, the tree with branches that hung low against the ground, creating a shelter where she and Peter used to play.  It was also the place she had spent much of her time after the funeral, lacing flowers into the over locking branches and whispering prayers under her breath for the Lord to keep her brother safe.

“Dad?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, yet her father heard it. He turned, swinging the axe over his shoulder, the blade glinting in the light, blinding her. Annie gasped and pulled away, falling over backwards and catching herself on the ground below. She felt a sharp pain in her hand and looked down to see one of the twigs from the tree had pierced her skin, just like the roses at the cemetery she had picked for Peter, the roses she wound between the branches.

“Annie, what’s wrong with you?”

She looked into his concerned expression, seeing his strange half-smile, his faraway eyes looking at her and through her at the same time.

Her hand was bleeding and she held it gingerly against her chest as her father helped her up. “Clumsy on your feet like always,” he said and she almost toppled over again in fright.

“That’s what Peter used to say,” she muttered into the hot air. The back of her heel caught on one of the branches her father had cut down and she stumbled backward, crying out as her he reached for her arm, the blade of the axe glinting in the light as it fell to the ground.

From the front of the house a door slammed and her mother came running across the yard. “Annie, what’s happened? Are you okay?”

She felt tears in her eyes as she looked into her parents’ faces. “I didn’t go to the funeral,” she whispered, breathing heavily. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she wiped it away.

“Is this about Peter again?” her mother sighed, giving her a concerned frown. “I think you need a rest, honey. All this hot weather isn’t good for you.”

“No, Mum, don’t you see? I snuck away, hiding behind the trees and picking flowers from the garden at the cemetery. I pricked my hand on the thorns, just like today.” She held out her hand, watching the blood dribble down her palm and flow into the creases of her palm. “I didn’t like it, him being all the way out there in the cemetery when he should have been home with us, so I brought my flowers back here and tied them into the tree where we used to play.” She motioned to the broken branches littering the grass, the stump of wood beside it.

Her father gave a loud sigh and her mother’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand, Annie,” she said. “Why don’t you come back into the house and lie down for a bit and when you’re feeling better we’ll talk about this.”

She shook her head. “I can’t stay here any longer, Mum. Dad, I’m sorry.”

He frowned, his face shining at odd angles in the light. “But you only just got here. At least stay for lunch and you can drive home tonight like you planned.”

“The roads will be safer in the daylight,” she said, already backing away from him. She could tell by her parents’ shocked expressions that they thought the heat had frazzled her brain, but fortunately they were understanding enough for her mother to hand her a slab of cake to take with her and her father to carry her bag to the car.

“Take care,” her mother said as they reached the driveway, kissing her on the cheek.

“You too. Both of you.” She opened the boot of the car and went to take her suitcase from her father. Just as their hands brushed she felt a tingle in her fingers and pulled her hand away in shock.

“Ouch!”

“Static electricity,” he said, loading the bag into the back of the car as Annie rubbed her hand and frowned.

Her mother began to laugh, the sound echoing oddly on the rushing air. “Oh, for God’s sake, Harry, give your daughter a hug.”

Her father grinned and held his arms wide. Annie embraced him, tensing as one of his strong arms locked around her back and his moist breath touched her ear. “Look after Peter for us,” he whispered.

She pulled away in shock, feeling cold all over as she watched her parents amble up the front steps to wave from the shade of the porch. The car was stifling hot as she climbed inside, and as she wound down the window she caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror, Peter’s smile plastered firmly on her face.

She would never be the same again.