September 2023: Hide And Seek - Jo Skinner
‘Where am I?’
Jean hears the whisper, so soft it might have been her imagination. ‘Coming to find you,’ she calls back.
It’s Amy’s favourite game. She plays it over and over again.
Jean tries not to make a sound, but her feet jumble, and she nearly falls.
‘Ouch.’ Jean winces, screws her face up tight, strains to hear something.
There’s a rattle, the snap of a branch and Jean holds her breath, waits, then, steps into silence. There is something wrong, but she can’t place her finger on it. Her thoughts are fuzzy, and she needs to concentrate.
‘Where am I?’
Amy’s voice is so quiet, it might just be an echo. She is getting too good at this game, and it is making Jean nervous.
The sound of a giggle. Of bare feet on grass. A glimpse of red, her sandal left behind.
Jean huffs a bit and stops.
Silence now and it makes her heart patter. She pauses and waits for it to ease, for her breathing to slow.
The sky swallows the sun and Jean shivers.
Something is wrong, and her intestines slip over each other like someone has put a hand inside and twisted her inside out.
The moon slivered. Everything dark now.
‘Amy?’
The quiet has a sound of its own, mutes her words.
The hint of corduroy, purple, the one Jean made for Amy because it was her favourite colour. Evenings that smell of Pears soap and shampoo. Freckles, curls and soft, clean skin.
Jean edges one foot forward, launches back into the darkness, nearly stumbles, manages to right herself.
Daisy chains, tangled limbs.
Humpty Dumpty in pieces. And still none of it put back together again.
‘Where am I?’ whispers Jean into the indifferent night. The moon smiles, thin and sinister behind a cloud.
Lamingtons and butterfly cakes. And definitely no peas. Or green things. Or yucky things. Fragments like broken glass with important pieces missing.
A single moment of inattention.
‘Where are you?’ Jean calls, her voice broken and old and useless.
She stumbles down towards the gate, remembers pigtails, ice cream, sticky fingers. The rusty hinge squeaks open, and she nearly falls.
No skipping feet disappearing around the corner. No laughing dimples.
Where am I? wonders Jean, tucking cold hands beneath her armpits.
The minutes become hours, become days, become a tangle of years.
#
‘Mum.’
Jean retreats. If she keeps very still, he won’t see her.
‘Mum, what are you doing outside again?’
A firm hand under her elbow.
‘You can’t stay at home if you keep wandering outside.’
He eases her into a chair, flicks on the light, the kettle.
‘Mum, it’s been over fifty years now.’
Jean squints into the fluorescent light, grasps at scattered thoughts and marvels at the crinkled hand that reaches for her mug.
‘She’s gone.’ His hand on hers.
Jean trembles. ‘Where am I?’
His big arms warm around her. ‘You’re home, Mum.’
Jo Skinner
Right Left Write’s September genre prompt was Suspense.
Find out more about Right Left Write and submit to the October competition (genre prompt: Gothic) at www.queenslandwriters.org.au/rightleftwrite.
Right Left Write’s September genre prompt was Suspense.