THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:
There wouldn’t be a garden this year. There was no longer any water, and the only source of light now was from candles. The animals had all been set free to fend for themselves. She was sitting on the bench with her forehead on the rickety table when she heard footsteps on the porch…
(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)
It was twilight as a crow cawed in the distance, broadcasting a newfound kill. I trudged along the familiar forest path toward the old cottage, the crunch of desiccated underbrush reverberating in my head with every step. Chickadee and starling calls had been my symphony in the past. But the gentle breeze that had murmured in the tall maples was now an inhospitable wind, rubbing the bark raw on bare, brittle branches. The trickling brook with its loamy smell of moss was now nothing more than a dry, cracked creek bed.
My cabin was finally within sight, just as the final, faint glow – the last memory of the day – was swallowed by dusk. I ate my dinner of soda crackers and dried apples in the kitchen, cradling a cup of weak tea as a lone candle flickered on the rickety table, casting murky and long-shifting shadows. I leaned back in my chair, shutting everything out, and travelled in my mind’s eye back to when I was a child, tending the animals with Pa and my older brother, Jacob. Life was so innocent and carefree back then. Back when the world was clear and purposeful. Back when the old well behind the orchard was full and the gardens were abundant. Before the accident, when my mind was quiet and untouched by all the atrocities. Before everything that mattered was set ablaze.
I lay awake in bed trying to stifle the noisy silence in my head. I’m not sure when I drifted off into a fitful, restless sleep. I was in one of those weird in-between states — one foot still in an ocean of dreams, the other hovering near the shore of wakefulness but not yet touched down. I dreamt of Jacob. We were doing our favorite thing: sneaking down to the rustic cabin in the woods to visit old man Jackson. He was a loner and said to be deranged, but that was okay because he would tell us stories for hours filled with deep, dark premonitions. We listened wide-eyed as he explained that the world would end one day in a sea of flame; that the rains would stop, and the crops would fail. It was inevitable, he said. Inevitable. While we didn’t understand what that word meant, we knew it must be important because when he said it, he meant business.
Heavy footsteps on the porch and a slow, hollow knock on the door woke me with a start.
“Jenny?” a voice whispered urgently in the dark. “It’s Mother. Let me in.”
The silvery glow of the moon filtered through the window as I peered out onto the porch, squinting to see. But there was nothing. I held my breath, and a prickle of cold ran across my scalp as the knocking continued.
“Jenny, I said let me in!” The voice was sharp and biting now.
Shaking my head, I covered my ears in protest. No, I will not be tricked again. Last night it was Maria, my best childhood friend, who insisted I let her in to play. The night before it was Mrs. Winters, my kindergarten teacher, who said I would receive a gold star for good behavior if I would only let her in. Last week it was Pa, saying that he loved me and simply wanted to give me a hug. And last month there was Wallace, our beloved family dog, scratching at the door frantically, anxious to get in. They were all trying to get into my head, to deceive me; to revel in my insanity. I just know it.
I admit I fell for the ultimate deception. One time. It was my brother, playing perfectly on my heartstrings. Jacob tearfully apologized and admitted to starting the barn fire that killed him, my Pa and all the livestock. He said he would make amends if I would only let him in. He was sorry that Mother blamed me for something I had never done, sorry that she tied me up in the basement and tortured me with fire so I, too, would experience the burn. He said she was wrong to fault me for the plague, because it happened just like Mr. Jackson predicted it would. He said that he, too, would have killed Mother like I did, because she gave me no other choice. It was all inevitable, he said.
So, like a fool, I opened the door. I needed Jacob’s touch, his love, his ownership. But what was on the other side? Nothing but darkness. No solace, no absolution. Just searing pain and a gaping hole of eternal grief.
That’s when I finally understood what old man Jackson had preached to us. Inevitability. It cannot be avoided. It’s always there, lurking in the shadows. Waiting to bore into your brain, like a red-hot fire iron twisting slowly into your temple. Do not open that door; do not let it in. It will skewer your sanity and destroy your soul if you let it.
Take it from me.
