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"Afraid (Short Story)"

“Will my cousin Dean be there?”
“Everyone’s been asked. Cousins, aunts, uncles, great-aunts, great-uncles – the lot. I’ve told you: it’s your great-grandmother’s hundredth birthday party.”
“But will Dean Martins be there?”
“I’m sure he will be.”
“Anyway, Joe, why do you want to know so badly?”

Joe’s mother and father were staring at Joe; and Joe said,
“I hate Dean.”
“Now Joe!” said his mother; and his father asked: “Why on earth do you hate Dean?”
“I just do,” said Joe. He turned away, to end the conversation; but inside his head, he was saying, spitefully and maliciously, “I’d like to kill Dean Martins. Before he tries to kill me”

When the day of the great awaited birthday came, everyone – just as Joe’s mother had said – had appeared. Relations of all ages and walks of life swarmed over the little house where Great-Grandmother lived, looked after by Great-Aunt Madge.

Fortunately, Great-Grandmother had been born in the summer, and now – a Century later to the day – the sun shone warmly on her celebrations, as if the Lord was rejoicing one of His finer creations.

Great-Aunt Madge shooed everyone into the garden, for the mass group photo. The adults sat on chairs, or stood in rows, and the children sat crossed legged in a row at the very front. (At one end, Joe; at the other end, Dean; and Dean’s stare at Joe seemed to say: “If I catch you, I’ll kill you….”)

There was a gap in the centre of this front row for a table, with the tiered birthday cake and it’s delicately placed hundred candles. And behind the cake sat Great-Grandmother in her wheel-chair, with one shawl over her knees, and another round her shoulders. Great aunt Madge stood just behind her.

Great grandmother stared at the camera, with gleaming eyes. Or at least would be if old age hadn’t so unmercifully taken her sight from her. Whether she heard much was doubtful. Certainly, she never spoke, or turned her head even a fraction as if to listen.
After the photograph, and the cutting of the cake, the adults stood around drinking tea and talking.

Quite ironically, great grandmother had been wheeled inside for a rest.

The children, if they were very young, clung to their parents; the older ones sidled around aimlessly – aimlessly, except that Joe could see Dean always sidling towards him, staring at his cold hatred. So Joe sidled away…

“Children!” cried great aunt Madge. “What about a good old game? What about hide-and-seek? There’s the garden to hide, and most of the house.”

Some of the children still clung tightly to their parents; others carried along with the thought of hide-and-seek. Dean agreed, yet Joe didn’t. His father impatiently said, “Don’t be soft! Go off and play with the others.”

Dean shouted “I’ll be it!” So he was. Dean shut his eyes, and began to count immediately. One hundred was the chosen number to count to. Whether that is a coincidence or not, once he had reached the target, he would open his eyes and begin to search.

Joe knew that he would search for, with the bitterest thoroughness: himself.
Joe was dearly afraid – too afraid to think for a suitable escape route from the clutches of Dean.

He thought at first he would hide in the garden, where there were at least adults about – but then he didn’t trust Dean not to be secretly watching under his eyelashes, to see exactly where he went.

Joe couldn’t bear the thought of it.

So, after all, he went indoors to hide; but by then some of the best hiding places had been taken.

And out in the garden, Dean was still rapidly counting, shouting aloud every milestone number of tens.

“Seventy!” was heard now; and Joe had just looked behind the couch in the living room, and there was already someone crouching there. And there was also someone hiding under the pile of visitors coats – “Eighty!” came Dean’s voice from the garden – and two children already in the stair cupboard, when he checked.

So he had to continue looking for a hiding place, somewhere – anywhere – to hide – and “Ninety!” from outside – anywhere to hide… and for the second time, he arrived at the door he had previously noted that had the sign “Keep Out! Signed: Madge” pinned to its cumbersome frame.

“A hundred, I’m coming!!” bellowed Dean Martins. And Joe irrationally twisted the handle of the forbidden door and slipped inside, and shut it quietly behind him.

The room was dimly lit, because the musty curtains had been drawn closed; and its quietness seemed empty.

But Joe’s eyes began to pick out the furnishings of the room, even in the half light; table, chair roll-top desk, and also – just like another piece of furniture, and just as immobile – Great grandmothers wheelchair, and great grandmother sitting in it.

He stood, she sat, both silent, still; and Dean’s thundering footsteps and voice were outside, passing the door, and then far away.
He thought she did not know that he had come into her room; but a low, slow voice reached him.

“Who’s there?” was gently muffled.
He whispered, “It’s me, Joe.”

Silence. And then the low, slow voice again, “Who’s there?”
He was moving towards her, to speak in her very ear, when she spoke a third time, “Who’s there?”

And this time he heard in her voice a small tremble of fear. He recognized it.
He came to the chair, and laid his hands on hers. She held his hand, fingered it slowly. He wanted her to say: “This is a small hand, a child’s hand. You are only a child after all.”

But again, she did not speak.
He stood there, she sat there, and the excited screams and laughter and running footsteps of hide and seek were very far away.

At last, Joe could tell from the sounds outside that the game of hide and seek was nearly over. He must be the last player not to be found and chased by Dean.

For now Dean was wandering, enquiring, “Joe? Where are you Joe? I know you’re hiding, Joe, so you may as well show yourself! I shall find you Joe. I shall find you!”
The roving footsteps passed the forbidden territory several times, but no, this time they did not pass. Dean had stopped outside the room.

The silence outside the doorway made Joe tremble with sheer fear. He tried to control it, yet he could not. He was overwhelmed by his fear.

His eyes were transfixed on the door knob. Even though the gloom he could see that it was turning. Then the door was creeping open – not fast but steadily; not far, but far enough…

He knew he should attempt to hide, but he was fixed to the spot, and the questioning hand that was attached to his seemed to stop him also.
It opened far enough for Dean to slip through.

He stood there, inside the dim room. Joe could see his bulk silhouette; Dean had always been bigger than he was; now he loomed huge. And he was glaring right at Joe.

Joe’s whole body was shaking. He felt as if he were about to shatter into a million pieces, like a mirror that had received a blow.

Except this blow was emotional.
It was emotional fear.
He could feel it.
And he knew Dean could feel it coming from him, like an aurora.

Dean stepped forward. Joe had no hope. He felt his great grandmother leaning forward a little in her chair, tautening her grip on his hand as she did so. In her low, slow voice, she was saying: “Who-…”, And Joe thought, he won’t bother to answer her; he’ll just come for me. He’ll come for me….

But the low, slow voice went on: “Whoooooooooooooooo-“
She was hooting like some ghost throated owl; and then the hooting raised itself into a thin, eerie wailing. Next, through the wailing, she began to gibber, with effect so startling – so horrifying – that Joe had forgotten about Dean for a moment, and turned to look at her.

His great grandmother’s mouth was a little ajar, and she was making her false teeth do some kind of a devil dance inside it.

And when Joe looked towards Dean again, he had gone. The door was closing, the knob turning. The door clicked shut, and Joe could hear Dean’s feet tiptoeing away.

When Joe looked at his great grandmother again, she was sitting back in her chair. Her mouth was closed; the gibbering and the hooting and the wailing had ceased.

She looked exhausted – or had she died? But no, she was just looking unbelievably old.

He did not try to disturb her. He stood with her for some time longer. Then he heard his parents calling over the house for him: they wanted to go home.

He slowly moved his hand out of hers – the grasp was slack and weak now: perhaps she had fallen asleep. He thought he wanted to kiss her goodbye; but then he did not want the feel of the century old cheek pressing against his lips.

So he simply slipped away from her, and out of the room.
He never saw her again. Nearly a year later, at home, the news came of her death. Joe’s mother said, “Poor old thing….”

Joe’s father (whose grandmother Great grandmother had been) said, “When I was a little boy, she was great fun. Always playing tricks on us. Yes, and she play acted a lot. A budding actress at heart really…”

Joe’s mother said, “Well, she’d outlived all that. Outlived everything. Too old to be any use to herself - or to anyone. A burden, only.”

Joe said nothing; but he wished now that he had kissed her cheek, to say goodbye, and to thank her.

The day he left her was the day she performed her final role. He was grateful for this. Her ways never changed….


Well, cheers people!
Any feedback greatly appreciated….


Azul

I just want to know, if I continue to write stories, would people read them.

I'm wanting to get into writing more stories, and post them, and was wondering if there's any point.

I probably would anyway, but I'm curious as to whether they'd be read.

Cheers

Cool story buddy

I don't know, you know what I'm like. I seen the A at the beginning, d at the end.

A****d

I think... Alfred.

Cheers.

Alfred...?

That's me just noticing that the topic title was Afraid, and not ALfred, which had me confused for a while. GOod story by the way, I especially liked the end. Yup.

Any thoughts?

Paop

It was as good as the bank story.

... What Chips said. I can't really comment, i'd just be repeating Micro man

Cheers