Photo by Eugene Triguba on Unsplash
“I can still see the headlights coming. As I look out from the garage, a car - the car turns in at the head of the alley up the block from our house. It moves quickly, stopping outside the garage at the back of our lot. A car door opens; a figure gets out, heads for the garage door and opens it. ‘He’s looking for me.’ I had to hide, my life depended on it.”
Seated at the kitchen table, Eddie McAllister was about to tell his grandchildren the story he always wanted them to hear. Up until now, he hadn’t been able to get them together in one place. Some live in Scotland, some in Iowa. Now, gathered around the kitchen table, he thought this might be his only chance. They pressed in close to the old man they called ‘Pop’. Some were standing, some sitting. Sensing this story was important to him, their eyes were on him. He began.
“The same nightmare happened every night during a brief time one August, right before I returned to school. I was nine or ten years old. Up to that point, my childhood was great. I had everything a kid could want. It never occurred to me that I could lose it. This is, until I heard my Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen.”
“‘What day do you have to go?’ Mom asked as she prepared dinner.”
“‘I don’t have to go for a couple of weeks.’ He was about to be off on another buying trip for the store.”
“‘Why don’t you come with me? New York City is great this time of year. You can help me with the sales reps then we could go out to dinner and a show. It would be great to get away.’“
“‘I’d love to do that but who’ll watch the kids?’.”
“‘I’ll get my sister to do it. The boys will be fine.’“
“Listening from the top of the stairs, I thought, ‘Not Aunt Marge! She was OK but she wasn’t Mom and Dad.’“
“I don’t know why, but all this talk about them going to New York City got me thinking about my Mom’s childhood. Not long before this, I asked her to tell me about her childhood. This is what she told me. ‘My Mom died of the Spanish Flu when I was four and my Dad died when I was eight. After that, I went to live with an aunt. My brothers got split up among other relatives. I saw my brothers from time to time but we never lived together again as a family.’“
“I asked, ‘How was living with your aunt?’ Mom paused before answering.”
“‘At first, it was good. She had two daughters,. It was like having two new sisters. We were poor but things went along just fine. Then, each of her daughters got tuberculosis and died. After that everything changed.”
Before Pop could say anything else, Joey, the joker in the group, said, ‘In every story you tell, somebody dies.’ All the kids laughed. Even the kids from Scotland knew Pop had that reputation.
“OK, I promise no one else dies in this story.” Pop carried on.
“‘My aunt was sad all the time and turned mean. I worried she wouldn’t want me anymore. With no place to go, I'd end at the County Orphanage.’ Then she smiled, ‘When I got older I got a job, moved out on my own, met your Dad and here we are.’“
“That story stuck in my head. Now, she and Dad were leaving and I was going to be staying with ‘an aunt’, Aunt Marge. I was afraid something would happen to them. They were still talking so I turned my focus back to the voices from the kitchen.”
“Just then I heard my Dad say, ‘You know Marge will get the kids if anything ever happens to us’. “I thought, ‘Live with Aunt Marge, I’d rather be at the orphanage.’“
“The next day Mom told my brother, Bill and me she was going to New York City with Dad. It was news to my brother Bill but he didn't care. He was six years older and wouldn’t be around much while they were gone. It would be me and Aunt Marge.”
“A few days before my folks were set to leave the nightmares started.”
So far, the kids were listening. Pop pressed on.
“Every August, right before Labor Day and the start of school, we got a stretch of hot weather. It was the kind that made sleeping hard. As I got ready for bed that night, there was a slight breeze that blew the shades and curtains in my bedroom back and forth. Dad had turned on the attic fan and I could hear the low hum vibrating right above my bedroom. Even so, it didn’t draw in enough cool night air. There was a slight bit of moonlight coming through my window but it was still dark, very dark. The movement of the shades and the curtains caused the moonlight to form weird shadows on my wall. With these strange night visitors, I fell asleep.”
“Each nightmare started with me slipping out the side door, running from something. I don’t know from what, but that ‘something’ was horrible. I found myself crossing the yard looking back to see what was chasing me. As I ran, the noises seemed to be coming up behind me. I never saw who or what was making them. I kept running for the garage.”
Pop looked at each of the kids. They were still with him.
“When I got across the yard I was out of breath. I ran up to the garage access door, hit it hard and pushed it open. Our old garage had a dirt floor with ruts where Dad parked the car. It car took up most of the space. I didn’t like going in there at night. It was dark.”
“The garage had a small window that faced the yard and house. It was the only source of natural light when the wooden overhead door on the alley side of the garage closed. The one light that hung from the middle of the ceiling only worked when it wanted to. Right then I needed a hiding place, not a light.”
“Like most garages, it was full of yard tools, odds and ends and junk. A kid could hide in a lot of places in that garage. Mom had her gardening tools hanging on the peg board next to the door which faced the backyard. The winter storm windows were leaning up against the bare studs of the walls.”
“Dad kept canvas tarps, which I never saw him use, folded in a corner. Next to them was a big scrap wood box with a lid. It sat near the front of the car. Close by, there was an old work bench full of odds and ends with a space behind.
“The garage door opened out to the alley. When lifted, the springs made a loud creaking noise no matter how much oil Dad put on them. In each nightmare, once I got in, I noticed the overhead garage door to the alley was open. I moved along the side of the car toward the open door, hoping I could grab the rope which hung down from the door so it could be shut. Dad always closed the door. I don’t know why it was open. ‘Maybe he forgot.’ I thought.”
“There was a cold wind blowing leaves from the outside into the garage and under the Dodge. Then I heard the roar of a car engine. I stuck my head out and looked down the alley. Headlights were coming. I couldn’t make out what type of car was barreling towards me because the headlights blinded me.”
“I ran back into the garage and jumped as high as I could, grabbed the rope and pulled the overhead door closed. It made a loud ‘crash’ as it hit the bottom of the threshold. Someone was coming for me. I needed a good place to hide. Luckily, I knew every hiding place in that garage. Crouching down, I shuffled along the side of the car and jumped into the scrap wood box. I pulled the cover down. There was still a small gap through which I could look out. I said to myself, ‘I’ll be safe here.’“
“Then, for what seemed like forever, nothing happened. I didn’t hear the car engine and there were no lights. Looking through the crack between the lid and the side of the scrap wood box I saw no one. Then I heard it, ‘creak’. The garage door started to open. It crashed into the top of the frame and springs gave out a long metal twang as they sprung back. With the door open, I could hear a car engine idling. From outside, the footsteps grew louder and closer. Someone was coming into the garage.”
“I could hear heavy breathing and wanted to look through the crack in the box but my eyes wouldn’t open. Junk was being shifted around, the tarps flapping as they were thrown from their place near the front of the car. The storm windows were being scraped across the dirt and stones of the floor. Someone was moving them to see what was behind. Then it sounded like the tools were being tossed from one side of the garage to the other. The noises, those terrible noises, were getting closer to the scrap wood box. Then, the box lid of my hiding place flew open. I could only see a bright light.”
The youngest granddaughter squealed and held on to her older sister.
“Pop said, ‘Right then, I woke up and sat straight up in bed. Trying to call out for my Mom, I didn’t have a voice. It didn’t work, not at all. I could see sunlight coming through my bedroom window. I dropped back down onto the bed and pulled the covers over my head. Morning was close. I was going to be alright, for now.’“
At this point the three younger grandchildren moved onto the laps of the older ones. Pop had them all in tow now.
Continuing, he said, “‘This nightmare repeated each night before Mom and Dad left for New York City. The same set of headlights shined from the car as it roared down the alley. I hid in the same place in each dream, heard the same noises and felt the presence of the menacing figure who found me just as I woke up. Having this same nightmare over and over didn’t make it easier to take. Night was scary. I didn’t say anything to anybody though.’“
“The day came when Mom and Dad left and Aunt Marge arrived at the house. She spent her days telling me about being in the Geology Club and her cooking show on the radio. When she wasn’t talking about rocks, radio or food, she was talking about the train trip she took out West with her father when she was a young girl. There was a big wreck. That was a good story, at least something exciting happened. But when bedtime came each night, I feared I’d have to face that nightmare again.”
“Mom and Dad would be gone for a full three days. They were flying back and due to arrive at the airport the evening of the third day. Three days with them away seemed like an eternity. On the night they were to return I lay in bed, falling in and out of sleep. I thought I heard some people come into the front hall downstairs. It was our neighbors Connie and Marie. I was trying to listen from my room at the top of the stairs to the voices below. I swear this is what I heard.”
“‘We thought they’d be back by now,’“ Connie said to Aunt Marge.
“She replied, ‘I called the airline to see if the plane was going to be on time. There was a heavy fog at the airport and their plane was diverted to Toronto.’“
“Then, their voices became muffled, they sounded far away. It was hard to make out what was being said. I thought I heard my Aunt say, ‘At one point their plane was lost from the radar screen. The airline representative said they have not reestablished contact. They are hoping the plane is found soon.’ I wasn’t sure if I actually heard that as I drifted off to sleep.”
“Like before, the same sequence of events happened all over again. I was hiding in the scrap wood box; the noises were all around me, that mysterious figure was getting closer and closer. Then, as always, the box lid opened. The bright lights from the headlights were shining in my face. It was time to wake up, but this time, I didn’t. A big hand grabbed me and jerked me out of the box. I was dragged toward the alley. Then I saw the words on the door of the car, ‘County Orphanage’“.
“A big hand opened the back seat door. I grabbed the door frame and spread out my arms and legs like the family cat when we try to put her in the car to take her to the vet. I struggled with all my might not to be put in that dark back seat. I was just about to be pushed into the car, then, I heard a voice.”
“‘Eddie, are you coming down to breakfast?’“
“‘Wait’, I thought. ‘I know that voice.’ It was Mom. Wide awake, I jumped out of the bed and ran down stairs, made a sharp turn around the corner in the hall and slid across the linoleum floor into the kitchen. I plopped down into my chair at the table next to Dad.”
“‘You’re back! When did you get here?’ I asked, both relieved and delighted to see them.”
“‘We got home late last night. Bad weather delayed the flight.’ Mom said.”
“I thought, ‘What was all that I heard about ‘a lost plane’. No matter, I’m at breakfast, Mom and Dad are home and I’m not at the ‘County Orphanage’.’
I sat at the kitchen table with a big smile. All was back to normal. I never had that nightmare again.”
The grandchildren, looking at one another, were unsure how to react. They knew Pop's nightmares scared him but it ended well. As he promised, nobody else in the story died. When they got up, they hugged the old man and patted him on the back.
Claire, the oldest granddaughter, said, “Great story, Pop. Thanks for not telling us that around a campfire.”
Nodding and smiling, he watched his grandchildren head to the backyard. The old man thought, “I wonder if they got what I was trying to tell them.”
The tale, now told, from then on was part of the family history. He hoped they would appreciate everything they have and always remember him.
Edward N. McConnell writes flash fiction and short stories. To date his work has appeared in Literally Stories, Terror House Magazine, Mad Swirl, Down in the Dirt, Rural Fiction Magazine, The Corner Bar Magazine, MasticadoresIndia, Drunk Monkeys and Refuge Online Literary Journal. His story Where Harry’s Buried was selected for inclusion in The Best of Mad Swirl v2021. He lives in West Des Moines, Iowa with his wife.