There's A Hole In The Garden

All I Want Is To Not Be Alone: Stories From The Start (#2)

It wasn't there yesterday. Or the day before that. Shelly notices it in the morning when she goes out to pick up after Copernicus. She does it every morning before school. Her parents had told her that if she wanted a dog, she had better look after it.

The early poop patrol is part of it, but Copernicus is worth it. He's the best dog ever. She keeps that in mind as she carries around the pooper-scooper, looking for those small nuggets.

It's the smell that hits her first. A terrible smell, like slimy, gray meat left in the sun to half-bake. And something else she can't place. Maybe a stale gym after a long summer day of spin classes. All she can think is, Man, Coops... what on earth did you eat?

Their garden isn't a tight square, but it's not massive either. It's that perfect middle ground of separation from the neighboring houses without having to maintain a park's worth of upkeep. Her dad describes it by telling anyone who'll listen that they don't need a riding mower.

The hole is anything but small, behind the wooden shed, before the row of bushes in need of a trim. It cuts deep into the grass in a large, looping ellipse. Her best estimation gives it a length of a good ten feet and maybe seven, eight feet wide. You could probably fit a car in there.

It's rather deep, too, but some of the dirt that must’ve been dug out is piled back in the bottom, like someone had changed their mind halfway through. Other piles of earth lie around the chipped outline of the hole. Some worms wiggle out, then crawl back in. They must be as confused as Shelly.

Her parents never said anything about a new project. And they certainly wouldn't start one on a weekday morning. They're both usually at work by now. She's usually the last one out of the house.

Shelly walks along the edge of the hole and tries to make sense of it. She nearly falls in twice but catches her balance. It's the oddest thing, almost as if the loose dirt at the bottom moves. Or rather, something moves under it, causing the mounds to rise and fall like they're breathing.

“Shelly!”

The call almost makes her fall for a third time. It's their neighbor, Mr. Brown. He looks horrific, like he's missed the last decade of sleep.

“Shelly! Careful! You get away from there! You be careful now...”

“Mr. Brown?”

Shelly doesn't know what to make of the sight, but it frightens her. Usually, Mr. Brown shuffles around in his early retirement sporting sweatpants, a cup of coffee and a bent paperback under his arm.

Today, he looks wild. His clothes are stained. So are his face and hands. His eyes dart like feral, trapped animals. His usual book is replaced with a shovel, and more than dirt stains the pointed end. His forearms are crudely wrapped in dull gray duct tape. His knuckles bleed.

“Mr. Brown? What... what's going on?”

“Shelly. It's not safe. Not out here... you need to...”

“Mr. Brown! What are you doing? What? Why do you... I mean, did you dig this? What's going on?”

The man puts the shovel over his shoulder and holds his free hand out in a calming, patting motion.

“Listen, Shelly. Oh, God, it's great you're OK. I thought... I thought... It doesn't matter, just you have to know... Shelly, it's not safe. Not out here. Why don't you come with me and...”

Shelly backs away. She doesn't know what's going on, but something is terribly wrong. This is not the Mr. Brown she knows. This is a wild animal, backed in a corner, dangerous. Inhuman.

“I... I need to go.”

“Shelly! No! It's not safe!"

Mr. Brown continues to step forward. Shelly's body reads it as a threat. She takes off around the opposite side of the hole and dashes for the back door. She slams it shut and locks it, then peers out the small window.

Her neighbor slumps slightly and shakes his head, then just as suddenly straightens like a jolt of electricity. His head snaps back toward his house, and he runs with hefty steps.

“Lock the doors! Shelly? Shelly, stay inside! You hear me? Lock everything and stay away from the windows!”

He's gone, out of her view. She hears yelling. She runs around the first floor and checks the windows and front door. They're all locked. Her shirt is soaked with sweat. She runs up to her room. “Coops?”

Copernicus is in his usual spot, napping on her bed. He looks up in a sleepy daze at her disheveled entrance. She hugs him tightly. He becomes alert. He's really the best dog.

Her window overlooks their side yard and further into Mr. Brown's yard. She can just make out the edge of the Brown's pool and patio set. They look peacefully normal until a splash disrupts the pool's surface. It ripples with movement, but from what, she can't see. The water turns murky. There's more yelling.

Shelly calls her mom. It rings until voicemail picks up. She calls her dad and gets the same result. Then her dad's office. Then the school's number, the one her mom usually picks up, not the main one. Endless ringing.

“What the hell is going on, Coops?”

He doesn't know, but sits at the ready, matching her state of mind. She feels fried, like she drank far too much coffee. Almost twitchy. She can't sit still and makes a circuit of the upstairs windows. Their backyard looks normal, outside of the large hole. The opposite side looks the same, and the sliver of the Williams’ she can see looks exactly as it always does. The Williams are old and hardly go outside. Their place is a neat pad of cement with a few chairs and a large umbrella. Low maintenance.

She looks out the window in her parents’ room. It faces the street that stretches in both directions in an endless line of garage-fronted houses. It's quiet. Extremely quiet, which is not normal. Not on their street, not at this time of morning. It's usually filled with commuters on their way to offices, dog walkers and younger kids on their bikes. It's totally still but somehow wavers with a latent energy, like a desert mirage.

It looks like someone spilled something in the driveway a few houses down. A large polka dot of dark runs slowly to the gutter. A handful of garages stand yawning to the morning, with their cars missing. The whole scene could pass for an abandoned filming location.

Shelly checks the Browns’ again, and seeing that everything is still, goes to the garage. Her dad's car is there. It usually is, since he rides his bike to work. His office is only a few minutes’ ride away over on Main Street, despite the endless discussions that he'd get more business if he moved downtown. He argues that they're comfortable enough, and his time is worth more than some extra income.

None of it matters to Shelly now, except knowing her dad is only a few minutes away. She gets in, opens the passenger door, and gives a low whistle.

“Come on, Coops. Let's go see Dad. This is too weird.”

Copernicus hops in, as if on cue. Shelly opens the garage door, looks for any signs of movement in the rearview, then backs out onto the street. There is nothing. She idles a long moment, then slowly creeps up the road. It strikes her just how similar every house is on close inspection. She wonders how she's managed to miss the repetition.

It takes four and a half minutes till she parks in the designated spot in front of her dad's office. It used to be a local travel agency called Trips On Us. Her dad wasn't surprised when it went under and snatched the vacant spot. He claimed it’s perfect for his large desk and assistant and makes a personal yet professional setting for consultancies. It fits only one client at a time, which is exactly how he likes it.

The other parking spot, which is usually filled with his assistant's beat-up VW Bug, sits empty. The glass front door of the office is propped open. Some loose pages shift out and about on the tail of a small wind. The blinds are drawn.

Shelly has a small rock at the bottom of her gut.

“Stay here.”

She rolls the window down a crack, then leaves the car and walks cautiously to the open door. She isn't sure why, but she tiptoes most of the way like a cartoon with extending legs and long, flat feet. She peers in.

It's dark inside. The lights are off. She can't make out anything besides the pale green glow of the copy machine's buttons.

“Hello? Dad?”

Nothing.

She reaches in and flips the light switch. The fluorescents flash on. Her dad wants to change them out for LEDs but hasn't found the time.

The harsh light reveals a disaster. The office looks like a herd of something tore through it. Papers and opened folders litter the floor, the desks are in disarray, chairs are flipped, and the coffee maker burns the thin layer in the pot to a black crust.

“Dad?” she wavers.

No answer. Shelly moves into the wreckage. The vent blows a hard, cold air over the entrance. It turns her skin into bumps.

She can't find a sign of her dad besides the fact that someone had started the coffee. She goes to the back, where the single bathroom is, and checks there. The light is on, and the door is propped open. The faucet runs fully on hot and steams up the small mirror. She shuts it off and notices a pinkish ring around the white porcelain. The rock in her belly grows in weight.

The school. Her mom must be there. She's always one of the first ones there, especially today. Once a week, her mom and the principal meet and have a small breakfast meeting before the rest of the staff and students arrive.

Shelly gets back into the car. She pats Copernicus between the ears. He pants with his tongue out. “OK, Coops. Let's go try to find Mom. Maybe Dad's over there too...”

She trails off. She tries to stop her mind from rolling too far ahead and building up with panic, that old snowball running down a steep hill. She doesn't know what's going on. She'll find them. Just stick to the path. Next in line is the school. She backs out and doesn't bother to check the road. No other cars come or go.

The drive takes slightly over ten minutes. It passes the park, and in the distance, she notices a couple of people. They appear to be on a morning walk. She pulls over and shouts. They turn, almost in unison, and slowly start in her direction. It makes her skin crawl, and she doesn't wait around. It’s enough to know there are other people out and about, if only those few.

The school parking lot is fuller. The cars from different staff members sit in their designated spots. By this time, all the other kids should be getting there. Shelly has enough credits that she doesn't have class during first period. That's one of the benefits of the last three years of hard work.

She parks and cracks the window again. This time she leaves the car idling. Around the side is a staff entrance. You need a keycard to get buzzed in, but there's also a little speaker that connects directly to the secretary's desk. She'd be happy to talk to somebody, anybody.

The door has a large, frosted glass panel that runs up the middle. There are people standing just on the other side. As Shelly walks up it almost looks like a blurry Picasso. It morphs as she knocks.

“Hello?”

They press against the door. Bodies and hands and two faces at the front. Shelly moves back out of instinct. It's like they're grabbing for her through the glass. A few hands bang against the inner side of the divide.

“What the hell...”

She switches tactics and pulls out her phone. She calls the front desk. She can hear the phone ringing, and the crowd at the door abandons their pressed posts and moves back into the building. She waits for one of them to pick up. They don't. She presses the button by the small speaker next to the door. A cacophony of breathing, grunts and strains comes back. It sounds unnatural. She thinks back to Mr. Brown. How he looked. He had dug that hole. But why? And why in their yard?

He was trying to warn her. He did say it's not safe. Maybe she was too quick to react the way she had. Maybe he knows what's going on.

Shelly runs back to the car and jumps in. She pulls out of the spot and continues going backwards until she reaches the opposite end of the lot. It’s where her mom's spot is. It's empty. She takes that as a good sign. There is a type of alarm going off in her head, telling her that whatever’s happening inside those offices can’t be good. Hyenas are all she can think about as she leaves the lot and drives back toward home.

The park is fuller on the way back. There's a crowd forming. They look like a herd of sheep flocking from an approaching storm. She doesn't stop this time. She keeps thinking back to Mr. Brown. It's not safe. He looked so old. So frightened. So urgent.

She turns right onto Main Street. In her short absence, it's taken on a different look. There's a fire leaking out of one of the buildings. Two cars lie in shambles, having lost a game of chicken.

“What the hell!”

She speeds now. The engine roars, almost in protest. Her hands grip the wheel at ten and two. She leans forward. Their street looks the same. No tragedies here. Five houses down from theirs, the neighbor stares out from the front bay window. She looks terrible, like she was the one in the car crash back on Main Street. Her light hoodie is soaked with red. She presses into the window, reaching for the passing car. She smears handprints all over the glass.

Shelly pulls into their garage. It feels like an eternity until the rolling door finally closes. She and Copernicus get out and search the house together.

“Mom? Dad!?”

It's exactly how she left it. It's home, just empty. She goes back into the garden. Back to the hole. The stained shovel lies to the side. The whole scene feels somehow shifted, or shifting. She squats to get a better look at the dark bottom. She picks up the shovel to poke at it, to see if it pokes back.

There's a sound behind her.

“Mr. Brown?”

Her neighbor stands, soaking wet, with a sunken stare and the flesh from the left side of his neck and cheek missing.

“Oh my God! Mr. Brown! Are you OK?”

He doesn’t answer. He lurches forward and grabs at her. He smells of the same rotting meat that the hole does.

She raises the shovel in defense, and he clamps down on the handle. They spin together. A dance in the sunlight, waltzing along the edge of the hole. Step, two, three.

He snaps at her again. She calls out. They twirl. Her foot slips. She tumbles back. He follows.

They hit that soft layer. It nearly sucks her down. She screams. Her hand finds the shovel again. She tries to stand. He crawls on his belly. His face is caked with a muddy mask.

Shelly gets up on her feet. She sinks to her ankles. At the rim of the hole, Copernicus circles and barks wildly.

The man can't find his footing. Shelly turns to climb out. Something stops her. A root, maybe part of the sprinkler piping, snags at her foot. She yanks at it.

The grasp clamps tighter with each pull of her leg. She feels the air get crushed from her lungs when she makes out that it's a bony hand that's wrapped around her dirty shoe. The nails are painted a soft pink. Two gold rings flash and reflect the sun.

Another hand reaches from the dirt. This one larger, meatier. It wears a ring, too. Mr. Brown crawls slowly forward and partially uncovers her parents’ bodies. They animate from under the dirt, their faces snapping like earthen creatures.

“Mom... Dad...”

The whole scene blurs with her vision. She's in a tunnel, falling down a well. An endless hole. The light shrinks to a needle point. She's not in control. Her body just moves on its own.

Her vision explodes back, and she's lying in the sun, on the grass. Copernicus is next to her, with his teeth still locked onto the shovel handle beside her hand. Her breath returns. She stands. She looks back down into the hole.

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Mrs. Williams shuffles out their kitchen door. There's a mighty racket going on next door. They're a lovely family, but don't always register their volume. It's early, and a weekday. What on earth could they be doing to make so much noise? And what’s all the yelling about?

She opens the small gate between the two yards. They installed it years ago, when Shelly was little. She used to play with their grandkids. They built the opening so the kids could wander from yard to yard without tracking a mess through the houses. It squeaks now when she opens it.

Mrs. Williams turns the corner and stops.

Shelly stands in the middle of the yard. That dog of theirs is barking up a storm. They’re both covered in dirt, standing near what looks like a massive hole. What on God's green earth?

“Shelly? Dear? What's going on? Are you OK? I heard something...”

Shelly turns. She's covered in a wet muck. Her eyes are wild. Open too wide. They don't blink, like she's possessed.

“Mrs. Williams? Mrs. Williams! You need to go! Go! Go back inside. Go and lock your doors. Stay in. Where's Mr. Williams? Have you seen him?”

Mrs. Williams freezes. She’s never seen Shelly like this. Something is terribly wrong.

“Dear... What is it? What are you doing?”

Shelly raises the shovel and points it at the old woman.

“Go! Get back in your house. Lock the doors. Lock the windows! It's not safe out here!”

“Oh dear!”

Mrs. Williams stumbles backward. She hurries through the gate and slams it shut behind her. She goes straight inside and locks the door. Then the windows. All of them.

She finds her husband, not at his usual spot, tinkering with one of his unfinished ships in a bottle, but standing at the window.

“Do you see this, hon? Shelly? What’s that girl doing?”

Mrs. Williams joins him. Outside, Shelly is still at the edge of the hole. She's digging furiously, throwing heaps of earth back in. That dog keeps barking madly into it.

“What on earth is she up to?”

Mr. Williams turns and pulls on his knit sweater despite the early heat.

“What on earth are you up to, Pa? You stay put!” says Mrs. Williams.

“Don't worry,” he says, pushing up his glasses, “I'm sure it's nothing. See? Look... Mrs. Brown is heading over there. That hip of hers must be acting up again, poor gal. Don't worry, hon, we'll get to the bottom of this mysterious hole.”