The Aksar Vanishings
Evil walks the path between Paradise Hills and Transit
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The Aksar Vanishings
Death stalks a lonely farm. Is the family doomed to relive the old curse? | Raouf Nouari for Unsplash
GLEAMING BALD and bodiless, the head nodded forward, floating the line where the churned earth barricade met sky.
Geoff watched it from the porch of the farmhouse—nod, jerk, nod, jerk-jerk—lurching like a rabbit in a trap.
He sipped cool water from a hot glass, studied the object for a brow, nose, chin, but it was too far off.
It was a head; that much Geoff could tell. He also knew there would be a body attached to it, that being only natural. But for now it was just a head; the presumed body hidden below the ridge of bulldozed earth and tree roots he and Dad had piled next to the trail a couple of summers ago to keep travellers to the path and off Askar farm property.
Travellers never bothered with the farm, not so far. They snapped pics and wildflower stems, skipped the odd rock on the occasional pond, indexed birds and butterflies, every summer, always travelling in one direction, from Paradise Hills to Transit.
Dad blamed the trail’s popularity on a grey-haired hippy from Seattle, who dedicated a chapter of his travel book to it as it ran through woods, swampy grasslands and meadows between the two communities. A soulful walk into the past, he called it.
Dad grunted his distaste. “Guy has a religious experience over cows shitting in fields and writes a book about it. Bah.”
Geoff kept his eyes on the head, waiting for it to appear in the gap where the earthen ridge ended and the trail lie exposed before wending its way back into the trees. Here, he might glimpse the body that kept it aloft.
But the head did something Geoff had never before seen. It turned.
It veered off the trail and crashed through the barricade into the pasture onto Aksar Farms’ land.
A stick body appeared, squeezing through the fresh-punched hole, arms thrashing, legs lashing.
Go back and away now, Geoff urged it. Stop, turn, and get on back down the trail.
But the stranger marched heavily toward him, hatless and glistening in the bright afternoon sun, through the sodden pasture, throwing up clods of mud behind him. The cattle parted before him like grass on the wind. He swung a tall branch for a walking stick.
Geoff whistled an alert to his sister, Royale, who was riding the swing directly in line with the stranger’s present course. She was too preoccupied with leaping from swing to puddle to bother with her brother.
Geoff raised the cup and gulped more of the water. Guess I'd better get over there.
He cursed and started across the yard toward Royale, toward the stranger. He’d reach his sister first but not by much.
He guessed the stranger must be lost. He probably wanted directions or water.
He pulled up next to the swings to wait near his sister, their farmhouse a short distance behind him, the barn to the left, backing onto a pond.
The stranger stepped over a barbed-wire fence and left the pasture in one easy step. He crossed a single-track road, and strode up the short driveway into the front yard, its perimeter marked by a large boulder.
Geoff shielded his eyes. Royale waved and giggled.
Geoff shushed her. She might be a kid, but she knew Mom and Dad didn’t like them welcoming strangers, especially when they were alone.
The stranger pulled up, leaned against the boulder and kicked mud off his boots.
“Hello,” he said, with a squint and a frown.
Geoff ignored the greeting and took the stranger’s measure against the boulder. The guy is six-foot-six if he’s an inch, he thought.
He studied the stranger’s oily skin, tall forehead, salt running down into his piggy eyes. No Einstein, he thought.
“Sure is a hot day,” the stranger said.
Geoff looked away, an unambiguous no trespassers vibe.
Undaunted, the stranger raised his voice. “It’s tough on a guy travelling through the bush back there. Why, there’s no wind, no breeze at all. With all that humidity, whew, it’s a real killer.”
Geoff scanned the ground for a stone, any item he might use for defence, just to be safe.
The stranger continued.
“I’m pleased to meet you. Name’s Max.”
“I’m Royale. That’s Geoff.” Royale jumped off the swing. Geoff signaled at her to move closer to him.
The stranger grinned and flexed. He sheered off from the boulder and drifted toward her.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Royale,” he said in a deep theatrical resonance. “And I am also pleased to make your acquaintance.” He looked in Geoff’s direction.
Geoff coughed but didn’t reply.
Max wiped his face with the front of his shirt.
“I beg your pardon. Forgive the intrusion. I wonder if I could trouble you for a drink of water. I’ve been walking for hours.”
Geoff knew the truth of that statement. Aksar Farms was the only house anywhere close to this part of the trail, on the margins of the dense forest, brackish ponds and armies of mosquitoes.
“Where you from?” Geoff asked.
“Paradise Hills.”
“No, I already know that much. Everybody starts out there. I mean where are you from, in the real world?”
“Strauss,” Max said. “By way of Manitoba.”
Geoff shook his head. This guy was spitting gibberish. Geoff knew enough of the world to know he was under-schooled on geographical matters, but he knew the sound of bullshit.
“Where you headed?” he said, knowing the answer.
“Transit.”
“You’ve got a long way in front of you.”
“Oh?” Max sounded surprised.
“It’s got to be another four hours on foot.”
The stranger yawned, exaggerating his lack of concern, his mouth a sinkhole. “I bet I can do it in two-and-a half.”
Geoff scratched his ear. This guy gave him the itch. Danger screamed. He toyed with the idea of running for the barn, locking himself up inside, but he couldn’t drag Royale with him and expect to make it.
He dismissed the fears. There’s nothing to worry about, he thought. I’m being stupid. Best thing is to keep this guy happy and get him on his way as soon as possible.
“Royale,” he said, “run and get a pitcher of water from the fridge. Let Max have his drink. He’s got a lot of ground to cover yet.”
Royale ran off to the house.
Max raised his nose to the air and watched her go.
“I stone heard there’s jobs over in Transit,” he said. “I aim to find work at the sawmill.”
As he spoke, he gazed off into the sky above the farmhouse, glancing down now and then to keep an eye on Royale, who was scrambling up the steps onto the porch.
“Rain is coming,” he said.
“I haven’t heard about any jobs,” Geoff said. But I think you’re right about the rain.“
Max coughed and spat phlegm, which quickly curled up and repelled the dirt around it.
“I heard they have lots of good-paying jobs, and they’re snapping up any one who shows up at the company’s gate,” Max said.
“Is that right?” Geoff nodded.
“It’s what I heard.”
Silence. Both waited. Neither wanted to speak first.
Royale returned and hopped next to Geoff, performed a wobbily pirouette while holding the pitcher of water and glass, and handed both to Max.
“What are you even doing out here,” she asked, with the casual directness of a child.
Max took a drink, his great Adam’s apple a throbbing pump.
Every part of this guy was tense and loaded, thought Geoff.
Max mimicked Royale’s pirouette, skipped a few steps and set the glass and pitcher on the ground next to the swing set.
“I am a travelling salesman.” He swung wide his arms and fell to one knee. “Can’t you tell.”
“You’re travelling, I guess, but there ain’t nobody for miles around to sell to,” said Royale.
“Well, that’s the truth. I guess that makes me a lost travelling salesman.”
“What do you sell?” Royale squinted into the sun, peering toward Max’s face.
“Take a guess.”
Royale shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you then. I sell hair.” Max donkey laughed but stopped abruptly noticing Royale’s frown.
“You do not,” she said. “You don’t even have hair.”
“I know I’m a little light in the thatch department,” he said, “but that was supposed to be a joke.”
“You’re not very funny.”
Max nodded. “A lot of people tell me that. You know what? You seem pretty smart. How old are you?”
“I’m 10.”
“Is that serious guy over there your brother?” Max nodded at Geoff.
Royale twisted her hips and splashed in the mud. “Yes. He just turned 15.”
“Where’s your mom and dad?”
“We haven’t got time to chat, mister,” Geoff stepped between them.
“We have chores to do and Mom and Dad will get angry if we aren’t done by the time they get back.”
Max glowered down into Geoff’s eyes for a moment, then relaxed, as though he had settled some great internal struggle.
“I wouldn’t want your folks to be angry,” he said. “Maybe I ought to make like the birds and flock off.”
Royale thrust her chin up. “It’s almost three o’clock, you’ll never make it to Transit in the daylight.”
Geoff yanked her sleeve. “That’s why he’s so eager to leave. He’s got a lot of ground to cover.”
Max shook out his arms and stamped his legs. “Don’t worry. I get it. I get it. You’re way out here on the edge of nowhere and you don’t like strangers hanging around.”
Max turned to Royale. “Your brother is right. Safety first. I’ve got to make fast tracks anyway, if I’m going to make it to Transit.”
“What are you going to do in Transit? You going to be a salesman?” Royale liked Transit. She remembered the fermented meat smells from past visits.
“Like I told your brother, I hope to get a job at the sawmill,” Max said.
“You know,” he said to Geoff. “You could earn a few bucks there yourself, a strong young man like you. You should check it out.”
“I got enough work to do here,” said Geoff.
“Bah,” Max popped each finger from his fist one by one, twisted his wrist, and unfurled his arms, stretching. “It’s August. You've got nothing around here that can’t wait. The cattle are off grazing in the pastures; most of the garden is ticking along just fine. There’s nothing that won’t wait till you get back.
“Besides,” Max said, “this little darling here can pick up the slack, can’t you Royale? Feed the chickens, pull some cucumbers and such.”
“I do that already,” Royale brag-shouted.
Geoff cut her off. “Royale, you know I ain’t going nowhere with him.”
Geoff stared at Max.
What do I have to do to get you moving? he thought.
He heard a gentle whimper from the bushes a short distance away.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Max rummaged with both hands in the underbrush.
“I’ve been so glad for your company, I completely forgot about Daryl. In fact, I thought I’d lost him when I turned in here.”
He yanked; a yelp came from behind the low line of new trees and shrubs. He bent lower and pulled again, lifting out from the bushes a black and white dog, carrying it waist high by the ears.
“Come here boy. Come here. Oh, there, there. Don’t be such a baby. It only hurts because of the gravity.”
He dropped the dog before Royale and Geoff. It was knee-tall to Max and limped when it tried to get out from under Max’s sway.
Max, grabbed hold of the dog’s muzzle and shook. “Daryl started following me a couple of hours back. He came out of the trees, hopping around like a circus monkey.”
Geoff knelt for a closer look. “He’s hurt. Look his front leg, it’s bleeding.”
His already low assessment of Max slipped lower. It didn’t surprise him one bit that Max turned out to be the kind of person who ignores the pain of an injured dog.
“You just found him?” Geoff asked.
“More like he found me,” Max said.
“He can’t travel much farther,” Geoff said. “Look at him. He can hardly walk.”
“You want him? Take him.”
“I can’t. Mom and Dad would never let us keep him.”
“Your mom and dad around? Where are they? Maybe if I talked to them, I could convince them to take Daryl in.”
Royale said, “They’re out fixing water pumps in one of our other pastures.” She stabbed a finger in Max’s direction. “You should go before they get here.”
Max pulled back, feigning hurt. “And why is that darling?”
“They told us not to let strangers come in the yard when they’re away.”
“That,” Max said, “is great advice. I can’t argue with that one little bit. Not a crumb. Paranoia has been known to save lives. Do you know what paranoia is, little girl? I could teach you.”
He reached toward the girl.
Geoff arm-barred Royale behind him. “Our parents will be back any second. You should go. Dad has a temper.”
Max frowned and looked away. “Your dad has a temper, does he? I bet you got some stories about that.”
The wind picked up and rattled the trees. It swept across the yard and burst through the pasture from where Max had come, lifting discarded bits of wood and straw in a whirlwind.
Max smiled.
A few feet away, a ground squirrel stuck its head out of a hole, sensing a fresh breeze.
Daryl, with just three good legs, snatched it in his jaws in a blink and thrashed it from side to side, snapping its neck.
The tail and back legs hung out the sides of Daryl’s mouth for a moment, then he tipped his face to the sun and swallowed the rodent whole.
“Looks like Daryl is hungry,” Max said.
Geoff patted the dog on the shoulders. “He’s starving and he’s hurt.”
“That settles it then. He’s yours,” Max clapped his hands. “Sold, to the suspicious young man with the lying blue eyes.”
He turned and readied to go.
“Tell your mom and dad Max was here and says hello.” He walked off toward the trail in the direction he’d come.
Geoff, Royale and Daryl watched his back leave. As he reached the barricade at the back of the pasture, he crashed through in a different spot, creating a new hole Geoff would have to fix later.
They turned their attention to the suffering dog.
“Gross thing,” said Royale, unable to think of anything but Daryl’s quick-kill lunch.
“What are you going to do with him?” She turned up her nose in disgust.
“Let’s put him in the barn. Give him a place to lie down and heal up,” Geoff said.
Royale snapped her hands on her hips.
“Well, Dad’s not going to like it. He doesn’t like dogs.”
“Let’s not tell Dad for now. Let Daryl get better, then we’ll talk to Dad.”
“OK,” she said. “But do we have to call him Daryl? It reminds me of our Uncle Daryl and he’s an idiot.”
Geoff thought. “No. I think we can name him what we want. I’m pretty sure Max just made that name up. What do you want to name him?”
“What about SpongeBob?”
“Hardy, har-har. Ain’t you just the funniest girl on this whole wide farm.”
“Just saying,” Royale shrugged.
A week passed, and SpongeBob proved to be a quick healer. The name stuck because it made Royale laugh and Geoff liked that.
After the first day, SpongeBob was able to trot without limp. He ran in three and cornered the cattle into a perfect triangle against the pasture fence in seven.
Dad ranted in anger when he first caught sight of the skinny dog, but loyal SpongeBob won him over.
Mom jumped neck deep into the SpongeBob fan pool from the start, cooking batches of chicken, rice and split peas for him, sneaking him prime cuts of meat when Dad wasn’t looking.
August coursed through. Geoff and his dad cut hay, baled and put it up in the shed. His mom and Royale picked around the garden. They united in the work life required of them, preparing for the busy autumn: repairing machinery, oiling parts, readying jars and pots for canning.
September snuck in cool and fresh and by mid-month they had harvested the potatoes, corn and the last of the carrots.
October fell next in line, cold and bright it marched in. Animals grazing summer long in pastures were separated, some were sold, some were driven to the home yard where they would be cared for over winter.
Geoff smiled plenty. Dad was in good spirits, even let Geoff tackle some of the trickier work he had been ordered to leave alone in the past. One time, Geoff caught Dad laughing, hands on sides, at SpongeBob chasing ducks in the pond.
Mom seemed in a happier place, too. She was composed, serene, despite the stressful work.
Mom and Dad often fell into arguments and fighting when life grew hectic in fall, but not this year.
For the first time in his life, Geoff dreamed of a future on the farm and imagined it were possible to live out a fulfilled life here.
Royale must have noticed changes, too, because she sang most of the time—at the breakfast table, in the garden, or wandering around the yard.
Thanksgiving was on them and they started food preparations. Potatoes, check. Turnips, check. And due to a family tradition going back five generations, the oyster casserole was assembled, but for the crackers, which could not be added to the dish until the last moment to avoid them turning overly soggy.
The Thanksgiving’s crown jewel, the turkey, was stuffed, buttered and set in the fridge. Mom set her alarm to wake early and place it in the oven for an all-day roast.
They slept that night in a home cool as the mountain mist. Trees rustled in the wind; the occasional owl hoot seeped through the walls.
SpongeBob suddenly crashed the stillness, growling and scratching at the door to be let out of Geoff’s bedroom.
Geoff opened the door and SpongeBob ran down the hall barking, yelping at the front door, hackles raised.
The racket woke everyone.
“What is going on?” Dad said.
Geoff stepped up and yanked open the front door. SpongeBob raced out, down the porch and across the yard.
Geoff stuck his head outside. The trees glowed orange; the night sky was lit up like hot coals.
Dad and Mom rushed out first, past Geoff and Royale, who followed on their heels.
They rounded the edge of the trees and saw the barn lit up like a Viking cremation. It crackled and sighed and died in phases.
It was far too hot to approach and so the four of them could only sit on tree stumps and watch it burn.
Dad rushed once for the hose, dragged it across the yard and turned on a blast of brackish pond water but it proved so minuscule and ineffectual, he threw the hose aside and returned to sit with Mom and the children.
In phase one of the barn’s death, agonizing bawls of trapped animals roared out from the blaze. It was weaning time and about 20 mothers and calves had been placed inside in pens for the night.
Then the barn walls belched and vomited, erupting into a blaze too brilliant to look at. The animal cries intensified, agony and panic.
Mom ordered Geoff and Royale to the house.
Mercifully, phase three of the barn death came quickly. The roof collapsed and the smoke billowed high and thick. The animals fell silent.
A few hours later, with dawn black and raining soot, the barn was reduced to a smouldering pile of wood and animal flesh.
Dad and Geoff poked around the remains.
“The house is safe at least. We should be thankful.” Dad tossed through the rubbish piles cool enough to touch, directing Geoff to look beneath the charred timber on the periphery.
An anguished scream disgorged from behind. It came from back, by way of the house.
Geoff and Dad froze, waiting for a sign of what to do next.
A second scream, longer and louder than the first, tore the bottoms out of their stomachs.
They left cinder and ruin and rushed toward the cries as Mom ran out of the house. “Royale, she’s not in her bed. I thought she was sleeping.”
Mom was gasping, sucking air between sobs, pushing down hysteria.
Dad spun her and grabbed her shoulders. “What do you mean, she’s not in her bed?”
“I don’t know,” Mom yelled and looked to Geoff. “I sent her back to the house with you last night. Did you put her to bed? Did you see her after that?”
Geoff paused. “We walked back to the house, she turned into her room and I went into my room. I didn’t see her after that.”
“Oh my God,” Mom’s face was swollen and purple, tears streamed down her cheeks. “Could she have gone outside again?”
Geoff shrugged. “I stayed in my room.”
“Oh, my God, I meant to check, but we were so busy.” Mom pulled at her hair and started to run off toward the swings and the boulder at the front of the yard, stopped, turned and looked at them, her body shaking.
“We have to do something,” she said.
Dad froze, locked in by disaster.
That left it up to Geoff.
“Check the house again. I’ll go over to the swing set and around the yard that way from there.” He drew a semicircle outlining the planned search.
He peered over at Dad. “You cover that side of the yard, OK?”
The three yelled and screamed Royale’s name through the morning and on through the Thanksgiving afternoon and evening. They scoured bushes, pastures, trails and trees until night thwarted further search.
They went out the next day, over the same ground in case they missed something and ventured further out and away, looking into bulrushes and wading into murky ponds. Nothing.
On the third day, Geoff returned well after dusk. Mom and Dad were already home.
Geoff and Mom broke down and wept at the kitchen table.
SpongeBob whined at the door.
Dad, heart-sick and spoiling for battle, threw the dog outside and SpongeBob ran off to hide beneath the porch.
Dad threw back his shoulders.
“Look,” he said, “we haven’t found a single sign of Royale and we would have found something by now if she’d taken off alone.
“And we know she didn’t get trapped in the barn or we’d have found something in that terrible wreckage. Some piece of clothing, a shoe.” He hung his head. “Bones, maybe. I don’t know.
“I could see her rushing into the barn to save some animals from the fire and I can see how we might have missed her in the confusion, but we’ve sifted through everything in that wreckage and there’s nothing there.”
He turned to Geoff.
“That stranger who was here a few months back, what did you say his name was?”
“Max,” said Geoff. “Are you thinking he set the fire as a diversion?”
Dad nodded.
“It’s our best bet. Where did he say he was from?”
“Strauss, by way of Manitoba.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Geoff shrugged. “That’s what he said. He told me he was going to Transit to find work at the sawmill.”
“Transit,” Dad scoffed. “And he struck you as the sort of man who wants a job, did he?”
Geoff shrugged. “He said he was a salesman.”
“So you believed him when he said he was looking for work at the sawmill”
Geoff bristled at Dad’s tone. “For somebody who wasn’t even here, you sure have a lot to say about it,” he said.
Dad grabbed Geoff’s collar and twisted, lifting him to his toes. “You let him in,” Dad hissed into his face. “You let the stranger into our yard.”
He released Geoff, who staggered backward.
“Describe him to me.”
“He was tall, real tall, had to be seven feet.”
God, Max was nowhere near that tall, Geoff realized as soon as the words fell out of him. Max was about as tall as the boulder at the front of the yard, maybe six-foot-five, six-six. But it was too late to correct himself. It would become one more thing for Dad to get angry at.
“And you said he was bald?” Dad said.
Geoff nodded. “You’re thinking he set the fire and waited around for his chance to take Royale?”
Dad shrugged. “Maybe. Who else? You said he’d shown an interest in Royale.”
Mom shook. “Please God, no. Don’t let it be that. She could have just wandered off.”
Dad kissed her. “We’ll keep checking that, too.”
Less than an hour later, Dad slapped Geoff’s arm and set out for Transit hoping to pick up Max’s trail, leaving behind the last things he loved in the world.
Geoff and Mom continued to search closer to home, combing every thicket and flipping over every stone, again and again.
On the fourth day after Dad’s leaving, Mom worried about the lack of news.
“He probably needs more time,” Geoff said, reassuring. ”You know, Mom, I’m not sure Max is the kind of person who sticks around one place for long. He’s probably long gone from Transit and Dad is having a hard time picking up the trail.”
The next morning before dawn, Geoff awoke to low growls from SpongeBob and heavy footsteps crossing the porch.
Dad was back.
But when Geoff flung open the door, the porch was empty but for a lone song sparrow on the top step.
Daylight grew and made them bold once more. They became eager to resume the search. He and Mom ate a light breakfast and set out. There had to be a sign; something that marked Royale’s passing.
That day, Geoff walked farther from the farm than he’d been in his entire life. He headed in the direction of Paradise Hills, a direction contrary to common sense and nature and walked at least two kilometres up and down every connecting trail. There were few other travellers on the trails this late in the year, but Geoff stopped each one he ran into and asked if they’d seen anything that might point to Royale.
By the time he returned home, he’d expected to find Mom already there, sitting in her chair in the living room, crying or sleeping.
But the house was empty. He shuttled through it to check, but empty.
He sat up for her, she couldn’t be too much longer, and fell asleep on the couch.
He awoke early in the pink-light of the following morning, and banged through the house. Still no Mom.
By noon, fear pressed hard on the back of his neck. He was the last now. He knew she wasn’t coming back. First Royale, then Dad, now Mom.
One by one, he’s picked us off. Just like the stories Dad used to tell about the Aksar vanishings back in the old country, Geoff thought.
Dad never talked much about it, but there were sickening hints he’d run to this remote farm to escape something horrible wed to the family name.
Geoff shivered, hugged his blanket and cowered in bed. He pushed away the nudging SpongeBob.
This isn’t safe, he thought, after the first minutes of terror had passed. I’m next and I’m an easy mark. Well, I won’t make it easy.
He took a blanket, threw some water, cold meat and carrots into a bag and went out to Dad’s work shed. He knew things.
It took a couple of hours, but he pulled together what he needed, returned to the house and crawled under the porch.
SpongeBob curled next to him.
He slept and woke, off and on. The days blurred. He slept more, stayed awake less. A notion of SpongeBob travelled in and out of his dreams.
Weeks or a month later, a deep voice rumbled from out in the yard, startling Geoff awake in his hole under the porch.
“Daryl is that you under there? I can hear you scraping. You remember me, don’t you? It’s your old friend Max.”
Geoff focused on the monster’s voice, the footsteps creaking up the stairs, cracking over porch boards.
Closer, Geoff thought. Come closer. I have something for you. I’m all that’s left. Everything is up to me now.
He focused on the light knifing through cracks between the floorboards, watching for the monster’s shadow when suddenly, the face coalesced into view. Max’s scowling face searching. He had a fresh ugly scar under his neck, his piggy eyes mad with joy.
They studied each other through the cracks and a shrivelled grin spread over Max’s face.
Geoff scrambled for the bag, the zip-lock of fertilizer from the shed, ammonium nitrate mixed with fuel oil. He’d stuffed it under his belt a while ago. Or did he? He felt. He did.
He followed wires leading from the bag to a cylindrical igniter scavenged from a gas stove and found the button on the top. He pressed.
Click. Nothing. Click. Nothing.
Then he heard the small voice of his sister Royale.
“Geoff. I’m cold and I want to come home.”
Through the cracks in the boards, he saw her, muddied hair, scrapes on her cheeks, cut lip, but it was her.
“Royale,” he moaned in an uncontrollable low howl.
“I want to come home, Geoff.” Royale sobbed. “I don’t like it out here.”
Max jumped. Bam. Again. Bam. Faster, bam, bam, bam, until a plank of the porch cracked.
“You leave her,” Geoff shouted. “You leave her and I’ll come out.”
Max stopped.
Geoff saw him smiling, all smug and victorious. But there was nothing else Geoff could do.
“Step away, off the porch and I’ll come out,” he said.
The shapes above him moved off. He heard two sets of footsteps knock down the stairs. He’d missed Royale on the way up. Max must have carried her.
“It’s your turn,” Max sang out.
Geoff placed Max’s location. He was just off the front of the porch.
SpongeBob suddenly snarled and Geoff heard a thump, followed by the loud bluster of a fight; Max shouting, SpongeBob growling.
Geoff scurried from his hiding place and popped into the open air ready to help SpongeBob. The slobber from Max’s fat, moist lips dripped like snake venom in the bright sunlight.
SpongeBob’s teeth gripped tight to Max’s arm, but Max had him wrapped in a tight coil next to his chest. He squeezed, arms flexing, eyes bulging, roaring wild, tighter and tighter until SpongeBob released his jaws from Max’s arm and went limp.
Max let him fall to the ground.
“Come on boy.” Max turned to Geoff. “You’re next.”
Geoff noticed Royale had worked herself free. She huddled, shivering, by the large boulder next to the swing.
Good. She ought to be safe. Geoff put down his head and rushed, intending to knock Max over but it was like hitting a tank.
Hands reached down and grabbed Geoff’s jacket, then grabbed his throat and pulled him up until he was face to face with Max. Beyond Max’s head, Geoff saw the blackened heap of the old barn, a massive black void, a pit to the depths.
Max squeezed. Geoff’s throat collapsed, his eyes bulged and popped.
Why us? Why our family? he thought.
“Why not?,” said a voice. “You’re nothing special.” The voice might have been a dream or was somebody speaking? Geoff couldn’t tell the difference.
He slipped deeper toward sleep, gave his legs one final, desperate, feeble kick.
I’m leaving now, he thought.
Oh, but the bag, he remembered and felt for the lump under his belt. He followed the wires and found the button. He pressed.
This time it worked.
A colossal sledgehammer tore into his belly. Max’s hand vanished from his throat.
Geoff flew apart and fell bits and pieces into the slime and the green mud. Sludge filled his nose and sealed shut his eyes. His teeth crumbled like feta.
The absorption began. Mist swirled around him, crammed with contorted faces and ruptured bodies twisting down through the vortex as he fell in through the middle. The roiling Earth, the Mother was taking what she needed; what was owed.
Geoff woke in a loud gasp, a primeval lunge for a final chance at air.
His family hung above him, on the wall of an enormous crevasse, rigid to their necks in the stone.
Royale. Mom. Dad.
So Royale hadn’t made it after all. The family’s last hope ended.
Max hung there, too; a calcified fetus transformed into rock.
He asked after his family. “Are they OK?”
A voice replied, “Is anybody OK?”
The Earth inhaled next to Geoff’s ear and Geoff matched its breathing, in for in, out for out. Everything falls in sync: moss, mud, family, a humanity of others. Everything returns.
The End