At night he would sit by his window and look down at the garden and he’d see it sitting there. It would stare up at him with eyes that glinted in the moonlight and a face devoid of feeling or definition. Sitting, waiting. Its skin was as black as graphite and it skulked silently around the garden. He knew it couldn’t speak but he could imagine its thoughts in his head. Where are you going to go? it asked. Who’s going to believe you?
Every morning he went down the moss-covered steps to the back garden and he’d look at the ground beneath the window. Sticks and stones and anything else it could find. It’s all in your head, he said. He’d pick up the sticks and the stones and he’d put them back to where he thought they came from. Must be the wind, he thought. And still he wouldn’t go out at night.
When he examined the garden, he came back in the house and went into the bathroom and washed, matting the hairs on his face with cold water. The mirror was covered in dust and dirt but he wouldn’t dare clean it. He turned the tap off and then on again and waited before he ran his toothbrush under the gushing water, scrubbing at his teeth. He dipped his head and took a mouthful. Swirling, gargling, spitting. In the kitchen he sat at the table with some burnt toast and cereal and he listened to the clock in the next room. As early as late afternoon he’d already be at the window, peering out at the orange sun on the horizon.
The garden was in complete disarray. Bone-dry grass up to the knee, masking the stone paving. Weeds as tough as sinew. A pebble-bottomed basin, stained with algae. One day I’ll clean it up, he thought. Then it can’t hide. But he never did.
He remembered the first night. The sound of rattling on the window like hailstones, but he couldn’t be sure. The next morning he woke up and went down to the pond and he found a frog stripped to the bone. At night he used to try and sit at the other side of the house, but he could feel its eyes piercing through the walls like an x-ray. What if it came round? he thought. What if it came in. All he could do was wait for morning.
Once a week at midday he’d leave the house and walk along the dusty road to the shop in the middle of town, wrapped in the stained gabardine of his coat regardless of the weather. A hat hung low over his brow that all but hid his eyes. Each time he’d get the same goods and the woman at the till would quote the price without even ringing up the bill. Bread, eggs, milk, cereal. Tinned goods and ham. He’d nod and mumble a thank you before shuffling out the door and up the road to the house.
Perched at the window, he sat with a bottle of whisky, slowly splashing some into a thick glass. When the night came he sat in a stupor, staring blankly through the glass, but he never passed out. Always conscious of its eyes. Its face. He tried to stare back at it but he knew he couldn’t win. Eventually he snapped and he slammed the glass on the windowsill before stumbling down the stairs. He reached the back door and grabbed the handle when he felt a stream of pain surge through his palm. His hand was bleeding. Christ, he thought. What’re you doing? He cradled his hand as he walked toward the sink and he ran it under the cold tap, picking small fragments of glass from the wound. He washed the blood from his hand and he wrapped it in a teatowel as it pelted the window with stones. He looked out and he heard it hissing and spitting with anticipation and he heard it all the way back up the stairs and when he saw it through the window it sat back down again and stared right through him.
He sat for hours in a chair in the livingroom, the armrests worn and stained with sweat, staring at the television. Dusty, wooden panelling. The screen was cracked and the glass splintered across the reflection of his chest. He didn’t remember breaking it. On the wall hung pale squares were once there were pictures. Paintings. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost four in the afternoon. He stood up and walked over to the window and he pulled back the dark and heavy curtain, peering out the window. Clouds, dim sunlight. He went through to the kitchen and he took a glass from the cupboard, eyeing it vaguely as the copper-coloured liquid splashed to the top. He looked out at the garden. After a while it began to rain and he walked back to his chair, following the slow orbit of the hands around the clockface. He slid down and closed his eyes and he listened to the steady and monotonous rhythm of the clock like a metronome, counting away the minutes and the hours of the early evening sun.
Once he tried to take a photo but it scuttled into the bushes at the back of the garden, waiting for him to give up. He sat all night with the camera pointed out the window but he could feel its eyes darting out from the blackness, burrowing into his skin. Curse you, he said. Curse you to hell.
A little before one o’clock, he sauntered up the road, carrying his shopping. The sun was beating down from above and he stopped for a minute to catch his breath before finally reaching the house. He climbed the stairs onto the off-white porch, divvying his weight on the banister. The feeling of peeled paint and chipped wood under his hand. He went into the pocket of his coat and brought out a set of keys and when he went to put them in the door he noticed it was slightly ajar. He stood for a minute. I locked that door, he said. I know I did. Slowly, he put down the bag and pushed the door open til it lay flat against the wall. From the doorway he could see through to the livingroom and into the kitchen. He stepped inside. When he reached the chair he took off his hat and his jacket and lay them down before looking around the room. He went into the kitchen and done the same thing before going upstairs and into the bedrooms. I’m sure I locked that door. He went into the bathroom. On the wall the mirror hung smashed and half the glass had flaked into the sink like a shattered ice sculpture. He ran down the stairs and out the door into the back garden, clawing at the knee-high grass with his bare hands. Where are you? he said. Where the fuck are you? Before long he was out of breath and he sat on the hot stone steps, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He sat listening to the chirping of birds and insects and eventually he stood up and went back into the house.
He rifled through the cupboards in the kitchen and the bathroom looking for anything of use and he lay what he found out on the kitchen table. Charcoal lighter fluid, old cans of deodorant, a matchbook. He stood at the foot of the table and he looked at the items strewn across it, half-shrouded under his late afternoon shadow. Something was missing. He went back up the stairs and into the bedroom, raking through the cupboards and the drawers. He brought out some old bedsheets and he rolled them into a ball and carried them under his arm. When he got to the kitchen he unravelled the sheets and draped them over the back of the chair and he went to the cupboard and he poured himself another drink, feeling it siphon down his throat as he stared longingly into the dying sunlight.
He ambled into the garden, carrying the hoard of items in an open bedsheet like a picnic blanket. He bent his head to the side, watching his step, and he lay the sheet on the ground. Methodically, he went around the border of the garden, treading the dry grass til it lay flat. He looked at the sheets. Not enough, he thought. Not nearly enough. Quickly, he ran back into the house and up the stairs and he went into the cupboard and he brought out anything he could find. Shirts, suits, jeans. He came back down the stairs and out into the garden and he dropped them on the steps before taking them one at a time, covering the trampled grass. Before long he’d filled the entire outline of the garden with clothes and sheets and he went round them all and doused everything with deodorant and lighter fluid. When he was done he went back into the kitchen and he poured another drink. What the hell are you doing? he thought.
It was almost nighttime. He stood in the kitchen and he poured himself a full glass of whisky before sending the rest of the bottle down the drain. He went upstairs and dropped the empty bottle on the bed. Carefully, he unwrapped the towel from around his hand and he winced as it peeled from his sticky flesh before spraying one end of the bloodsoaked cotton with deodorant. He took the lighter fluid and he poured what little was left into the empty bottle before stuffing the towel in the bottleneck. He walked into the bathroom and he turned both taps on full, splashing the water onto his face. His hands were shaking. As he was about to leave he turned and looked at the mirror. The upper half was still intact and he carefully wiped away the dust and the dirt and he looked into his sunken eyes. You look old, he thought. He turned and dried his hands before turning off the light.
When he looked out the window he saw it staring up at him. He went to the window and opened the latches. He could hear it hissing. From his pocket he brought out the matchbook and he fumbled until one sparked into life and he held it up to the towel. It lit with a dull whoosh and he was trembling as he pushed open the window and threw the bottle down with all his strength. It cracked on the ground and sparked in all directions, igniting the sheets and the clothes encircling the garden. He stood watching. It walked around the perimeter as if looking for a way out before sitting down again, gazing up at him once more. The flames spread through the dried grass and into the middle of the garden and it sat undisturbed as a curtain of black smoke smothered the entire garden. He ran into the kitchen but all he could see was the smoke spiralling into the night sky. In the distance, sirens blared ever closer.
