ishakhemkablog

Parenting has never been a walk in the park—that’s for certain. We’re told our children grasp with their stubby little fingers a key to a wondrous future, but it’s hard to posture and squeal with enthusiasm when instead of the next groundbreaking theory of relativity, they bring us a dilapidated Barbie, a chewed-up sock (that we hope was munched on by the dog and not our five-year-old), or even a rock.

So, when I, one of the town’s only lawyers, discovered my son Josh’s secret stash of rocks in the garden shed, my reaction wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

In most cases, little clusters and piles of objects were understandable, a child’s eccentric yet adorable current obsession. But Josh was 32.

The shed had been meticulously organized, meticulously sorted, arranged by scale and date, and sifted through numerous times, as evidenced by the extensive charts plastered on the walls.

There was something I found so disturbing during my time lingering in the shed. I couldn’t quite place exactly what it was, but it felt like I had come across something purposefully withheld from me, so uncanny. Josh was known for his brilliant mind and energetic spirit, participating in every extracurricular activity at school, adorning sign-up sheets and newsletters, and securing a place on every sports team with ease.

I shook myself out of my stoic trance, flinging my peppered hair about. Still severely rattled, I smoothed my brittle hands over the edge of my linen skirt. “This could be… for his work,” I muttered, twitching into a tiny wrinkled smile and bending to pick up a stone. I scolded myself sternly for thinking otherwise; my son always had a compelling explanation, but I struggled to see the connection between miniature stones and investment banking.

Between my pruned fingers, I clutched one of the stones, a coarse little thing, minuscule in form, which seemed to have been carved—no, not carved—cut into a familiar shape resembling a fish. Propping my tortoise-shell glasses further up the bridge of my nose, I squinted and noticed rough markings—zigzags and letters. It must have been at least a few decades old, I gathered. An unpleasant mental twang echoed as I slipped out of the shed and whisked myself into the house.

As weeks passed, I carried on with my life while my unease only grew. Josh, usually forthcoming about his interests, remained cryptic regarding the rocks. He buried himself deeper in his work, often disappearing for hours in the shed, emerging with new stones meticulously cataloged and studied under the dim glow of his desk lamp.

In the mornings, I spotted him proudly sporting his tailored double-breasted suit, an elegant navy piece he had specially made on one of his many trips to Paris.  Yet townspeople rarely got a glimpse of Josh in the later hours. “Investment bankers and their dedication,” we all thought, justifying his late return—which none of us ever saw.

A particularly pestering storm plagued the town a few nights ago, fleets of hail banging brutally on windowpanes, gusts of wind blowing out obscenities, and even, dare I say it, trees being lifted from their roots and tumbling wildly across back gardens.

We had all locked our doors, tucked our children safely into havens, and assured them that they would be alright. Like any other concerned parent housing their child, I sauntered across the corridor and knocked on Josh’s door.

No response.

Again.

No response.

Impatient, I grabbed the doorknob and flung myself into the room.

It was as blank. I knew I hadn’t been there in weeks, but part of the agreement for him to live with me was that he would look after his own space. There were practically cobwebs growing on sills and corners, and there were barely any other pieces of furniture around.

No bed frame

No sheets,

No pillows.

No cupboard, desk, or chairs that I had once supplied him with.

Seized by maternal urgency, I rushed barefoot into the back garden, warbling incoherent screeches heard by all of us, and tumbled headfirst into the shed, where I stared at my baby boy. His face was shriveled and dilapidated; if I were to put my hand to his cheek, it would probably be glacial. His eyes had migrated apart in such a grotesque manner, I could hardly believe this was the golden athlete extraordinaire I once knew.

“Look, Mom, they are alive,” he whispered coolly.

My mind swirled with horror and disbelief, the shadows in the shed seemingly closing in on me. Josh’s obsession with the rocks had turned into something far more sinister than I could have ever imagined. The neatly arranged stones seemed to pulse with a strange energy, their surfaces etched with cryptic symbols that sent shivers down my spine.

“What… what do you mean, Josh?” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

Josh’s lips curled into a twisted smile, a cold glint in his eyes. “They’re from them, Mom. The others. They spoke to me, told me secrets, showed me things. These rocks, they’re not just rocks.”

I recoiled, my heart pounding in my chest. I was thrust into a nightmare, unable to wake up. The baby boy I once knew, the bright and ambitious young man, seemed to have dissolved away into milky waters.

Before I could react, the rackety shed door thud open, and a gust of wind whipped through, extinguishing the dim light. Figures emerged from the darkness, their forms vague, shrouded in a haze of mystery. My breath caught in my throat, persisting to surface as I realized these were not people but beings of an otherworldly nature, drawn to Josh’s strange collection.

“Mom, they’re here,” Josh slurred.

I felt a bony chill seep into my skin, my vision dimming and hazing with each bat. Desperate, I reached out for Josh, but he seemed distant, unreachable, lost to the influence of these enigmatic entities. Our eyes meet again. I gave him those eyes.