Finders Keepers, Part 2: Losers Weepers
A young couple living the dream of self-sufficiency deep in the English countryside stumble upon a pagan figurine and unleash mysterious forces
This is part 2 of the spooky story in response to Idea #4 of JF Danskin’s “6 Spooky Writing Prompts.” Click here for part 1.
The rain has ceased its assault on the window panes of their bedroom, and the wind has left off tormenting the chimney pots. A silence settles about the building, bringing with it an uncanniness that ill-fits the idyll of the cottage. An uninvited presence has infused the walls.
Sara’s senses are acutely tuned now as she lies still as the dead, deciphering the night’s noises. It is like one of those rare occasions when she has houseguests, those early hours bathroom visits that unsettle her.
But there are no guests in the house tonight. Whatever has found its way into her home is uninvited. She tells herself she is being stupid; no one is inside the house. Thieves and vagabonds do not wander the country lanes of Herefordshire in the hope of chancing upon an unlocked window or door.
She tosses and turns beneath the duvet, anger growing at Rupert for so casually dismissing her fears. He has not even bothered to get out of bed and check that everything is okay downstairs. Perhaps a window is prised open, a door ajar and swinging on its hinges.
She eases herself from between the covers, finds her dressing gown, and then checks the figurine is in the drawer where she stashed it.
She cannot bear the thought of leaving it here with Rupert and so takes it downstairs, still swaddled in the satin of her chemise. In the lounge, she unwraps the idol and places it on the coffee table before taking several photos with her phone.
She boots up her laptop and downloads the photos she has just taken. An image search is her intention. It does not take long.
In an article on Wikipedia, she sees an identical figurine to the one she has found.
The caption reads:
“Priapus was considered a protector of gardens and crops. He was also believed to bring fertility to both the land and its inhabitants. His statues were commonly placed in gardens to ward off thieves and to ensure the bountiful growth of plants.”
She mulls this over. “The protector of Gardens”.
And then she knows. She has known it all along. She must return it to the creek. Their garden has lost its guardian spirit.
She takes the idle from the table and goes into the kitchen, where her Wellington boots stand by the door as if expecting her arrival. She slips her bare feet into the chilled interiors.
Above her, as she crosses the garden, a gibbous moon is a scythe dispersing the storm clouds. Light from a bedroom window suddenly turned on catches her shadow in the amber oblong cast upon the grass.
Rupert stands at the back door, calling her name. “Sara! Wait!”
A moment of hesitation. This is silly. She should go back.
She turns, determined now to see it through. She will not stoop to running even though her pace is fuelled by panic.
His voice behind her. “Sara! Please wait.”
She is at the water’s edge, the deep pool that the damming of the stream has created. After the storm, the water has swollen to a depth that she could never have anticipated.
She dithers at the water’s edge, her fingers kneading the metal that she turns repeatedly in her hand.
Rupert has caught up with her, “I know what you’re doing, and it’s so stupid.”
He waits for her reply, but she is silent. The features of her face are pitted by shadows in the moon’s half-light.
He goes on. “If we sell the fucking thing, it means we can finally have the septic tank replaced. And there should be enough leftover to buy that neighbouring land we talked about.”
“It would be a pact with the Devil,”sShe says, raising her arm to fling the figurine into the water.
“Have you lost your mind, woman?” He grabs her arm, and she strains to free herself from his grip.
They struggle at the water’s edge on an embankment of earth that contains the still-rising water, the runoff from the storm that inundated the downs a mile to the west. Rupert has her arm gripped by his left hand while the fingers of his right dig, wheedling between her fingers, seeking traction to release her grip on the figurine.
His prying fingers are vicious. Her grip is wavering. He takes the figurine from her, a baton passed on in a race. She lunges at him as he tries to disentangle himself from her, pushing him forward.
She sees he has lost his balance and reaches for him, catching the loose fabric of his dressing gown. She has prevented his fall, spinning him around by his clothing to face her. But the shoulders and sleeves of the garment are empty. It is coming away from him, a snake shedding its skin, before tumbling naked down the muddy incline into the ice-chill turbulence of the water in spate.
She has lost him to the rage of the torrent. The water continues rising, and she retreats to higher ground. She scans the water, its roar intimidating, the stream now a broad river. She is trying to estimate where the flow might have taken him.
Ten yards downstream, an arm rises from the water, Rupert frantic to reach the bank. She doubts he will.
He calls for her to help him, spluttering her name between submersions, his arms flailing for purchase on water that denies it. A sudden surge has enough force to wash him across the eddyline, where the water is calm.
He has reached the bank, but the cold has robbed him of strength. Fingers barely clutch the mud of the bank, his body still fully submersed and drained from his full-cycle laundering.
Gingerly, mindful of her footing, Sara eases herself on her backside down the embankment to the water’s edge. She plants herself, digging her heels into the mud before reaching for his hand.
But in the hand he offers her, he still clutches the figurine of Priapus. The sight of it confounds her.
“Take it he says,” as if in a dying breath.
She grips his wrist and tries to pull him from the water, the heels of her wellies sinking deep. But the mud is too soft. The ground is collapsing beneath her weight. His wrist is slimy and wet, and she cannot maintain her grip.
Upstream, beyond the dammed water-course, comes a roaring like the wind in high bows, the foliage of tall ancient trees, a distant wall of sound growing louder and louder.
Turning to look, she sees it as an incoming wave, an inundation breaching the top of the dam. The water seems to arrange itself, congealing to take on features, features not quite human yet not quite monstrous, which she apprehends in seconds, fully understanding before the weight of the deluge finds Rupert and snatches him from her grip.
Sara watches him carried away, spun and twisted this way and that, the figurine momentarily held above his head, spiralling around and around in an insane polka with the water’s current.
And then he is gone, no hand, no arm, just the swirl and rage, the incessant onrush of water through their land, their little plot of dreams.
Sara sinks to her knees on the riverbank, the water still rising even though the rain has ceased, the moon clear of scudding clouds. It is breaching the lip of the channel they so recently constructed. If she remains here, she will be taken too.
She runs to the house and makes the call.
A year later, and she has used Rupert’s insurance money wisely. Two fields of surrounding pasture are hers now. The produce of her farm has gained a reputation, their animals fat and healthy, their produce sumptuous and sought after throughout the land.
The end.
