An Ordinary Afternoon

Guiding our vehicle into the driveway, I couldn’t shake the heaviness that seemed to hang in the air, mirroring the oppressive cloud cover blanketing Hobart. The wintry sun barely managed to pierce through the grey, its weak rays doing little to warm the world or my spirits. The muted light transformed our weatherboard house, once a place of comfort and familiarity, into something shadowy and unwelcoming. Even the cheerful trim around the windows seemed dulled, the whole scene steeped in a quiet foreboding.

When I turned off the engine, silence descended, thick and unsettling. Only the soft ticking of the cooling motor and Sammy’s gentle, rhythmic breathing from the back seat punctuated the stillness. For a moment, I didn’t move, my hands still gripping the steering wheel as though it were an anchor. My knuckles were white with tension, the ache in my fingers unnoticed amid the storm in my mind.

The events of the morning replayed in an endless loop. Dr. Carmichael’s calm yet probing questions. Sammy’s unsettling whispers. The promise of more tests, more waiting, more unknowns. Each memory seemed to pile onto the growing knot of anxiety in my stomach, its weight threatening to crush me.

My gaze drifted instinctively to where Nial’s ute should have been parked, the empty space glaring at me like a missing puzzle piece. The sight of the vacant driveway struck a discordant note, amplifying the unease that had been steadily building since we left Dr. Carmichael’s office. Where was he? Nial had mentioned that he’d only be gone a couple of hours. He should have been home by now.

With trembling fingers, I reached for my mobile, the harsh blue glow of the screen cutting through the dim interior of the car. Scrolling through my notifications, I found no missed calls, no messages—nothing to explain his absence. “Hmm,” I murmured aloud, though the sound carried little conviction. The worry was rising again, creeping into my voice despite my best efforts to keep it at bay.

The questions I’d tried to suppress all day surged to the forefront of my mind. Where is Nial? Why hasn’t he called to check-in about Sammy? My thoughts flitted back to the strange car I’d seen earlier outside our house. To Dr. Carmichael’s furrowed brow and Sammy’s cryptic murmurs. It all felt connected, though I couldn’t piece together how. Was I overthinking it, letting my fears twist every detail into something sinister? Or was there really something darker at play, lurking just beneath the surface of our lives?

I closed my eyes, trying to centre myself with a deep breath. The familiar scent of the leather seats mixed with the piney aroma of the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. Nial had picked it, saying it reminded him of camping trips from his youth, the kind of carefree moments that felt like we hadn’t known in far too long. The smell was a small but tangible comfort, a fragile tether to the normal life I was so desperate to cling to.

“Mummy.” Sammy’s voice from the backseat broke through my spiralling thoughts. His tone was soft, but it carried a weight that startled me. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I met his eyes, wide and blue like Nial’s. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something in them—fear, perhaps, or an understanding far beyond his years. It was unnerving, but before I could dwell on it, the flicker disappeared, replaced by the impatient wiggle of a child eager to escape the confines of his car seat.

“Coming, mate,” I replied, my voice bright and cheerful, the kind of forced enthusiasm that had become second nature. My theatre training had taught me to deliver convincing performances, and this was no different. Sammy had been through enough for one day; he didn’t need to see the cracks forming in his mother.

Unbuckling my seatbelt and reaching for the door handle, I steeled myself against the tide of worry threatening to pull me under. Whatever this was, whatever was happening to my family, I couldn’t let it break me. Not yet. Sammy needed me to be strong. And for him, I would find a way to keep going, no matter how dark the road ahead seemed.

As soon as his little feet hit the ground, Sammy darted towards the front door, a blur of energy that seemed out of step with the oppressive stillness around us. I followed quickly, catching up just in time to steady him as he wobbled on the last of the three steps leading up to the front porch. The wood creaked beneath our combined weight, a sound I’d always found comforting in its familiarity. But today, it felt different—less a gentle protest from our old home, more a groan of unease, as if the house itself could sense the tension that had settled over us.

With a determined shove from Sammy, the door unlocked with a click that seemed unnaturally loud, the sound reverberating in the quiet of the street. I hesitated, glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see a neighbour peering out from behind their curtains, their curiosity piqued by the jarring sound. But the street remained eerily empty, the other houses standing silent and still, their windows darkened under the heavy winter sky.

Sammy yanked on my arm, breaking my moment of unease as he rushed inside, his excitement unbridled and oblivious to the undercurrent of wrongness I couldn’t shake. “Sammy! To your bedroom. It’s nap time!” I called after him, my voice carrying down the hallway with a firm but gentle tone.

Instead of obeying, he tore past the open office door, his little feet thudding against the floorboards as he headed straight for the kitchen. It wasn’t his disobedience that stopped me in my tracks, though—it was the sight of the open office door.

My heart stuttered as I stared at it, the wrongness of it slamming into me like a physical blow. Nial was meticulous about his office. He never left it unlocked, let alone ajar. The thought sent a chill coursing through me, and I called out, my voice betraying a flicker of hope. “Nial? Are you home?”

Silence. The house gave no reply, no creak of floorboards or sound of familiar footsteps to fill the void.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Buffy emerge from the office, her tail wagging lazily as she trailed Sammy down the hallway. Her presence was both comforting and unsettling. If Nial was home, why hadn’t he greeted us? And if he wasn’t, why was the office door open?

Clutching at the fragile mask of normality, I pushed aside the unease gnawing at my thoughts and turned back toward the car to retrieve the groceries. The weight of the bags seemed heavier than usual, or perhaps it was the weight of everything else—the unanswered questions, the growing sense of dread—that made them feel so burdensome.

As I reached into the backseat, an eerie tingle prickled up my neck, the sensation crawling over my skin and leaving the fine blonde hairs on my arms standing on end. I paused, glancing around the front yard, the mundane scene suddenly charged with tension.

The neatly trimmed lawn and native garden beds stretched out before me, a testament to Nial’s pride in maintaining our home. Every detail was so typically him—carefully tended, painstakingly orderly. He’d poured so much of himself into creating this space, a beautiful sanctuary for our family.

The thought of him brought a pang of longing and worry, sharp enough to make me catch my breath. Where are you, Nial? I thought, the question looping endlessly in my mind as I balanced the heavy bags in my arms. It wasn’t just the mystery of his absence that weighed on me—it was the silence, the gaping void where his presence should have been. Something wasn’t right. I felt it in my bones.

Buffy’s bark rang out, sharp and gruff, shattering the oppressive silence that had wrapped itself around the house.

My head snapped up, my eyes immediately darting to where she stood on the top step, her body rigid, ears pricked forward. She was staring intently at the bushes by the side fence, her tail motionless—a rare and unnerving sight for a dog usually so animated. “What is it, Buffy?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady, though a thread of fear wove its way through my tone.

She barked again, the sound echoing into the quiet street and sending a shiver cascading down my spine. For a moment, she stood rooted to the spot, her focus unbroken. Then, just as suddenly, she cocked her head, gave me a strange, almost questioning look, and trotted back inside as though nothing had happened.

I lingered, my gaze following hers to the side fence. Through the sparse bushes, I could see the weathered wooden palings, their surfaces dappled with rainwater. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary—no movement, no shapes lurking in the shadows. And yet, the uneasy sensation remained, like an itch I couldn’t reach.

“Get a grip, Jenny,” I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to turn away. The groceries weren’t going to unpack themselves. Reaching back into the car, I grabbed the last bag, my fingers fumbling slightly as I hauled it out.

Before heading inside, I hesitated, giving the front yard and street one last sweep with my eyes. The neighbourhood remained as still and quiet as before, the other houses standing in resolute silence. I locked the car door with an exaggerated click, double-checking it—something I’d never done until recently. The front door got the same treatment, my fingers brushing over the cool metal of the latch, ensuring it was secure.

The act of locking up, once so automatic, now felt like a ritual. A defence against the creeping unease that seemed to be seeping into every corner of my life.

Inside, the warmth of the house should have been a comfort, but it only heightened the sense of stillness. Buffy had settled in the corner of the living room, her head resting on her paws, but her eyes remained open, tracking my movements as I carried the bags to the kitchen. Her unusual quietness added another layer to the unease gnawing at my mind.

On my way back from the front hall, I passed Nial’s office. The door was slightly ajar, just enough to invite a peek inside. My steps faltered, and I found myself pausing, curiosity overriding the sense of unease that had been my constant companion all day.

Nial was meticulous about keeping his office closed, and the sight of the door ajar unsettled me. Slowly, I stepped closer and peeked inside. His desk was there, decorated with the usual assortment of invoices, blueprints, and scribbled notes.

Something caught my eye—a sheet of paper near the edge of the desk. Unlike the others, this one seemed deliberately placed, as though it had been consulted recently. I moved closer, my gaze narrowing as I took in the list scrawled across the page. Names and addresses, some violently crossed out with heavy, angry lines. My stomach twisted as one name leapt out at me: Dr. Carmichael.

I felt the air leave my lungs in a sharp rush. My mind scrambled to make sense of it. Why would Nial have a list of names? Why would Dr. Carmichael, of all people, be on it? And what could it possibly mean that his name—along with several others—had been crossed out?

My hand trembled as I reached for the paper, my fingers hovering just above its surface. The questions swirled faster, pulling me into a vortex of speculation and fear.

The creak of a floorboard snapped me out of my spiralling thoughts. The sound echoed through the house, sharp and sudden, like a warning shot. My heart jolted into overdrive as I whipped my head toward the hallway, my breath catching in my throat.

“Nial?” I called out, though my voice was barely above a whisper. Silence answered.

Clutching the paper tightly in my hand, I stepped back from the desk, my pulse thundering in my ears. Every instinct screamed for me to retreat, to put distance between myself and the unsettling clues on Nial’s desk. I carefully laid the paper back where I’d found it, my hand shaking as I smoothed it down.

With deliberate calm, I pushed the office door shut, the creak of the hinges grating against the silence. The click of the latch felt unnaturally loud, reverberating through the still hallway. I gave the door a gentle nudge to ensure it stayed closed, as though sealing it away might also contain the disquiet it had unleashed.

I stood there for a moment, my hand still resting on the doorknob, listening intently to the house. The usual creaks and groans of the old weatherboard home sounded louder, more pronounced, each one carrying a weight that set my nerves on edge.

Every instinct told me something was wrong, that Sammy and I weren’t alone. But the silence stretched on, unbroken, and I forced myself to move, my feet heavy as I carried the groceries towards the kitchen. Each step felt like an effort, as though the weight of the house itself was pressing down on me, urging me to stop, to listen.

But there was nothing—just the house and the questions it refused to answer.

Continuing down the hallway, I called out softly, “I’ll be there in just a minute,” my voice carrying the gentle reassurance of a mother’s promise. Yet, beneath the calmness, there was an undercurrent of tension I couldn’t entirely hide. As I passed by Sammy’s door, I stole a glance inside, my heart softening at the sight of him perched on his bed, his small fingers delicately turning the pages of his favourite picture book.

In the kitchen, I hefted the last grocery bag onto the bench with an exaggerated groan, a theatrical flourish that was as instinctive as it was unnecessary. The performance was for no one but myself, an attempt to impose some levity on the oppressive weight of the day. The theatre had always been in my blood, my flair for the dramatic spilling into moments as mundane as unpacking groceries.

I began unpacking the bags on autopilot, my hands moving mechanically as my thoughts spiralled back to the list I’d found in Nial’s office. The names, the violent strokes crossing some of them out, the inclusion of Dr. Carmichael. The implications loomed large in my mind, each possibility darker than the last. Was it tied to his work? Or did it point to something far more insidious? The questions churned endlessly, each one more unsettling than the last, making it hard to focus on the simple task in front of me.

The sharp crash from outside jolted me like a slap, yanking me out of my racing thoughts. I froze mid-motion, a tin of beans clutched tightly in my hands. My heart thundered in my chest as I strained to identify the sound. Had the wind knocked over the bins? Or was it something more? Something sinister?

The silence that followed was deafening, every creak of the old house amplified as I stood there, listening intently. No more sounds came, no footsteps, no voices, just the heavy stillness pressing against my eardrums. Swallowing hard, I tried to push away the surge of paranoia clawing at the edges of my rationality.

Abandoning the groceries mid-task, I made my way back to Sammy’s room. His sanctuary. “We’re late today, so you can just have a short nap,” I told him gently, reaching for the book in his hands. He resisted for only a moment before surrendering it with a small pout, allowing me to coax him under the blanket.

His room felt like a cocoon of safety, the soft glow of the nightlight casting warm, comforting shadows on the walls. The hand-painted clouds on the ceiling seemed to drift lazily, a soothing backdrop to the innocence of childhood that still lingered here. But as I tucked him in, smoothing the blanket over his small frame, the weight of an ominous thought pressed heavily on my chest: that innocence was under siege. The shadows I feared weren’t confined to his nightmares—they were real, encroaching on our lives, and I didn’t know how to stop them.

As I turned off his light, a flicker in the hallway caught the corner of my eye. I froze, the sensation sharp and immediate, like cold water down my back. My arms prickled with goosebumps, my body’s instinctive response to a threat I couldn’t see. My heart quickened, the steady rhythm becoming a thunderous drumbeat that echoed in my ears.

I glanced down at Sammy, relief flooding me when I saw his eyelids softly closed, his breathing even and peaceful. Whatever had sent a shiver through me hadn’t touched him, hadn’t invaded this moment of quiet.

Leaning down, I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and pressed a soft kiss against his warm skin. “Sleep well, Sammy,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my chest. The words felt more like a plea than a wish, a prayer sent to no one in particular that I could shield him from the encroaching darkness, from whatever was coming for us.

As I stood, the hallway beyond his door loomed, its shadows deeper, more oppressive than they should have been. I forced myself to leave the room, closing the door partway behind me, and stepped back into the uneasy silence of the house.

The sensation of unease clung to me as I stepped back into the hallway. The house felt subtly, inexplicably different—like a stage just before the curtain rises, the atmosphere charged with anticipation. It was as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something I couldn’t yet see. Every creak of the floorboards beneath my feet seemed amplified, each shadow cast by the dim hallway light stretching a fraction too long.

Then, a loud thud echoed from the kitchen, shattering the fragile stillness. My heart leapt into my throat, its frantic pounding reverberating through my chest. I glanced back at Sammy’s room, my eyes lingering on the soft rise and fall of his tiny chest. His breathing remained steady, undisturbed by the noise that had sent my own thoughts spiralling into panic.

Should I wake him? Grab him and run? The questions raced through my mind, each one colliding with the next. But where would we go? And what if I’m overreacting?

I tiptoed across the floor, my movements slow and deliberate, my ears straining for the faintest sound. The hallway stretched before me, empty and unassuming, its silence almost mocking. I longed for Nial’s steadying presence, the way his arms could ground me even in the worst moments. But he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here all day, and whatever was waiting in that kitchen, I had to face it alone.

A sudden rustling sound from the kitchen made me freeze, my pulse quickening. My hand shot out instinctively, grasping the nearest object within reach—a small photo frame on the side unit. The sharp metallic edges of the frame offered a paltry sense of protection, but it was better than nothing.

Glancing down at the photo within, my breath hitched. It was from last summer: Nial, Sammy, and me, all beaming at the camera with sunburnt noses and carefree smiles. The sight of it sent a pang of longing through my chest, a sharp ache for the life we’d had before shadows began creeping into our world.

Clutching the frame tightly, I edged toward the kitchen, every step deliberate and measured. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, the distance to the kitchen door yawning wider with each step. My grip tightened on the frame, the edges digging into my palm as adrenaline coursed through me, sharpening every detail.

As I rounded the corner, I burst through the kitchen doorway with a sharp turn, the photo frame raised defensively, ready for anything. The scene that greeted me wasn’t the danger I had feared, but neither was it the relief I’d hoped for.

“Buffy! Get out of it!” My voice was a hushed shriek, more exasperated than angry, but still mindful of Sammy sleeping nearby.

Our Dalmatian stood in the middle of the kitchen, her paws braced against a tipped-over grocery bag, happily lapping up milk from a carton she had managed to puncture. The sticky white liquid pooled across the linoleum, glinting faintly in the afternoon light. Buffy’s tail wagged furiously, her delight at the forbidden treat unspoiled by my scolding.

Relief coursed through me, washing away the tension that had coiled in my chest like a spring. I set the photo frame down on the counter with a trembling hand, my heart beginning to slow from its frenzied rhythm.

“Go nap with Sammy,” I said, nudging her gently with my foot towards the kitchen door. Buffy complied with a mix of guilt and excitement, her tail wagging as she trotted out. But as she passed, my gaze caught on her coat, speckled with tiny leaves and twigs.

I frowned. Her white fur was usually spotless, thanks to her obsessive grooming and my frequent brushing. Had she been in the bushes by the fence? Was that what she’d been barking at earlier?

The thought prickled at the edges of my mind as I grabbed a cloth and crouched to clean up the spilled milk. The task was mundane, grounding, but it did little to settle the unease that had taken root. The oddities of the day piled up like the scattered groceries on the floor: the thud, the open office door, the strange car I’d seen earlier, and now Buffy’s dishevelled state.

As I wiped up the mess, I tried to shake the nagging thoughts that clung to me like the milk’s sticky residue. Surely, this was just a chaotic day compounded by my fraying nerves. But deep down, I knew better. The small incidents—the spilled milk, Buffy’s bark, the rustling outside—felt like the tremors that precede an earthquake.

The calm before the storm wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like the storm had already arrived, despite it creeping ever closer, just out of sight.

"Finally," I murmured under my breath, a sigh escaping my lips as though it had been waiting all day for release. The sound hung in the air for a moment, a fragile bubble of calm in a house that seemed to hold its breath alongside me. With Buffy now stretched out beside Sammy's bed, her quiet presence offering an unspoken assurance, and the kitchen restored to its usual order, I could steal a precious moment for myself.

I sank into my favourite recliner, the worn leather moulding to my frame like an old friend. It was my sanctuary, the one spot in the house where I could let my guard down, even if only for a little while. The soft creak of the chair as I settled into its embrace was familiar and comforting—though this afternoon, it seemed louder, sharper, like an intrusion into the house’s unnatural quiet.

Reaching for the book on the small coffee table beside me, I let my fingers trail over the familiar grooves of its worn cover. The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris. The title glinted faintly in the dim light, its promise of suspense and psychological intrigue drawing me in even as I acknowledged the irony. Here I was, seeking solace in a story of fear and danger while my own life seemed poised on the precipice of something just as harrowing.

As I picked it up, a small piece of paper fluttered loose, landing softly on the armrest. My makeshift bookmark—a chemist receipt. I picked it up, the neat, clinical text staring back at me: Triffett, Samuel - Prescription #4721.

My chest tightened as I read it, the weight of the last week pressing down on me anew. The date on the receipt—just seven days ago—felt like a cruel joke. How had time moved so quickly and yet dragged so unbearably slow? The medication it referenced sat on the shelf in the bathroom, the one thing that seemed to stand between Sammy and the horrors waiting in his sleep.

A fresh wave of anxiety rippled through me as I folded the receipt carefully and slid it back between the pages. How had our lives unravelled so quickly? The cheerful boy who used to giggle uncontrollably during bedtime stories now woke screaming in the night, his small body trembling with fears he couldn’t articulate. And Nial—where was he now? His absence loomed larger with each passing hour, and the questions I’d been trying to bury surged to the surface, sharper and more insistent than ever.

I shook my head, pushing the thoughts aside. For now, I needed to escape. The book in my hands offered the promise of another world, one where the chaos and darkness were contained within its pages, not spilling over into every corner of my reality.

Gently, I opened the book to where I’d left off, the spine protesting softly as it stretched. The sound immediately reminded me of the floorboards in Nial’s office, and my heart gave an involuntary jolt. My gaze flicked toward the hallway, half-expecting to see a shadow slipping silently past the doorway. But there was nothing—just the dim, empty stretch of wood-panelled walls and the faint hum of the house.

I took a deep breath, willing myself to relax. “Chapter Nine,” I read aloud, my voice a quiet tether pulling me into the story. It was a habit of mine, a small ritual that helped me transition from the whirlwind of my daily life into the imagined worlds I loved. The familiar words flowed like a balm, each sentence peeling away a layer of tension as I let myself be drawn into the tale.

As I began to read, the world around me melted away, dissolving into a soft blur at the edges of my awareness. The lingering tension of the day—Nial’s prolonged absence, the gnawing unease that had followed me like a shadow—faded into a dull hum. Even the comforting warmth of my living room seemed to retreat, leaving me untethered, free to drift into the story that unfolded in my hands.

No longer just Jenny, the overburdened mother, worried wife, and cleaner of spilt milk, I became an adventurer, a silent witness to the determined pursuit of Clarice Starling as she unravelled the dark threads of her investigation. The words flowed effortlessly, each one painting vivid images in my mind. The gritty details of Clarice’s world came alive, her bravery cutting through the oppressive danger like a beacon.

Her unwavering resolve resonated with me in a way it never had before. Clarice wasn’t just a character anymore; she was a reflection, her journey a distorted mirror of my own turmoil. Like her, I felt the weight of something sinister lurking at the edges of my reality, intangible but undeniably present. Her dogged pursuit of answers felt achingly familiar.

A shiver coursed through me as I read on, the parallels unsettling. The sense of being out of her depth yet pressing forward, guided by instinct and necessity. The knowledge that something was deeply wrong, even if she couldn’t yet define it. And the gut-wrenching certainty that time was running out. It all hit too close to home.

The warmth of the room did little to banish the chill that ran down my spine. I paused, lifting my gaze from the book and taking in the stillness around me. The house was unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies every creak and tick, making even the faintest sound a jarring intrusion.

The clock on the mantelpiece caught my attention, its soft ticking cutting through the silence. Each measured beat seemed louder now, echoing in the room as if marking time for something unseen. The steady rhythm was hypnotic, a quiet reminder of the minutes slipping away.

I returned my focus to the book, but my eyes struggled to stay open, the lines on the page beginning to blur. The story’s grip on me faltered as fatigue crept in, its weight heavy and insistent. I blinked hard, trying to banish the haze that blurred the words into an illegible jumble of black ink.

“Just a few more pages,” I murmured, my voice soft and hoarse from the day’s strain. But even as I spoke, a yawn overtook me, pulling my jaw wide as my grip on the book slackened. My hands, once so firmly holding onto the pages, began to falter.

The recliner’s embrace was too inviting, its leather cushions moulding around me like a cocoon. The clock’s ticking, rhythmic and soothing, became a lullaby. I felt myself sinking deeper, the tension in my shoulders loosening, the storm of thoughts quieting to a distant murmur.

The day’s worries—Sammy’s worsening condition, Nial’s baffling absence, the oddities that had marked the hours—drifted to the back of my mind, replaced by the heavy pull of exhaustion.

My last thought before surrendering to the weight of sleep was of Sammy, safe and peaceful in his room, with Buffy faithfully keeping watch. I clung to that image as if it were a talisman, a reassurance against the unease that had haunted me.

“Just a quick nap,” I whispered to myself, my words slurred as my eyelids fell shut. The book slipped from my hands, resting against my chest as I sank fully into the recliner. “Just five minutes…”

The ticking of the clock continued, steady and unyielding, as I drifted off, the house falling into a silence that felt too deep to be natural.