The Gate

A short thriller, inspired by Roald Dahl’s short stories.

• Short story
• Fiction

								
It was another boiling summer day. A steady hum of cicadas cut through the dense humidity and I could taste the salt of sweat on my upper lip. Heat rippled through the atmosphere transforming my suburban street into a wobbly mirage. It was Sunday, so I had spent the early hours of my day mowing the front and back lawn, pushing the machine through the grass as the sun beat down on the nape of my neck. Physical labor paired with unfavorable weather conditions made a sweaty, achy home for self pity. By the time I was done with my chore, the cuff of my jeans was frosted with grass clippings and my hair stuck to the sides of my face. I wallowed, and concluded no fourteen year old boy deserved to be plagued with such a duty on a sweltering summer afternoon. 
I began to wheel the mower back to the shed. I lazily pushed it around back, the sour smell of freshly cut grass permeated through the thick, hot air. As I reached for the latch on the side gate, I could hear my kid sister alone in the garden muttering to herself, playing some epic make believe roll with one of her barbies or dolls. The screech of the gate creaking open interrupted her fantastical world of play and she looked up at me with her big brown eyes. “David!” She squealed, “Are you done with the lawn? Want to play with me?” She held up an action figurine and waved it at me from her squatting position amongst the clovers and dandelions. I recognized the character and anger bubbled up in my chest. She had gone into my room again, and stolen my things. 
“No, I don’t want to play Lizzie,” I said, snatching the toy from her. “And stop going into my room, or I’m gonna tell mom.” She frowned at me and flinched as I confiscated the stolen item. She pouted and looked at the ground, poking at a blade of grass with a twig. 
“But you never wanna play with me anymore,” she whined, her wispy blonde hair falling in front of her face. I ignored her and returned to putting away the mower. I haphazardly wrestled the ancient machine into the shed, shoving it between piles of other outdoorsy junk. Lizzie had resumed her whimsical game of pretend, and I turned around to unlock the gate to the front. It swung shut behind me but when I went to lock it, I pinched my finger between the metal latch and wood on the gate. Perfect. I thought, and added self mutilation to the list of things I had to wallow about. I locked the gate and headed inside, eager to escape the heat.
	As I entered the kitchen nursing my fresh wound, my mother danced around from counter to counter, mixing and blending. The air was clouded with cigarette smoke and rays of sun hung in the air, illuminating airborne smoke and flour. Next to the sink sat a fresh pitcher of lemonade, with beads of condensation collecting around its base. My mouth watered. I retrieved a glass and served myself; a fitting reward for a job well done. I downed nearly half the glass as the sweet and tangy juice dribbled down the corners of my mouth. 
“Finished the lawn,” I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand. My mother looked up from her furious stirring and chimed, “That's great honey, did you put the mower back?”
“Yeah mom, it's in the shed.” I sighed. I left it out one time last fall, and it rusted. Now it would appear I can't be trusted to store it properly, even after months of redemption. I sat at the kitchen island and reveled in the air conditioning. The sweat had dried and replaced its wetness with a sticky film, and I waited for my mother to remark on my hagrid appearance. She stubbed out her lipstick stained cigarette and as though on cue began to remark, “Why don't you go take a shower Dav- '' but was interrupted by a terrible screech of rubber against asphalt, followed by the most dreadful, sickening thud I ever heard. I froze and locked eyes with my mother, as the realization hit. She set down the rag she was holding and rushed out the side door to the garden. 
“Lizzie? Elizabeth?” she called, and a deep nauseating doom set in. The screen door to the kitchen sprung open and swung on its hinges. A hot wave of anxiety washed over me as my mother continued her calls, increasingly more desperate with every wail. Outside I could hear car doors opening, and distant chatter. Panicked chatter. The front gate slammed shut and I watched in slow motion as my mother, in her blue cotton dress and stained apron, sprinted across the lawn, losing one of her shoes in the process. I had never seen her run like that before. She was always very poised with a dainty sort of agility, but today she was just a mess of blue, flashing out of view. Then, I heard it; and I knew what had happened. I heard my mother cry out, releasing a terrible, guttural shriek of panic and horror. No. It wasn't a shriek, or even a scream. It was more primal, deeper, like an agonized groan or growl. Like a wounded animal, not a woman. Her wails seeped through the walls and echoed through my head. Nothing felt real. I couldn't move, I was latched to the counter, still clutching the empty glass of lemonade. I felt sick. I thought I might throw up. I realized I was holding my breath and tried to release it, but my throat was too tight and I choked on the air. I waited. I didn't know what for. Maybe I waited for Lizzie and my mother to come through that screen door, and tell me it was ok. Tell me that what my body already knew was wrong, that it was somehow mistaken. That the gruesome imaginings flashing through my head were indeed made up. Screech. Thud. The thud. THUD. God, what a sickening sound. My mother’s howls continued and I knew I didn't want whatever I was waiting for. I couldn't stand it. I had to move, had to confirm- no, disprove this horrifying reality. I stumbled out of my chair and rushed to the front door. As the nob clicked, I hesitated. When this door swung open, whatever truth lay directly in front of me would become undeniable. The safety of uncertainty would be abolished and I would be thrust into harsh, bleak, inescapable reality. But I had to know. I had to see. I swung the door open and was momentarily blinded by the sun. My eyes adjusted and then there she was. Just a few yards in front of me. The car was a pine green pick up, and it sat in the middle of the road still running with its front doors hanging open. In front of it lay my six year old sister, crumpled a few feet in front of the bumper. She looked like one of her dolls, filled with sand and limp; her own limbs folding over themselves in an inhuman manner. Her blonde hair was just a pile of matted red, and there was a piece of her scalp that had been torn off, exposing the white of her skull. There was a crowd forming, as mothers shielded the eyes of their children and ushered them back inside. The men gathered around the truck, puzzled and deeply saddened. One man came out with a sheet of some sort, and walked towards my mother. She was curled up on the ground, with her hands clutching her chest. As she rocked back and forth she wailed and screamed, 

								Rate this book:5.0 / 2 votes