One Hundred Short Stories

6. Heads, Tails

Sound drifted from the hole in the cliff face like the gushing water behind him. Notes fell and lifted up to the sky, free birds in the ocean wind. The man shivered. His eyes were large and his hair was so thin from running his fingers through it repeatedly it was almost non-existent. His face was skeletal, his skin an unnatural white similar to off milk, stretched taut over his bones like the skin over a drum. His fingers fidgeted nervously with a dull twenty cent piece. Heads, tails, heads, tails. It had become a habit. Heads, tails, toss the coin, try your luck and lose again.

  Once he had been handsome. Once his hair was thick upon his head, a mess of golden straw that captured sunlight in its strands. Once his eyes were bright fragments of blue river that sparkled with laughter and knowledge.

  Then he grew old.

  Heads, tails, heads, tails, fight your battle, tooth and nail.

  The man took a step towards the dark hole. Shadows cloaked it in mystery and made it seem shallow, a slight dent in the cliff face perhaps, but somehow, although he had never been to this place before, he knew it was unimaginably deep.

  His eyes stared, transfixed by the darkness of the familiar melody. The discordant, slightly tinny notes seemed to have taken on a strange beauty of their own.

  Then the tune stopped and the balmy evening became silent again.

  His fingers’ fidgeting became quicker.

  “Heads, tails, heads, tails,” came a soft, whispery voice from behind him. The man’s fingers froze. A cold, spider-like hand crept up his shoulder and dusty breath tickled his neck, “Try to live, but know you’ll fail.”

  He screamed.

***

Bert was not often prone to nostalgia. He’d thrown out all his high-school year-books when he moved out of home without a second thought – even the one with Mandy Hazel’s signature in it; the large loopy writing in her trademark pink pen.

  And so, with all things considered, it was quite unusual for him to want his old toy box now.

  The yearning had come to him unexpectedly, in the middle of watching a talk show. The people on the screen had been discussing lost and stolen treasures, when suddenly there it was, wandering out of a cob-webby corner of his mind like a long-forgotten friend unexpectedly greeting you in the shopping centre: his toy box.

  “Why,” said he to himself, “It has been a long time since I saw that.” And with that he decided to find it.

  His joints creaked as he slowly got up from his worn orange armchair and switched off the television. Using a gnarled hand, he retrieved his walking stick and creaked up the stairs.

  Stairs. Why had he ever bought a house with stairs? Stupid, stupid man.

  This was the conversation he had with himself every time he had to go up or down them.

  The ladder on the landing was rickety. Bert placed his hands on either side and gripped it hard. It moved slightly. Doubt crept into his decision, like a shadowy visitor in the night. He gripped the ladder harder and steadied himself.

  Heads, tails, heads, tails, he thought as a way of calming himself. Do not tremble, do not quail.

  He rested one boot-clad foot on the first dusty rung and then lifted himself up to put on the other. The ladder trembled and creaked at his weight. He stepped up to the next rung.

  He wanted to reach into his pocket and touch the worn twenty cent piece. He wanted to turn it over in his hand to calm himself. Heads, tails, he thought firmly. Milk in pails.

  Another step, and then another. His head was in the attic. It smelt like dust and mould, and something older than both; dark things left to fester in the Alone place, rotten things buried under the earth to be forgotten, only to blossom into a great and terrible flower when the right time came.

  Slowly his eyes adjusted to the dark. He could just make out a few bulky objects in the gloom. Bert climbed the rest of the ladder and stepped into the attic, reaching above him to find the cord of the light. There it was, a skinny string in his hand. He pulled down and the light gave and loud click! then flooded the small space with a warm glow.

  A distant memory kicked in and he automatically turned left. Here the roof sloped downwards at a strange angle and make a small space that the light did not penetrate. He approached the shadows cautiously, his footsteps making the ancient floorboards creak. His hand reached into his pocket. Heads, tails, heads, tails …

  There it was. The little wooden toy box. Burns on the side, from when his friends had tried to set it on fire, after he claimed it was indestructible. An incomprehensible scribble of orange paint on the top from when he had tried to write his name for one of the first times.

  He knelt down next to the box and lifted to lid. His eyes pricked. Inside were all his childhood treasures: a yo-yo, a dog-eared copy of Treasure Island, a magnifying glass, a deck of cards, a treasure map he had created with his friends and an old cigarette lighter he had stolen the milk bar. He smiled when he remembered how rebellious he had felt. But wait …

  Something was missing.

***

“I’ve got a present for you,” said great-auntie Esmeralda. That had been the only sentence that could beckon him as a boy. That, and, “Bert! Come inside! It’s dinner time!”

  “What is it?” he asked shyly. His great-aunt shuffled towards him, a box in her hands. Eagerly he snatched it from her and yanked it open, only to see –

  “It’s a music box,” he said, disappointed. “That’s a girl’s toy. I don’t want it.” And he shoved it back into his great-auntie’s hands.

  She had been so offended she promptly left, despite Bert’s mother’s profuse apologies on his behalf. Bert saw the music box disappear behind a slammed door and was relieved.

  But somehow, it had found its way into his toy box.

***

He’d never really used it. But now he felt an itching urge to have the music box back, to have it playing its corny tune. His house and the toy box seemed incomplete without it. The walls seemed to press in on him –

  Then he heard the music playing. The familiar tune took on an unnatural, eerie quality in the attic. It echoed of the walls and bounced back at him, but it seemed to be coming from downstairs. Without a second thought, he picked up his body and followed the sound.

  Down the ladder, down the stairs. Back to the television – but wait – the sound had moved. Now it came from the garden.

  He followed the tinny music box tune down streets and alleyways and into the night. An eeriness crept onto him, settling in his belly like a restless snake. But still he followed the sound.

  Here he was. The sound had ceased. His scream had ceased. The night was silent.

  A shadowed figure bent down over Bert Johnson’s body and slid its unnaturally long fingers into the pocket of his coat. The man’s hand was clenched around something. The pale fingers prised his fist open, one finger at a time, like cracking open an ancient chest. The figure snatched the small object from inside the man’s fist and placed it carefully in its pocket. Then it walked away.

  Heads, tails, heads, tails.

  Try to live, but know you’ll fail.