LJ Idol Week 11 Part 2: If the Creek Don't Rise
Let’s get this straight. I’m not one of those believers. Uh-uh. No sir-eeeee Bob. I don’t believe in none o’ that stuff.
My mum and daddy and my sister and brother, they all believed. But they were all a little dumb in the head, ya know what I mean? They didn’t understand that all this believing hooey is just stuff parents tell their young’uns to keep them in line.
Want to keep kids from invitin’ in some strangers? Tell ’em they might be vampires who’ll drink your blood! Want to keep kids from trying to escape the house at night? Tell ’em there might be werewolves who’ll want to bite ya and turn ya into one of them. Want your kids to learn some self-defense? Tell ’em there are zombies that are gonna try and eat them and the only way to defeat ’em is to knock their heads clean off.
And want to keep your kids away from rising creek waters? Well, tell ’em that’s where The Ghostly Goose roams and they won’t be doing any funny swimming in there, let me tell ya.
See? That’s what these stories are. Lessons. But my parents, and their parents, and lots of parents in our town, were (and some still are) just too hard-headed to see that. They think it’s all the gods’ honest truth, and they’ll swear by them till the day they die.
My mum spent her life trying to ward off these creatures that didn’t even exist. She kept strands of garlic over every door and every window and would go crazy if one us kids left somethin’ open for even a second or two.
“Are you tryin’ to get us all killed?” she would shriek at us, even when it was barely noon on a hot July day, and ain’t no vampires - fiction or otherwise - going to ask us if they could come in for some lemonade.
She had protection against werewolves. Flower bed after flower bed after flower bed of Wolfsbane, planted all around our house and all the way from the door to where Daddy parked the car.
She made me water it, for I was the oldest, every other day without fail. And then she went outside with her magnifying glass so she could make sure I was doing my due diligence to our family’s safety.
The most trouble I ever been in was the day I decided not to water the bloody plants. My mum said I was lucky she didn’t just leave me outside to be eaten. But speaking honestly, that probably woulda been better than that sad, betrayed look she kept givin’ me for weeks, like I had taken up arms against her personally instead of just skipping some stupid watering.
For the zombies, my mum had a pile of machetes in a basket next to the front door. She and Daddy taught us to use them the minute we were big enough to hold them. It probably wasn’t the best decision, since my lil’ brother chopped off my lil’ sister’s littlest finger, but Mum said lil’ sis didn’t need that finger anyway and knowing how to defend ourselves from the undead was worth more than a little flesh and bone.
See, I told ya my mum was not quite right in the head. Probably where my sister and brother got it from, because they didn’t think that sounded a bit off either.
But the worst thing? The absolute worst thing? The protection against The Ghostly Goose.
You see, we lived on a big ol’ piece of land, and near the back of that land, there ran this creek. Most of the time, it didn’t have much water. Just enough to dip your feet in on a hot summer day and splash around with your friends. But every once in a while, these ferocious as all heck rains would come stormin’ in and just dump loads and loads of water all over our town, and that creek would fill all the way up to its top and start spilling itself everywhere, and that’s when my mum would go crazy.
Because, according to my mum, The Ghostly Goose always showed up on the day after the storm, when the skies were blue and not a cloud was in sight, but the creek was still overflowing. And unlike with the other monsters, as soon as The Ghostly Goose saw you, that was it. You were doomed, fated to die a slow, painful death, just reliving horrible visions in your own mind. And whoever was closest to you at the time of the sighting - by geography, mind you, not some metaphor - was doomed to have to follow the ghost for all eternity, trying desperately to seek revenge that would never come.
“I will not die for you!” my mum would scream at us kids, when the storm started tearin’ in, and a day later, when the sun was trying to come out and dry up all the mess that was left, my mum was shutting us all in the house and barricading windows and doors so no one could see out and no one could see in. And then she made us all sit together, in a single room, so no one could be alone and risk a sighting. Even trips to the bathroom had to be done with the door open and someone standin’ guard.
For weeks, we would live that away, until my mum was sure that no water remained in the creek. And then she would let us out, and we would go back to school, and the teachers would be acting like we hadn’t just missed three weeks of class.
It was horrible. Beyond horrible. And the day I turned eighteen, I got the heck out of dodge and away from my mum and my daddy and my brother and my sister, and escaped into the farthest city I could find where I met others who also weren’t believers, and I was finally free.
I never saw my family again after that. Didn’t want to. But as far as I know, not a one of them died from a vampire or a werewolf or a zombie or some ghostly goose. My mum would say it was because of her preparation; I am proof she was just not right.
-
I got a letter in the mail last week. Said there’s no one else to claim the house and the land and by law it’s mine if I want it or some such nonsense. I don’t, not really, but yet I’m here, climbing these familiar steps to this familiar door and heading inside.
It’s full of dust in here. The machetes are rusted. The house stinks of decaying garlic. Half the windows are still boarded up.
I head out through the back, because there’s nothing else I want to see inside, and walk down the dry and dead lawn until I reach the creek. Water is spilling over the top of it, dampening my shoes as I move closer.
I keep moving toward it, almost like somethin’ is calling me. Maybe memories of all the times I got screamed at for wanting to go swim. But no one’s here now to tell me not to.
I put a toe in the river, out of spite for the ghost of my mum.
And then I see it. A flash out of the corner of my eye. I turn.
There is a goose standing there, looking at me. I stare at it. It stares back.
It’s just a goose, right?
I turn to run, the words of my mum screaming in my head, but it’s too late.
I see her face. In front of me, ready to haunt me for all eternity.
“I told ya so!” she cackles, shrill and loud.
And that is the last memory I will ever have.
Fiction. Or so they say.
Also, this is a companion piece to this entry, but you don't need to read one to understand the other!
This was written for Week 11 of therealljidol. I hope you enjoyed it! If you would like to read more entries, you can head over here. Voting should come Tuesday night!