Come Out Come Out Wherever You Are...
Justin Cawthorne
Come out, come out, wherever you are…
Justin Cawthorne
Copyright 2016 Justin Cawthorne
Come out, come out, wherever you are…
by Justin Cawthorne
“I have a tale to tell, gentlemen, if you have a care to listen.”
Our room, by that late hour, had filled with smoke and thick shadow, but I was seated close enough to Martin to see his face with a degree of clarity—and, therefore, to see the fear that crossed it as he uttered his invitation.
He had been quiet for much of the evening, taking his place with little presence as we exchanged our various tales of terror. As the night wore on, however, and our stories conspired to drain whatever comfort lingered within the room, I had observed him with increasing interest. The hours had seen him shrink further and further into his chair, retreating as though oppressed by a great and unwelcome realisation. I had, at any moment, expected him to announce that he was taking his leave of us. Instead, when he did finally speak, his offer seemed in direct contrast to his appreciation of the evening’s passage. My surprise at this turn only heightened my interest in whatever story he intended to craft for us.
It was, of course, questionable whether his nerves would permit him to deliver his tale with any measure of success; but our company was not the sort to spurn anyone’s story, especially when his first words were: “This is a true story.”
And, so, we sat in silence as Martin began.
“This event occurred when I was young—seven years old to be exact. I have never before considered this to be a … ghost story, but the nature of the tales we have shared tonight has forced me to call into question the judgement of my memories. I will, therefore, offer my story, and you gentlemen, in return, may offer your verdict.
“As you have already heard, I was a child at this time. My mother was in the habit of taking myself and my elder brother to my grandfather’s house. This took place with a sufficient degree of regularity to force a sense of resignation into a young child.
“My grandmother, you see, had passed on a few years prior. My mother, being the honest woman she was, had elected herself to a duty of care for our grandfather after his wife’s passing. I believe—now, more than I did then—that this was indeed driven by duty more so than love. I do not even believe she felt much for the man beyond the responsibility to look after someone who was, after all, her own blood.
“For my part, I remember him as a peculiar sort. There were times when I feared him, and other times when, even at my age, I was able to observe the sorrow that he carried with him. He appeared to me as the shadow of a man, eaten away by the grief that grew within him from his wife’s passing.
“It was only later in life that I learned the manner in which things are not always as they seem. Back then, all I knew was that my grandmother had taken a fall down the stairs; a fall that had claimed her life.
“Those days in my grandfather’s house were interminably dull. My mother would clean the house, take care of the laundry and take on whatever sundry tasks needed attention. All the while my grandfather merely sat in his chair and watched. There were some days when it seemed he did not say a single word. There was precious little to occupy me and my brother and, on the day in question, the heavens were falling which disbarred us from our usual avenue of escape into the garden and beyond.
“After some time, we entered into a game of hide and seek. In happier days both our grandparents had been known to join in. I recall, distantly, memories of the house being filled with our cries of ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are’. But there were yet undiscovered corners to be found and my grandfather’s house provided a fertile playground for the two fearless boys that we were. We played a number of rounds before taking ourselves upstairs.
“Now, at this point, it is incumbent upon me to explain that the upper level of the house was intended to be off-limits to us. Typically, we abided by that dictate, and had never thought to question it. However, confined as we were in the house, we developed a substantial desire to explore fresh territory. Further motivation was delivered by our own mother’s unambiguous declaration that our presence was proving an aggravation. Our grandfather, for his efforts, had fallen sound asleep in his chair.”
On hearing that line, one of the less courteous members of our group took the opportunity to announce: “I fear I, also, may succumb to sleep if this story doesn’t find its direction soon. Some of us may find domestic chores a topic of great distress, but this is surely no grounding for a worthy tale.”
Martin appeared unconcerned. It was my belief that the storytelling itself was the true value for him, and whether any of us were listening or not was immaterial.
“A timely comment,” he replied. “The point of my story—and the reason for me sharing it tonight—will become clear momentarily. If I may continue …?”
“Please do,” I said at once, before any further objections could be voiced.
Martin looked at me sharply, as if only just made aware of my presence. Then he nodded and resumed his tale.
“Now, the upstairs may have been far from sizeable—there were but two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a storage cupboard to be found in the hallway—but it did carry the benefit of the unfamiliar. There was a rich bounty of fresh places to hide, and my brother made it quickly known that he wished to be the first to capitalize. He ran and hid, as I stood out in the hallway, closed my eyes, and counted quietly to ten. At the count of ten I declared that the hunt was on with the traditional cry of: ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are’.
“I will confess that my brother was, in the majority of cases, the winner in our games. He possessed a preternatural ability to conceal himself. I was anticipating a lengthy hunt and was, therefore, surprised to be claiming victory after little more than a few moments.
“You see, as I began my hunt I had become aware of a heavy sound of breathing; as if from someone who had recently run a great distance. I followed the sound to its source—underneath the bed in the master bedroom—where I found it to be coming from my brother. My brother appeared distraught at being discovered so easily, but I was determined not to let that spoil my victory.
“‘Found you!’ I declared joyfully.
“He withdrew at once from his hiding place and stood up—still breathless—then ignored me as he looked around the room with eyes wilder than befitted such a keen player as my brother. Any alarm I might have experienced at this behaviour was diminished by my relief at being spared the usual outpouring of irritation at his being discovered. Being of a curious nature I did, however, ask him what was wrong.
“‘Nothing,’ he replied with some distraction, and then repeated it to himself. ‘Nothing. I bashed my head, that was all.’
“You may, as I did, judge this to be an unconvincing response. The more fitting response to hitting your head, in my youthful opinion, was to clutch your head and say something like ‘Ow!’ But my brother was stubborn, and continued to insist that this was indeed the case—and who was I to question my elder brother?
“Then, with an atypical intensity, he looked to me and reminded me that it was my turn to hide. I had no hesitation: I had already selected my place—a cupboard in the second bedroom. I barely waited for him to close his eyes and start counting. I climbed into the cupboard as quietly as I could manage, pulled the door to, and pressed myself into the deepest corner. Even at the time I questioned myself as to why I took that last step: once my brother opened the door the game would be up, pushing myself against the wall wouldn’t save me from discovery. Nevertheless, the moment I entered that cupboard I felt a compulsion to conceal myself as deeply as I could manage.
“I waited in the darkness. Then I heard my brother’s footsteps coming for me.
“I tell you that they were my brother’s footsteps because they could not have been anyone else’s. But I will also tell you that it was not the familiar tread of my brother’s feet that I heard approaching. There was a weight and import to the sound that my brother’s step lacked. I suggested to myself that we were in an old house, and perhaps things that were once familiar would sound different here. I see from the doubt in your faces that you are as convinced by this theory as I was.
“And so it was that those footsteps began to fill me with a deep foreboding. As I heard them enter the room a fully irrational fear seized me. My breath locked inside my chest. It was all I could do to avoid gasping in
