The Stranger
“Marge, put the kettle on will you?”, a kindly voice grunted from underneath the house.
Attentively, Marge stood and strode over to the kitchen, enjoying the pleasant sensation of her plush new rug underneath her feet. This was a good purchase. He was a good man for all the little luxuries he’d given her over the past forty years.
As Marge waited for the kettle to boil, the front doorbell rang. The tones of Greensleeves echoed throughout the spacious hallway, reverberating off the many picture frames, 1990’s style photos of little children peeking out from oval casings, next to more modern photos of grandchildren, captured on iPhones and printed cheaply online.
The faces watched her as she strolled to the front door where through the glass pane, she could see a tiny, stout old man wearing a top hat, a very unusual choice for a hot summers’ day in Sydney. She paused at the door as the stranger gestured frantically for her to open it. As a flicker of suspicion ran across her shoulder blades, Marge called through the glass,
“Hello? Can I help you?”
She watched the man’s mouth contort as he pushed out sentences, but he spoke so softly she couldn’t make out any of the words.
Perhaps he’s lost – from the dementia ward up the street? The proper thing to do, really, is to phone the police.
Her tone turning syrupy sweet, satisfied she knew now the cause for this strange fellow on her doorstep mumbling incoherently, she called through the glass,
“I’ll be right back, dear, just going to make a quick phone call – please stay there”
The man began shuffling his hands through his trouser pockets. Suddenly he thrust a small, thin square at the glass, pressing it indignantly into the clear structure. Marge furrowed her brow, and bent to look closer, pulling her glasses to her eyes from the chain around her neck.
Her eyes widening and breath catching in her throat, she made eye contact with the man who gave a knowing smirk. Holding up a finger, she marched her small frame back through the hallway, to beneath where the photo stood. On one of her frames, towards the back of the house, it was still there. The photograph of her children playing at the park, 30-year-old Bill holding 2-year-old Abby while 5-year-olds Connor and Matthew played on the seesaw. Usually, the photograph filled her with pangs of nostalgia. Today, the dread began to swirl through her stomach and into her throat.
How did a perfect stranger get a copy of this?
Turning on her heel, white anger flowing through her, she charged backwards toward the door and flung it open for the first time, glowering at the man as he stood serenely on her doorstep.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “How did you get this?”
“Why don’t you ask Bill who I am?” he responded, his voice suddenly clear and strong, his spine morphing to become rigid and tall.
Marge’s thoughts raced as she absorbed his words. Something about him was deeply off. As she opened her mouth to lie and say that Bill wasn’t home, she heard a familiar creak behind her in the hallway. Along strode Bill, half a hastily made ham sandwich shovelled into his mouth, his solid six-foot frame providing familiar comfort.
“Gidday love” Bill said as he bent to kiss Marge on the cheek, holding his body away from her. Marge felt herself soften. “Sorry, its so bloody dirty under that house.” He turned to face the stranger. “Hello mate, are you collecting for charity?” He bent to squint at the photograph the stranger still clutched in his left hand, suddenly recoiling as he registered the faces in the photograph. Looking the stranger up and down, Marge watched Bill’s chest expand as his brow knitted into confusion, then shifted into shocked recognition.
“You’d better come in” the taller man muttered; his half-eaten sandwich forgotten in his hand.
The stranger sailed past Marge triumphantly, his eyes gloating in the afternoon sun. As she followed the men, Marge noticed a slim leather briefcase in the man’s left hand.
In the kitchen, the faint click of the kettle indicated that it was time for tea.
Yes, I was supposed to have been making tea.
As he lowered himself into a seat at the quaint, round kitchen table, the stranger placed his top hat and briefcase on its surface. As he removed his hat, he revealed fine wisps of hair over a mostly balding head. When Marge presented him with a large mug, he slurped it noisily, as if he hadn’t had the satisfaction for quite some time.
“Bill, it’s been quite a journey.” the small man announced. “I’ve had a lot to carry over these years. They’re heavy, aren’t they, secrets?” He flickered his gaze at Marge who stood behind the kitchen bench, keen to put a firm structure between her and the visitor. From her position, she noticed a faint stench of decay emanating from their guest’s direction, and she opened one of the doors.
Bill plonked his mug of builder’s tea onto the white linen cloth as he sat opposite the stranger. His shoulders hitched high; he faced the stranger with a nervousness that unsettled Marge even more than the stranger’s sudden arrival.
“I’m sure it would be” Bill offered, failing to keep his tone smooth. Clearing his throat, he added “You look like you’ve had a long journey mate, for sure”.
The stranger smiled as he opened his briefcase and rummaged through it. “There’s a long laundry list here for you both to take a look at, Margaret and William Platt” he said as he began to place an array of items on the table. Marge lifted her chin and bent her neck forward, unable to contain her curiosity. There on the table lay childhood photographs of her children, more copies of the memories that lined the walls.
All right, so he’s been sending this man photographs. Is he a long lost relative? Does he owe money? Oh goodness – are we in trouble?
As the photographs continued to be produced, she saw among them some black and white photographs, which she realised with a shock were her parents on their wedding day. Then, documents, birth certificates, the swirl of yesteryears handwriting. Unable to help herself, Marge took a step closer and recognised the names of her grandparents. Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped back, seeing the familiar objects of the kitchen seem to morph before her, the violation streaking through her.
Finally, the man produced a spherical crystal ornament, which he lifted proudly for a moment as he grinned at Marge.
“I found it, Marge” he grinned as a shudder ran through her.
Mum’s ornament!
Her eyes flashed to her husband, who had turned white as a sheet, as he stared blankly at the mounds of precious items on their table. The wafts of steam rising from Bill’s cup of tea were the only movements from his side of the room. As she absorbed Bill’s response, Marge’s stomach dropped as panic snaked around the back of her neck.
“Now”, the stranger continued. “This is just to let you know I’m serious. I have many more -”
“Who are you?!” Marge heard herself demand again, stamping her foot. She turned to her husband. “Bill, what is this?”
Bill took a deep inhale to speak but was interrupted by the stranger.
“Bill here made a deal with us on, oh, was it the 5th of May 1984?” he supplied. Bill nodded shakily. “Yes, it must’ve been the 5th of May, because you met each other on the 6th, didn’t you?”
Silence.
“Marge, dear, I’m speaking to you” the stranger insisted, raising an eyebrow in her direction.
“I… I suppose… it must’ve been around then” she finished lamely. She felt the images of the photographs on the hallway wall staring at her.
“Yes, exactly. Well done. That was the first time you met Bill, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t the first time he’d seen you. Care to elaborate, Bill? I’m sure your wife is dying to know what I’m here to collect”.
Marge met Bill’s eyes; the same soft, familiar brown she’d known forever, through countless moments of crisis and peace. Silently, his eyes pleaded with Marge, as she searched his.
What have you done?
Slicing through their moment, the stranger interrupted, merrily “I’ve come to take you, Marge. Now, I understand this is a shock, please don’t be too disheartened, you can take up to two small possessions with you though they must both be handheld. You will be holding them for eternity, mind, so I’d choose something lightweight…”
Still holding Bill’s gaze, Marge’s mouth dropped. Her head felt full of wispy cumulous clouds, and she grabbed hold of the kitchen bench to steady herself.
This can’t be happening.
“Absolutely not!” she pleaded. “I don’t know who you are or how the hell you’ve concocted all this, but you need to leave! Bill, show him out!” she finished, her voice rising to a fever pitch.
Bill sat, motionless.
“Bill!” Marge screeched again.
With a heavy sigh, finally, Bill began. “When I saw you, those years ago, I was in a terrible place. I was a drunk, a failure, and I saw you walking with your friends. You were laughing, so at peace, so happy. I thought “God Almighty, what I wouldn’t give to be the kind of man a woman like her could be with.”
Bill cleared his throat and broke eye contact, staring sadly down at the table.
“What did you do?” Marge whispered, her eyes wide with panic.
Quietly, he continued, “Then this bloke showed up, and said I could have you, if I wanted. I was so desperate, and he said I’d be restored to my full health, I’d be able to be the kind of man you should have. I could have a family…”
At the mention of their children, Bill’s voice cracked, and tears sprang into his eyes.
“I made a deal with him that I could have you for forty years, and after that, he’d… take you away. I was so young, I was desperate, please understand-”
Bill put his head in his hands as his tears turned to wails. Mouth ajar, he whimpered “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Marge turned to the stranger, tears brimming in her eyes, hands clutched to her chest as she pleaded, “Please don’t! You can’t!”
The stranger chuckled. “Why must humans always resist? Of course I can. You, and your entire family lineage, were sold to me for the price of this man’s soul. I’ve been checking in on you for years, watching every moment unfold. It’s been quite the show.”
Wetness lined Marge’s cheeks as her chest heaved into a sob. She stumbled towards the front door, past the judgemental photographs, only to find the stranger materialised in front of her, blocking her path.
“Now, considering your family history of heart failure, I was thinking we’d have a quick cardiac arrest for you, it won’t take long. Now my dear, I must change for the formalities, if you’d like to take something with you, I’d choose it now, but don’t be long.”
Bright light pulsated through the room as the stranger shapeshifted before her eyes, looming large and tall. He removed his jacket as long black robes fell to the floor from beneath it. His top hat, resting on the table, shimmered as it transformed into a long black stick with a curved blade at the end. Marge heard screaming as ice cold clouds of darkness choked her senses, and realised the noise was coming from her own mouth.
Marge’s chest fizzed, heat emanating to a boiling point. Stumbling backwards, she lunged for the table, closing her fist around the photograph of her children, as the world went black.