JEKYLL SPRINGS — an extract

I thought it was a joke, you know. A stupid, pointless joke, that they’d sent me here.

“It’ll be good for you,” they said, “a change of scenery.” Doctors. What do they know?

On the 14th, at 8:30, I stepped off the bus. Backpack slung over one shoulder, sweat dripping off my face. Saw this massive, rustic sign to my left.

  Welcome to Jekyll Springs!

You’ll want to stay forever.

  I highly doubted that.

They’d arranged for someone to pick me up. Mr Carstairs. Employer. Guardian. It was all the same thing, really. A show for my benefit.

I spotted him quickly. I didn’t know what he looked like, but who else would be holding a sign with my name?

I walked over to him, this tall, lanky man. He lowered the sign and stretched out his hand to me.

“Robbie Eversleigh?”

I nodded. Looked at his hand but didn’t shake it. He eyed me curiously.

“I thought you’d be –“

“A boy?”

“… Yes.”

“Well, I’m not.”

He didn’t respond. I thought: Great first impression, Robbie, and decided to try a bit harder.

“The name’s misleading, I guess. Doesn’t matter. Lots of people get confused.” He nodded.

“I’m Mr Carstairs. I’ll be your guardian during your stay here.” He added, eyes fixed on my shoulder, “Can I take your bag?”

“I think I’ll manage.” We left the bus station.

You want me to describe the town? Why? You know it already. Alright, fine, if that’s what you want.

Well, the town looks like your classic Lynchian corner of suburbia: Shops, big and small, scattered across wide roads, nice middle-class houses with nice middle-class cars in nice middle-class garages. Except, it’s not a suburban neighbourhood but a country town in the middle of fucking nowhere with zero reception and a constant smell of cow shit. 

The Carstairs’s house was, well is, a red-bricked nightmare of contentment; cheap Target curtains and carpeted floors where I bet no kids dare to drag their muddy footprints.

Mrs Carstairs welcomed me in the kitchen with a wide smile. A plump woman with curly blonde hair and a nose that looks like it has been broken once.

“Robbie! How lovely to finally meet you! Funny, I was sure that you’d be a –“

“Coffee?” Mr Carstairs interjected. I nodded.

I settled in quickly. They gave me their daughter’s old bedroom. She was off at university somewhere up north, they said. The room was pretty depressing. Had that awful stale smell you get in empty spaces after a while. The walls were covered with artsy posters, and there was a dusty keyboard in front of the window. Between picture frames showing dogs with wagging tails and happy family gatherings, I found a photo of her. She was prom-queen pretty with long blonde hair and a wide, welcoming smile. In the corner of the yellowed picture, there was a photographer’s signature and a year. 1999. Weird. Guess she went off to university late in life.

Mr Carstairs has a small shop. Like a mini supermarket where he is both employer and employee. That was, until I came along. There weren’t a lot of customers. Most people want their goods delivered these days.

So, Mr Carstairs assigned me with delivering things to people. He lent me his bike, and I was tasked to ride around town like an overgrown teenager with a part-time job.

Actually, it wasn’t too bad. But I was still sulky about being sent off to this shithole. You think people aren’t going to like that description? Well, I don’t really care. This place has done fuck all for me.

Anyway, a few weeks back, I went down to the harbour to deliver some groceries to the Hartmanns.

They’re pretty nice people, payed in cash on the spot and asked me if I wanted a coffee or something. I didn’t. 

After that, I was pretty much done for the day, so I went for a stroll along the waterfront. That’s where I found the old fishermen, passing around a bottle with no label and looking up at the sky. I looked up, too, but couldn’t see anything interesting. 

That’s when the cop came along. This broad-shouldered guy with icy blue eyes who pretended he didn’t see me. He started talking to one of the fishermen.

“So, which one of you made the call?”

The eldest and creakiest of the two put up an unsteady hand. 

“S’me, officer.”

“My colleague informed me that you’d reported seeing what you called ‘strange phenomena’ in the sky earlier today.”

“S’right, officer.”

“So? Sky looks pretty clear to me.”

“Weren’t that clear a moment ago,” the other man said, “there were something,” he added significantly, “something strange.”

“Like what?”

“Like – a person. In that there sky.”

“A person?”

“Yeah, a person! Up there, looking down.”

I looked up at the sky again. Still couldn’t see anything. It was bright blue, hardly a cloud in sight.

“What kind of person?”

The fisherman closest to the officer twisted his face into a wry smile.

“A woman.”

The officer squinted at him.

“Is that so?”

“S’right!” The first fisherman agreed, “beautiful gal, pre’ty as a picture, lovely long legs and –“

“Alright.”

The officer sighed, then grabbed a hold of the bottle that was being passed around. Frowned. Raised an eyebrow. 

“You made this, Carl?”

The second fisherman shook his head slowly.

“No, sir. Found it. Right here on the harbour.”

“Right. Well, next time you spend your entire afternoon soaking in this homemade piss, don’t call me when you start seeing things.”

Still ignoring my presence at the scene, he cast one last reproachful look at the fishermen, then went on his way.

For the first time since I arrived, one of the men looked at me, head bent down, eyes peering over his glasses.

“I’m telling ye, gal, there was a woman in that there sky. Swear on ma mother’s grave, I do.”

Truth is, I didn’t think much of it at first. Just a couple of old soaks thinking they saw a woman floating in the sky. Nothing to worry about, right?

But turned out, it wasn’t the weirdest thing I’d experience in Jekyll Springs.

On a different day, I woke up and thought I heard something. Voices. Whispers. I thought maybe it was the Carstairs, going around in the hallway. But the more I listened, the more I realised that that wasn’t where the sound was coming from.

It was coming from underneath the floor. Could’ve been noise travelling up from the living room downstairs, right? But the thing is, I usually never heard anything in my room when there were people downstairs.

I sat down on the floor. Put my ear to the ground. Listened. They were still there. The voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I sat like that for a while until Mrs Carstairs knocked on the door and told me breakfast was ready. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe that was why I was hearing things. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Later that day, I had to bring a delivery out to Major Lavender; a boring old military guy who lives in the middle of town, has a secretary come to write down bits for his memoir twice a week.

Honestly, I feel kind of silly describing people you already know. But fine. If that’s what you want. Anyway, I went there after lunch. Rang the doorbell. Was greeted by the secretary, Miss Finch, who invited me inside. Said the Major would like to meet me. That he loved to see young people who moved to Jekyll Springs. I wanted to say no, but I’d said no to so many people, Mr Carstairs had told me I was giving his shop a bad reputation, was seen as ‘unfriendly’ by the townsfolk.

Before she led me into the living room, Miss Finch put a hand on my shoulder and said: 

“Major Lavender is a good man. Very friendly, very forthcoming. Do help yourself to a cigar if you wish, but, between you and me: Don’t drink the whisky.”

I hadn’t really any intention of doing either of those things, but I nodded.

Major Lavender sat in a worn, brown leather chair. A large, grey moustache dominated his face. 

“Ah, Miss Eversleigh! Do sit down!”

I did.

“Robbie,” he said, eyeing me, “that’s an unusual name.”

Can’t start a conversation with anyone without them mentioning my first name.

“Guess so.”

“How are you settling in?”

“Alright. It’s a – “ I tried to be diplomatic, “pretty place.”

“It is, isn’t it? Been here, on this land, for 400 years now. Old place. Aren’t many of those left.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, but I kept quiet.

“We have traditions here,” he continued, straightening his back, “and we’re proud of them. So much nonsense going around these days. New ideas. We don’t buy into those. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. That’s our motto.”

“A very original sentiment.”

“Just so,” he said, not catching my sarcasm.

I tried to be nicer. Make some kind of small talk. I didn’t want another telling-off from my employer for being rude.

“So, have you known the Carstairs for a long time?”

“All my life. Was there when Ellen, Mrs Carstairs, was born. Cried my eyes out at their wedding.

Beautiful ceremony.”

“What’s their daughter like?” The major shifted in his chair.

“Stunning. Yes, very stunning.”

“They told me she’s off to university now.”

He nodded. Ran a finger over the cigar case on the table.

“So she is. I’m sure it’ll be good for her to be around people of her own age for a bit.”

“Her own age?”

I felt confused. The girl I’d seen in the photograph was maybe sixteen or so, and the date on it was nineteen years ago.

“Yes, yes. She was a bit lonely here, you know. No other young people around.”

“But – she – isn’t she, I mean, isn’t she an – adult? It’s just, I found this picture in her old room from ’99, and she was at least sixteen in that, so –“

“Whisky?” He asked, picking up a bottle.

“No, thanks.” “You sure?”

He stretched his face into a smile. Raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘oh, come on, live a little’.

“I don’t drink.”

“Ah.”

He put the bottle down on the table. Frowned. Smoothed out his moustache with two fingers.

I opened my mouth to ask him about the Carstairs’s daughter again. Stopped when I heard something. Voices. Like the ones in my room. Coming from below. 

I blinked. Tried to shake it. But it didn’t go away.

“You have a basement?”

The Major blinked. Shook his head.

“House isn’t big enough for that.”

He poured a glass of whisky. Held it out towards me.

“You sure you don’t want some?” I got up.

“No, really, I’m fine. Got to get a move on. Get back to the shop. Thanks for the – hospitality.”

I know what you’re thinking. You’ve probably seen my record – I’m sure Mr Carstairs wasn’t too good at keeping his mouth shut about the reasons for my coming here. But I’m telling you:

Something was – something is wrong in this town.

I didn’t believe it at first. Not really. Thought I was just – imaging things, I guess. But it had happened more than once. It had become a pattern. And patterns don’t lie.

This morning, I woke up at seven as usual. Heard the voices again. They’ve been there, every day, since that first time. I kind of learned to ignore them after a while. Told myself they probably weren’t really there.

Breakfast with the Carstairs was the usual dull routine; talk of what the weather would be like during the day, eggs on toast washed down with bitter coffee, Mr Carstairs reading the paper while Mrs Carstairs prattled on about some neighbourhood gossip. 

Obviously, I didn’t go to work today. Carstairs is a hard-working man, but he does insist on keeping his Sundays reserved especially for God. 

The rest of the household went to church, and I walked around town. Down by the park, I saw three girls; long, dark hair and spotless white dresses, playing with a puppy. Had to be the Orson girls.

The Carstairs had mentioned them some time back. 

When I came closer, they looked up.

“You must be Robbie!” The youngest said, getting up and taking a good, long look at me.

“How are you settling in?”

It seemed to be the only question people thought to ask me, but at least she didn’t comment on my name.

“Fine. I’m settling in just fine.”

“Oh, how lovely! You know, we’ve been thinking –“ she looked at her sisters, then back to me, “if you’d like to come to the farm for a cup of tea. Amelia just made some lovely biscuits this morning.”

She looked at me shyly. Couldn’t be more than thirteen or so; the other two probably only a couple years older than her. They seemed harmless enough. I said yes to the invitation.

The Orson girls took me up to their farm, the puppy running after us, tail wagging. It was a wreck of a place. I was surprised that they managed to warm up the kettle on a stove that looked like it could fall apart any minute.

The youngest of them sat down next to me. She started asking me all sorts of small-talky questions about my life, my time in Jekyll Springs, what I planned to do in the future. I answered her without much interest, but also without being too rude. She seemed like a nice enough kid – I didn’t want to upset her.

After she’d asked me some other pointless question, I started to hear singing. It was faint. But it was definitely there. 

I looked around. All the girls were in the kitchen with me.

“Who’s singing?” I asked, “your parents?” One of the older girls shook her head.

“Oh, no. That’s just the sheep.”

“The sheep?”

“Mmhm. They’re singing lullabies. Started doing it at night a few weeks ago, but now they’re at it for the whole day. It’s a bit annoying, to be honest, and we don’t have that many visitors anymore because people find it distracting.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d heard that right. I couldn’t have.

“So… The sheep are the ones singing?”

“Yes. Even though it’s a bit irritating, I do think they’re good at harmonising, don’t you?”

When the third girl brought me my tea, I couldn’t drink it. Just stared into my cup while the girls chatted happily.

“Can I see them?” I asked slowly.

“Who?”

“The sheep.”

“Oh, no,” the youngest said, “they get a bit aggressive around strangers.”

Aggressive singing sheep. The Orson farm girls believed they had aggressive singing sheep. Right. I got up, was preparing an excuse to leave when another sound caught my ears. Voices. But these ones weren’t singing. I looked down to the floor.

“Is anyone down there?” I pointed.

The girls all cocked their head on one side.

“Down there? Why would there be anyone down there?”

“I –“

The floorboards in front of the sink moved. Like rubber. Stretching. Expanding. I blinked again and again, thinking it would stop. It didn’t. The puppy ran out of the room.

A crackling sound of splinting wood. I saw the hole in the floor, bits of wood being torn away by something underneath. The voices grew louder. A pale hand reached out of the hole, slammed its palm against the broken floorboard. Then, another hand next to that, knuckles white and bruised.

The sheep continued singing.

The oldest girl got up from her seat quickly. The others followed. She went to a drawer. Got out a hammer. With smiles still on their pretty faces, they sat down on the floor, knees resting on the polished wood. Loud, moaning voices rose from the hole, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. 

Leaning forwards, the oldest girl grabbed the hammer and slammed it down on one of the hands. A painful, prolonged shriek. The hand moved out of sight. Then, she brought the now bloody hammer down on the second hand. An agonised scream was muffled, then disappeared completely with the second hand into the space below. 

Humming along with the lullabies, the Orson girls opened a cupboard, took out two brand new floorboards and a box of nails. A couple of minutes later, the hole was fixed.

“More tea?” The youngest asked, looking up at me.

Needless to say, I got the hell out of there. Ran and ran until I reached the Carstairs house, and my legs felt like they were on fire.

The family wasn’t home yet. The house was quiet except for the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway. 

It was insane. There was no other word for it. Absolutely insane. 

I ran up the stairs, stumbling on the steps – felt my knees hit the wood. Wondered briefly if I would get a bruise. Focus. I had to focus. But on what? What had just happened?

I went to my room. Sat down on the bed. Closed my eyes. Felt wet patches forming under my armpits. I could smell my own sweat. Shut my nostrils tight. Looked down at my trembling hands. Should I call the police? Should I call the Carstairs?

My own floorboards started talking. Barely audible whispers creeping into my ear canals. I put my hands over my ears. But I could still hear them.

What would you have done? It’s not really the kind of situation you find yourself in too often, is it? I went to the garage in a kind of daze. Found a hammer. Went back up to my room. Hesitated. Of course, I hesitated. But not for long. The Carstairs could be back any minute.

I sat down on the floor like the Orson girls had done it and started prying up the nails on the floorboards. Slowly, methodically. It didn’t feel real. But I had to see it. I had to see it.

Last nail. I put the hammer down. Dug my nails into the space between the floorboards. And lifted one of them.

They were – they were down there. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m telling you, they were down there! Just – just these hollow faces looking up at me. Pale, thin, pathetic creatures. Naked. Huddled together on the basement floor, hair caked with dirt. And one of them – that face. I recognised it. I’d seen her in a photograph.

“Robbie?”

I turned around. The Carstairs stood in the doorway. Blank faces looking at me. They didn’t seem to notice the floorboard I was holding.

I tried to speak. But I couldn’t. 

“You’re a rather curious, girl, aren’t you?” Mrs Carstairs said with a smile, “Well, that’s alright.

Lots of people are. Now, let’s just clean up this mess and have some lunch.” I pushed past them and ran out of the house.

And now I’m here. The police – I don’t think they would’ve believed me. The Orson farm, the

Carstairs house – they’re everywhere! These – things they’ve got locked away. And I figured, well, maybe this is better. Safer, you know? Telling you my story instead. You’ve got listeners, all over town. People still listen to the radio, right? I’m sure some people do. They’ll hear this, and they’ll know that something’s wrong in this place. That we have to do something!

What’s that? Is someone – no. No, that – that’s not possible. Why – why are they here, too? I thought – why are there people under the floor?

Happy down there? You’re saying – you’re saying that they’re happy down there? But –

Wait, who’s coming? Who is that? What? No! Not the doctors, please. I don’t want to go back. People have to hear this! People have to know! Get off me! Let me go! I’m not going back, I tell you! I’m not going back!