Lock Down
Gary Hewitt
I’ll never forget June ninth 1972. I should have left the forked path alone.

I remember the black gate and thinking is this the place. I rang and after an age a coot suffering from sun decay pigeon stepped in my direction.

“Mr. Reynolds, come in.”

We approached the house. I relished the scent of spice smoke. My stomach reminded me it needed careful attention.

He seized my luggage and told me to make myself comfortable. I asked him when dinner would be ready. Within the hour I was enjoying smoked hickory chicken.

He had to leave when the sun was low. He told me not to enter to the shed. This piqued my interest but he made me promise before he went to his home.

I was researching eagles when I heard a dire scream. I picked up my gun and ran outside when the wailing restarted.

I shone my torch to where I thought I heard the noise. The beam fell on the dead shed. I kicked the door ready to shoot the attacker. Instead a sylph’s breath burst out of there and froze the marrow in my bones.

The old man was furious the next day. He ranted about siren’s blight. I paid him no heed. In the following months hell came for me. My partner perished, I lost my job and my left eye.



I’ll never know if that damn shed had a part to play. I never went back. And I never will.


First published: February, 2014
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