Many Unfortunate Returns

Three years ago, William Barara Stud moved into his quaint little house in Edinburgh, Scotland, but he had not been into the backyard for exactly a year. In fact, while all of the windows facing the east side of his house had shades thrown wide open, on the west side they were pulled down tight. The window above the kitchen sink, which provided a lovely view of the garden, was even duct taped closed, as it had once been possible to swing the window panes open like doors. 

You see, other than having an unfortunate name and a developing dad bod at the age of twenty-seven, William Barabara Stud was plagued with the terrible knowledge of what was hiding in his backyard, and as the new year of 2024 rose above the cobbled rooftops of Cockaburn Street, William was standing in his kitchen, sipping coffee from a mug that featured a duck with einstein hair and staring at the duct taped window across from him. He had neglected to turn on any lights, and instead all of the light in the kitchen was streaming in from the large rectangular window from the living room, down the short hallway and into the kitchen. 

At this moment, William was considering something completely new, something that had been scratching at the back of his mind like a cat asking to be let out of a box that it dearly loved.  

He was considering stepping out of the door into the backyard.  

He tasted the coffee and then made a face and reached for the sugar bowl, adding another spoonful to his already two spoonfuls into the mug, which was already more milk than coffee. 

After sipping on his so-called coffee for another five minutes, William made the first mistake of a mistake-ridden day; he decided to listen to his messages. William was horrible at checking his messages, so when he pulled out his phone, there were five waiting for him. A voice message from California, a voice message from his mother, a publisher, and his new boyfriend Robbie. Pulling out his cell phone, he began to hit play on the first one, and soon nearly choked on his coffee when he found what it said. 

“Mr. Stud, this is the Ritz-Carlton, Half Moon Bay Hotel. We are calling because you seem to have left a jacket here? It is camouflage with pockets and cigarettes in the pocket,” this is the moment that William inhaled his coffee; he had never been to California and couldn’t be caught dead wearing camouflage, “ and we wanted to remind you of the extra charges for the missing items and alcoholic beverages taken from the fridge. We are missing a lamp, pillows, comforter, towels, shower curtain, and several items from the coffee table…”

The cool female voice on the other side of the phone continued for some time, and the next thing William was aware of her saying through his shock was that his total owed was four-thousand three-hundred and twenty-four dollars. 

The messages after that did not get any better. His mother ranted for several minutes about his stepfather, who had recently gotten a job in a different state, until her voice was abruptly cut off by the voice message’s time being filled up. The publisher was explaining that he could not publish the story William had sent in; a novel that Robbie had dedicated three years of blood sweat and tears into. And, finally, William discovered in a rather unpleasant way that his new boyfriend was no longer his boyfriend.  

The first day of 2024 was quickly becoming a horrible nightmare.

Willam traded out his coffee for something stronger, and was soon slumped onto his couch with his T.V playing holiday movies. He stared at it glumbly. He would be starting the new year as an unpublished single man with a stolen identity.

As his wine glass emptied, William wished a million things. He wished that he was a successful writer, that he never met Robbie, that he was married and had a family already, that he was the one who stole identities and used them to pay for fancy hotels in America. He sighed and took another sip, then made a face and got up. It needed more sugar. After all, who cares, he thought. His life felt incredibly small. He thought about having to call his mother and tell her, imagining her millions of I-told you-so's. She had been against him moving to Scotland, insisting that he needed to stay close to family in America and find an American wife. No matter how many times he told her he was gay, she always managed to forget and replied to his reminders with faked surprise each time. 

Oh course, she hadn’t been completely wrong. Living in Scotland, even in his dream city, had quickly turned from feeling freeing to feeling lonely. He had moved into his grandmother's house; she had passed away years ago and it had been sitting for years collecting dust. It was lovely, made of brick and stone and with vines crawling up its walls and a little yard with a fruit tree, garden, and the remains of an old, crumbling well that was mostly full of dirt and overgrown with grass. 

Consumed with loneliness, William had set up a surveillance camera over his newly planted garden, in hopes to catch glimpses of wildlife. He had a friend in college who had shown him videos of the maramot caught in the video camera at home, munching away on their tomatoes and carrots and pumpkins. 

It was in the surveillance camera footage that William had seen them. He reviewed the footage a dozen times, and continued to check on it for a few nights to make sure he wasn’t crazy. He quickly concluded that it was best to never go into the garden again, even if it meant abandoning his first attempt at planting a garden, which by now was surely overgown. 

One holiday movie faded into the next as the sun slipped down the sky. William glared up at the T.V screen with increasingly bitter eyes, grumbling about the lies of love and hope in the new year. He eventually changed out his sugary glasses of wine for a bottle, and a half empty pizza box lay on the couch beside him. As the wine took its hold, William again started thinking about the thing in his backyard.  

It had been twelve months. William was a strong believer that if there is anything strange or suspicious going on, the best thing he could do is keep his head down and leave it alone. If you leave it be, it will leave you be; a saying that his mother had loved to say when he was young and stuck close to him today. 

But William didn’t often drink, and even wine heavily sugared down was starting to take effect on him, blurring the lines of safety and curiosity. 

“Probably just imagined it, too,” William muttered. Then, a few sweet sips later, “And why should I… hide… from them? Huh? They should hide from ME! ‘M scary.” He slouched into the couch, considering. Moments passed. 

“Imma do it!” 

Despite the proclamation, it took him a few minutes to get up, leaving the wine glass and walking towards the kitchen sloppily. He made a drunken war cry that he thought sounded terrifying, but to an outsider sounded more like a loud grunt. 

He shoved aside the blue curtains covering the sliding glass doors that let the kitchen into the backyard. The door was bolted shut, the way it had been for nearly a year, and he struggled for a few moments with the bolt, before remembering that it slid down rather than up. 

And just like that, William did something that broke his carefully curated routine and safety rules, he stepped out into his backyard. 

Night had fallen. He stood for a moment on the overgrown grass before starting off around the yard, heading first for the garden.

“This is MY house,” he yelled drunkenly, nearly tripping over the garden hose he must have left out, “you can’t live at myyyy house, you…” he paused in surprise, swaying slightly on the spot. 

The garden was not overgrown as it should be, but instead neat rows of vegetables seemed to be flourishing. Tomatoes towered, and colorful squash spilled out onto the ground. He stared in disbelief, wondering sluggishly how this was growing in the wintertime. There was no snow on the ground at the moment, the air was bitingly chilly. He frowned and looked around. 

Sure enough, the entire backyard seemed to be flourishing. Tall sunflowers almost reached the top of the wooden fence, and the grass was thick and green. There was even a rock garden, stacked rocks towering high. He stumbled to that next, his mouth hanging open. 

Who had done this? He bent down to stare at it, hand on his knees in disbelief. Then he frowned. Whoever it was, it sure as hell was not him, and he was the one that owned the backyard. 

“MY yard,” he roared, and kicked at the stacked rocks, knocking them all over one by one. When he was done, he stared down at them, chest heaving. A spot of color caught his eye and he turned. 

Across the yard, close to the crumbling well, bright colors poked above the ground. He walked closer, leaning down as he did so to pick up a shovel that was laying abandoned in the grass, which he did not remember buying. As he drew near, he was shocked to see that there were dozens of garden gnomes, all of varying sizes and styles. Some were ceramic and others stone, but a large one in the back wearing a hat shaped like a duck seemed to be made of plastic. He stared at them for a while. 

“My…yard,” he breathed, and raised the shovel and then brought it down, again and again. Ceramic gnomes were smashed and then crunched under his slippered feet. He missed most of the gnomes, but continued on until he seemed satisfied. Reaching the gnome with the duck hat in the back, he paused, panting, shovel hanging by his side. 

“You cool though,” he mumbled, and lightly tapped his index finger on the duck’s bill that shadowed the gnome's face. He grinned. “Yeah. My yard.”

He was getting a bit tired now and started to make his way to the back of the yard, where the bits of wood and stone left from the well were. Except, it wasn’t bits of wood and stone. He tossed his shovel aside as he got closer. 

The well looked good as new, a circle of stones with a cobbled little roof. A rope hung down from the wooden supports and descended into its depths. The grass around it was trimmed nicely. 

“Woa,” William whispered reverently as he approached the well. He was not sure why, but he took off his slippers as he approached. The well was small, small enough that he could look into it while on his knees. Afraid of falling in, he bent down and grasped the stone rim as he focused on kneeling beside it. 

Wet mud sinking through his sweatpants, he peered into the well. 

It was deep, so deep that he could not see his reflection. He squinted for it; the moon was bright tonight, so surely he would be able to see if there was water down there. 

Finally, he spotted movement in the well’s depths. “There I am,” He exclaimed, breaking into a smile and leaning slightly more forward. 

Yellow eyes stared back up at him. 

He gasped and pushed himself away from the wells wall, landing on his butt and the palms of his hands. 

This was a bad idea. He had to go back, back into the house. 

He started to struggle up, then froze. 

On his left were his slippers, held in the racoon-like hands of a creature.

It was ugly, wrinkly and covered in stubbly brown fur, with large cat-like yellow eyes and ears that were bigger than its head, batlike and pointed at the end. Its humanoid body was clothed in patched overalls, with one strap broken. It stared back at him in silence, then smiled at him, revealing razor sharp, pointed teeth. 

It looked just like the creatures William swore that he had seen on the cameras. 

He scrambled up and turned towards the house, about to run, but then stopped, gasping for air in horror of what he saw. 

There were hundreds of them. Crowded together, so that his yard was nothing but a mass of brown fur, pale ears and yellow eyes. All fixed on him.

For a moment, no one moved. Then, they were upon him before he could scream, countless little hands scratching at him, tearing his clothes and his hair. 

The light of the midnight moon ushered in the second day of the new year as William Barbara Smith was dragged wailing into the darkness of the well, and then the yard was again blissfully quiet.