An Unfamiliar Story

Another dull day at the store ended, and Gail’s sighs screamed louder than the rusty shutter groaning its way down to the floor. He looked up at the store’s sign after locking up and thought about the company’s success, then compared it to his own.

It was Gail’s turn to have his son stay with him for a week, so he waited by the store. Right on time, he saw his son awkwardly waving while trying to let go of his mother’s hand.

“Do you have any plans for this weekend, Lizzie?”

Gail summoned all his courage to ask Lizzie the question he had rehearsed foolishly for a week, only for her to drive off, chasing something far more thrilling.

Gail Butler worked as a vinyl store clerk in Soho, sharing custody of his son Jonah with Lizzie. His weeks with Jonah were spent mostly asking about Lizzie. Work was just an income for a decade, and the only change after that was his expanding waistline.

“Let’s watch a film tonight, Jonah. Your grandma and granddad are having their friends over, so we get to spend some father-and-son time together in our room.”

Gail lived with his parents in their three-bedroom house, where household chores were so important that the washing machine had a bigger room than he did.

Grandma and Grandad had already laughed their way from the kitchen to the sitting room with their friends when Gail and Jonah walked in on them.

“Hello, everybody. I hope you are having a lovely time.”

“Hello, Gail! Hi, Jonah! How are you?”

Grandma’s friend was curious, but Grandma quickly redirected the attention back to herself.

“Oh, it’s the same old story with Gail and Jonah, Sharon. White or red?”

By then, Gail knew better than to waste his energy making his voice heard among the family and their friends. So, father and son moved on from the sitting room to their little cinema upstairs.

“Pick whichever one you want to watch out of these five, and I’ll go grab dinner from downstairs.” Gail had a passcode on his streaming platforms, so while he was explaining their plans for the night, Jonah knew to look away.

Gail grabbed the leftovers from the fridge and heated them in the microwave. As he waited, he tried not to overhear the strangers’ conversation next door, knowing he’d find something unpleasant in their voices, but he failed.

“My son-in-law told me about a job opening at his company. It could give Gail a sense of purpose and help him move out.”

“Don’t worry about him, Sharon. The man’s in his thirties, he must figure things out on his own.” Grandma scoffed before stuffing the last piece of garlic bread into her mouth.

Gail felt a twitch in his mind and a heaviness in his chest, but brushed it off. He grabbed the food, carried it upstairs, handed a plate to Jonah, and zoned out through the movie.

“Life isn’t supposed to be easy,” Gail thought as he sat by his bookshelf, contemplating his actions. Jonah was tucked in on the right side of the bed, and Gail stared at the left side from across the room, trying to remind himself of all the lemons life had handed him.

Gail was an aspiring writer, but his cravings never quite motivated him to let his stories fly into the world; instead, they sat in a cardboard box under his bed. They caught a glimpse of his pathetic face occasionally before being shoved back into darkness, until next time. This time, however, they saw a different expression on Gail’s face as he bent down to reach them, one of determination. “It’s now or never!” he breathed.

That night, one bundle of pages particularly caught Gail’s attention, perhaps because they looked neater than the rest in the box. He spent the entire night reading them; with every hour that passed, a wider smile spread across his face until sunrise.

It was a historical fiction piece that Gail didn’t remember writing, yet it was interesting and perfectly edited. Though the work felt unfamiliar, he had been writing since he was twelve, so he decided not to overthink it and set to preparing the book for publication. He rushed to his desk and typed the entire manuscript on his computer. That day, both he and his son took the day off.

Gail felt ecstatic. “I think Daddy’s done it this time, Jonah!” he declared to his son.

After announcing his breakthrough, Gail plunged back into his work. He opened his bank account to find not nearly enough funds. Driven by desperation, he broke into the savings that Lizzie and he set aside for Jonah’s future, withdrawing every penny he dared. He knew the cost; he’d researched this many times before.

After hours at his desk, with Jonah watching, Gail self-published the electronic version of his first book on a top online platform.

***

Set in the late eighteenth century, the story centred on a cult hidden on an island near the Isle of Wight. Poisonous shrubs lined the shore, emitting a fog that kept authorities away, leaving the island abandoned – perfect for the cult’s secret haven. Though their recruitment remained a mystery, their strange practices and motives came alive in this Gail-gripping tale.

On every full moon, the cult gathered at the shore, rowing through the fog, guided by the familiar scent of the island’s toxic herbs. Upon arrival, their leader welcomed them with tea brewed from the flowers of those same poisonous shrubs. The drink lifted them to a cloud-like high, after which they gathered in a crumbling cabin to pray. They prayed for purpose, believing they were chosen to unite and redeem a great sin. Surrounded by the world’s countless evils, they waited for a sign to reveal the one sin worth saving.

One night, their ritual was shattered by a breathless man in his forties who burst into the cabin, shouting that he’d inherited the cabin. Wild-eyed, he shoved the barefoot worshippers as if possessed by rage. He heaved and pushed until every last member was forced out into the trees.

The man stood on his new porch, glaring at the cult in silence. His face was already turning blue, unaware of the island’s toxic air or the antidotal flowers growing around him. Dazed, he stepped back as the cult leader stepped forward. Panicked, the man grabbed a kettle sitting on the fence and hurled it with all his strength at the leader’s bald head. The leader dropped, instantly dead.

After their leader’s death, the cult descended on the new owner, choking and strangling him until his body went limp, then tossed him into the water.

The cult found its purpose – to purge the world of greed and materialism. They never spoke a word, so maybe it was the island’s air or some twisted spiritual force that all fourteen members somehow shared the same revelation.

Over the next two centuries, the cult and its descendants murdered eight men, each a descendant of the cabin owner. They believed his greed for his cabin had killed their leader.

The cult gathered under each full moon, drank their tea, prayed, and waited for the next male heir to appear. Once lured into seclusion, the heir was poisoned with bark spit and burned. As the flowers’ charm faded, the cult quietly returned to their families, until the cycle began again.

The Sunday family believed their legacy to be cursed. While the cult remained hidden for centuries, the family carried on, unwilling to confront the pattern, until the late twentieth century, when a descendant of Mr. Cabin-Owner Sunday broke the cycle by living childless, ending the bloodline and lifting the curse.

***

Months after, Gail had quit his job and plunged into the abyss. Royalties brought him a new phone, toys for Jonah, and a ring for Lizzie, tucked away quietly in his drawer. His debut, An Unfamiliar Story, became a national bestseller under the pseudonym Gail Sunday. At home, he finally earned his father’s armchair, recognized, though still not always invited to the weekly wine tastings and garlic bread nights.

“Gail, now that you’ve finally matured, how about moving out, son?” his mother said, through his father’s lips.

“I know, Dad. One step at a time.” Gail said, brow furrowed. “Publishing my first story felt like a fluke, but now I’ve got to hustle on the others. Soon, Jonah and I will have a home of our own.”

“And Lizzie!” Gail whispered as he stepped out the door.

On a warm summer evening, Gail walked to the nearby post office to collect his check, part of his plan to stay anonymous. Inside, the air was cool; the parcel locker colder. He shuddered as he opened it before pouring an avalanche of letters into his hands. Somehow, the world had found his P.O. Box. He let out a chuckle as he arranged them in his hands.

“Hiya, Gail! Stay safe out there,” shouted the post office clerk as Gail left the building.

“Mr. Sunday, you’re a genius. The story was both intriguing and horrifying. I look forward to your future releases!

P.S. Please start a social media account.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sunday. I enjoyed your debut book! What’s your social media handle?”

“Gail Sunday – HOW DARE YOU!”

Gail sat down on a bench near the post office. His head was spinning, and his heart was numb. He had been talked about before, but never berated. Something about the book had always felt off, yet his determination to change his life had blinded him. Then it hit him – he never wrote it.

After ten minutes of heavy breathing, Gail decided to run home before his secret admirer caught him dwelling on his crime.

A bulky car with a flashing siren sat ominously outside his front door. Gail stepped inside to find two men in suits with his parents in the sitting room. The armchair was now occupied by a laundry basket.

“I believe you’re Gail Butler, also known as Gail Sunday,” the detective said, his voice firm but his gaze warm. “Are you the author of An Unfamiliar Story?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Could we have a chat?”

“Okay.”

Gail led them to his room, knowing that talking in front of his parents would only end with them finally disowning him.

“Mr. Butler, we would like to talk about the source of your recent novel. Could you please tell us how you came up with such a plot?”

The detectives stood by Gail’s desk while he sank hopelessly into his bed. He hadn't recognized the draft he found months ago, but honesty didn’t matter to him then. He had given in to his temptation to establish himself, believing he could stay hidden as long as he remained anonymous.

“Sir, I’ve been writing since I was a teenager, but I never published before. Sometimes my work wasn’t good enough, other times I faced rejection.” Gail admitted. “I keep hard copies of my drafts under my bed and review them every few months to find one worth developing. Last year, I found this story among them. I didn’t recognize it, but it was so well written I couldn’t pass up the chance to publish it. As I prepared it, I questioned the source; it didn’t sound like my usual voice. Desperate, I self-published it on an e-book platform, hoping to start my career anonymously as Gail Sunday and avoid scrutiny. Now, I guess I’m sorry.” Defeated, Gail sank deeper into despair.

“Mr. Butler, we believe you. Though we don’t know how this manuscript ended up under your bed, the events in your book are real and happened between the eighteenth and twentieth centuries. The only difference is that the murders claimed the lives of the descendants’ mothers, not the fathers.

Every detail – the island’s location, the poisonous flowers, even the cabin has been confirmed. We discovered remains of a couple of bodies on the island, alongside fabric fragments and multiple tea sets. Our investigation over the past months led us to the cult’s descendants, and the evidence shows the killings stopped around the 1970s.

Your book was instrumental in solving this long-standing mystery. With no living relatives of the Sunday family today, we closed the case last week. The origin of your story no longer matters, but be warned, delving into such secrets could put your life and that of those you love in danger.”

The next morning, three things overwhelmed Gail’s mind: the guilt of publishing an uncredited novel, the panic from the detectives’ revelations that left him paranoid, and the fear of being exposed to any current members of the cult, if it still existed. Life’s uncertainties had always held him back from taking leaps of faith towards his dreams, but this relentless fear hovering over him now was unbearable.

Gail ran away to seclusion.

When Gail’s life was still tender, he inherited a small cottage in the Lake District from his grandfather. He had never visited the cottage when it was full of life. Decades after his grandfather’s death, Gail finally moved into the cottage and hid away.

The Lake District is a stunning stretch of land surrounding England’s largest natural lake. The green fields always bloomed, the lake always welcomed, and the air always mesmerized, but Gail’s home was dark and terrifying. The fridge was empty, the kitchen abandoned, the bed neatly made, the windows tightly shut, the doors locked, and the shabby sitting room reeked of Gail.

Gail’s restless pacing consumed days, maybe more. He sank to the floor, then rose, trapped in an endless loop of unease.

“How dare you talk about us?”

Gail was haunted by the whispers in the air and the creaks in the wood.

“How dare you talk about us!”

Gail awoke one morning from the maddening screeches of the cottage and headed to the nearby town. The townspeople were indifferent to his panic. He borrowed a phone and called the one person he wished cared enough to worry.

“Hello?”

“Liz.”

“Gail?”

“Hi.”

“Where have you disappeared to? Do you realize how inconvenient last week was for me? I couldn’t see Andrew at all because I was stuck babysitting Jonah!”

Gail accepted Liz every time, no matter how she treated him.

“I will come over and pick him up in a couple of days. Will it be all right if I take him back with me to Grasmere? I live here now.”

“Fine!” Liz snapped and hung up first.

On his way back, Gail slowed with every step. Even his feet had given up.

“You are next!”

Collapsing onto the high street pavement, Gail yelped – begging, sobbing, crying, until he finally wailed.

A few days had passed since Gail decided to publicly let go of his sorrow. Slowly, the cottage began to change. The windows were finally open, the bed left unmade, the sitting room neat, and the kitchen filled with Jonah’s favourite foods. Since bringing Jonah home, Gail could feel the cool breeze on his skin and notice the wildflowers blooming around the cottage.

“Daddy, if you own this cottage now, does that mean that I will inherit it after you are gone?”

“Oh no, Jonah, this Cottage is mine.” Gail laughed.

Jonah thought that Gail was joking and laughed along.

The rest of the day, Gail and Jonah went for long walks, played Monopoly, and talked about their favourite movies; Gail was surprised to realize Jonah had grown to love every film he’d ever picked for them. That night, they went to bed early, eager to fulfill Jonah’s wish to go boating on the lake in the morning.

Jonah slept on the right side of the bed, Gail on the left, when a sudden squeal split the silence, followed by a scream from the headboard. Gail jolted awake, staring at the wall as if he could see through it, into the void where the sinners lived. Before he could steady his breath, a wave of heat pulsed from behind him. He spun around, flung the bedroom door open, and froze; the kitchen and sitting room were engulfed in flames.

“Oh no!” Gail mouthed silently.

Gail dashed into the bedroom, flung the window open, glanced at his sleeping son, and leapt out. The cold grass soothed his bare feet, and as he caught his breath and turned back, the flames were gone, no smoke, no damage, just silence. Numb and unable to process it, Gail curled up beneath the tree outside his window and slept on the grass.

The next morning, Gail woke early to sneak back into the cottage before Jonah stirred. When Jonah got up, eager to go boating, Gail told him they’d simply sit by the lake instead. He had changed his mind because he was an adult, and Jonah needed to obey him. They dressed and walked to the lake bank near the cottage.

“I quite like the earth, Daddy. It’s beautiful and doesn’t ask for anything in return when we use it.”

Gail smiled, standing close to the railing that raised the land above the water. A soft mist hovered around them. He chose to gaze beyond the horizon, tuning out Jonah’s babble about the nature of humankind, as if the boy truly understood real life.

A bright light blossomed at the lake’s centre as Gail’s gaze returned to the water. The light spread as wide as the lake, then shrank into a small, flickering orb dancing above the surface. Gail’s thoughts stilled; his heart chilled, his eyes softened. He turned to Jonah, who had already fallen silent. Jonah smiled earnestly at his father, then took a cautious step back.

Gail reached for Jonah’s hand, but his son stood just beyond his grasp, confused. Frozen briefly, Gail gathered himself and lunged with his legs instead. Jonah screamed and cried as Gail’s move went wrong.

The cold water enveloped him, and the glowing orb bounced back into the abyss.