The Visitors

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The cold night air felt like a damp towel wrapped round Remy’s chest. He tried to pull his sleeping bag up higher, but it was pinned down by the weight of his dad, snoring beside him in the tent. He shivered and rolled onto his side. His arm touched cold nylon and came away wet. That was another seam he’d need to seal before they went on their annual family camping trip.

If they went, a voice inside his head corrected him.

The way his parents were arguing lately, he’d be surprised if they were still together by the time the summer holidays arrived. Every day their arguments seemed to get more stupid, and more heated.

He started to sigh, but it turned into a yawn. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night.

The only reason he’d volunteered to sleep in the tent overnight was because he thought he’d finally get a decent night’s sleep. With the constant thrum of arguments rumbling through his wall, he’d hardly slept a wink all week. The last thing he needed was his dad to join him. But his dad was probably keen for a good night’s sleep, too.

Remy squirmed and kicked, trying to drag some sleeping bag from under his dad’s legs. But it didn’t budge. He felt like a worm pincered in a bird’s beak.

The tent was supposed to be for two people. Obviously the makers hadn’t expected one of the people would be as big as Remy’s dad. Even sleeping head-to-tail there was barely enough room for them both.

His dad had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the blow-up pillow. Ten seconds later, he was snoring loud enough to make the ground shake.

Remy couldn’t get comfortable. He lay on his side, staring at the shadow play the full moon was performing on the nylon screen. If his dad’s snoring wasn’t bad enough, the night was alive with strange, unsettling music. There was the muffled rush of distant traffic. And every now and then a dog howled at the moon, as if it suddenly remembered its ancestors used to be wolves. But they were familiar, comforting sounds.

It was those other sounds that kept Remy’s eyes glued open. Sounds Remy couldn’t pin labels to with any certainty. He guessed it was just the wind, picking up scraps of city noise and flinging them into the yard like litter. Yet it wouldn’t take too much effort to imagine them as something else. Whispered voices. Or footsteps shuffling slowly past …

SNAP!

Remy bolted upright. What was that?

He tensed his ears. A cold trickle of goosebumps ran down his spine. Someone was out there. In the yard. Right beside the tent.

On second thoughts, it wasn’t just one someone. There were at least two. Maybe more. He could hear hushed voices, talking excitedly. At least he thought they were voices. But the more he tried to distinguish words, the less distinct they became. If it was a language, it wasn’t any language he knew.

He dragged his legs free from the sleeping bag. He wasn’t brave, but he knew he had to investigate. They might be vandals, or burglars. He couldn’t just ignore them. And he couldn’t wake his dad up either. Not until he knew it wasn’t a false alarm. He wouldn’t want his dad to think he was scared of the dark.

His dad was right there. All Remy had to do was yell. Nobody was going to mess with Remy’s dad. Even if he was half asleep.

The air mattress squeaked and grunted as Remy squirmed round. He grabbed his torch and reached for the zip. He had the element of surprise on his side. If he whipped the fly open, he’d catch whoever it was in a cage of torchlight. He took a few short, quiet breaths … then -

Z-I-P!

He flicked on his torch and flung himself through the gap before the fly was fully open. His trailing feet caught on the hood of his sleeping bag. He sprawled forward. The frosty grass crackled as he rolled over, swinging his torch around like a light-sabre, fending off attack. The light ducked and weaved and revealed … nothing.

His eyes groped in the darkness, trying to make sense of the empty night. He listened for fleeing footsteps or shouts of surprise. But the yard was quiet, apart from Remy’s rasping gasps.

‘Remy?’ His dad’s sleep-heavy voice filtered through the tent. ‘You right?’

Remy swallowed something hard, then cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, Dad. I’m just going for a pee. I slipped, that’s all.’

‘Huhhnnnhh …’ His dad’s grunt collapsed into a snore.

Remy snorted in embarrassment as he got to his feet. His pyjamas were damp with frost thaw, but he didn’t feel the cold. Not yet. What a baby! How could he have imagined for a second there was anyone creeping around their back yard? They weren’t camping in the wilderness. They were in the middle of a boring suburb. Nothing ever happened there.

By the time he reached the compost pile, his feet were almost numb. He peed quickly, glancing around every few seconds through a cloud of steam.

He shuffled back to the tent. He swung his torch around the yard one last time, then climbed into his sleeping bag with a huge shiver.

He must have fallen asleep almost immediately. Because the next time he opened his eyes, dawn was filtering through inside. He felt cold and stiff. The sleeping bag was twisted tightly around his waist. And the air mattress had deflated during the night. His whole body ached from lying on the hard ground.

His dad was still sleeping. He sounded like a hibernating bear. The thought dragged a half-hearted smile onto Remy’s face. It had been a while since there’d been much to smile about. Who knew? Maybe a night sleeping in the tent was enough to clear the bitter air from the house. He could only hope.

A fierce shiver coursed through his body and propelled him upright. There was no point lying there freezing. He needed to find warmer clothes. Maybe while he was inside he’d make breakfast. When he was younger, Remy and his dad used to make breakfast every Sunday. It was like a tradition. Maybe now was a good time to revive it. It had been a long time since they’d all sat down for breakfast together.

The thought made the world seem suddenly friendlier somehow. Remy felt himself fill with optimism as he stumbled out into the fresh morning. He stood in front of the tent, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He started stretching into a huge yawn. Then froze. Breakfast forgotten.

There were two trails etched in the frosty lawn. They curled from the back fence right up to the house door. There was no mistaking what they were.

They were the kind of trails made by slow, shuffling feet.