Literary Game No. 6: Dave Jones Homecoming

This post is my entry for the latest Literary Game by @allentaylor - you can read all about it HERE. Basically, it's a case of drawing 4 cards at random, with each card containing a story snippet, and building a tale around it.

I don't have a deck of cards at home, so I used https://www.solitaireforfree.com/ and mashed up an image of the first four cards it gave me.

This is what they were, and the meanings Allen created for them were;
7 of Hearts – A heart is delivered in a velvet box, still beating.
4 of Hearts – A child draws a picture of you standing over a body.
4 of Spades – Every clock in the building freezes at 4:44.
8 of Hearts – Everyone you love forgets who you are—except the dog.

Image created by AI in Nightcafe Studio

For ten long years, Dave Jones had been away at sea. Press-ganged, he'd had no chance to say farewell to his family. He had been able to write to his wife, Mary, every few months, and for the first few years had received a reply. But they'd grown fewer and rarer as the years passed.

Now he was back. After storms and battles, worn by wind and waves, he strode into Honiton with his canvas sea-bag over his shoulder. The town hadn't changed much. When he reached his home at the top of the hill, it looked just as he'd left it. Just a little more worn, and the cherry tree he'd planted as a sapling by the front gate was now a healthy twenty feet tall with masses of cherries hiding beneath dense foliage quietly ripening in the summer sun.

He tapped the knocker on the door, and waited for Mary to open it. Instead, it was opened by a stranger, a man. He looked to be in his forties, affluent and soft. "Can I help you ?"

Dave hesitated, stumbling over his words. "This.... this is my house. Mary ? Where is she ?"

He felt a growing sense of anger. Had he been dispossessed ? Was this popinjay his wife's lover, and the reason she'd stopped writing ?

"I'm sorry, we bought this house five years ago. We were told the previous owners had disappeared and left it. You can check with the local solicitor, it's all notarised and proper. But I can see you've been off at sea. Come in for a while, have lunch with us and we'll see if the inn has a room for you."

Feeling stunned, Dave walked in. The house was as he remembered it, but the furniture wasn't his. The man introduced his family. They were the Sinden's, originally from Bristol. John, his wife Pauline, and two children, Patsy and Rick.

Then, as they sat down to lunch, Dave was caught by surprise. He felt something soft and wet on his hand. He looked down, and saw a black shape. A Labrador. His heart nearly stopped.

"Dillon ?"

"Yip, yip !"

When he'd left, the dog had been a puppy. Now, here it was, fully grown but recognising him. He could feel the anger returning. There was something wrong here. Very wrong. A family doesn't buy a vacant house and just find a dog living in it.

After dinner, they retired to the lounge and Dave told the Sindens his tale, all the while trying to gain more information in return. But while he was talking to John and Pauline, Patsy and Rick were playing, drawing on the back of scraps of old wallpaper.

It was Patsy's frantic scribbling that made him look over. She was scratching away in a tight circle with a red pencil, almost tearing a hole in the paper. The picture she'd drawn was a caricature of Dave, and at his feet, turned through ninety degrees was a childlike drawing of a woman. It had to be Mary, the picture clearly showed her perfect dress. And Patsy had scored a deep crimson hole where Mary's heart should have been.

John Sinden saw Dave's face, and spoke in grave terms. "I'm sorry; we haven't been fully honest with you. We bear you no malice, but there are some things you need to see. Come, let me show you."

Dave was led to the back of the house. In the washing room next to the pantry, John reached up to a top shelf, rummaged around and pulled out an old wooden box. He handed it to Dave.

The lid was retained by a simple brass clasp, brown with age. Pushing it open, Dave started with horror at it's contents. On a blue velvet cushion was a heart. Fresh, beating a hollow and bloodless rhythm. He knew without asking that it was a human heart. He'd seen enough of those in bodies ripped asunder by shot and shell.

Without giving him time to absorb what he'd seen, Mr Sinden said sharply. "Come."

He pulled Dave unresisting to the door which led down to the cellar. Handing him a lantern, he indicated that he should go down. The grandfather clock beside the door read 4.43, ticking the seconds by slowly.

When he reached the bottom half a minute later, he heard the clock stop, just as the door was slammed shut and barred. He was trapped !

Looking around, he saw the cellar exactly as he'd left it; mostly storage of food and old brick-a-brack. But also a small work area. The carriage clock on the shelf above the desk was also stopped, and showed 4.44.

In the centre of the floor was a dust-covered form. Mary, in her favourite dress. Mummified by long years, long dead, with a gaping hole in her chest where her broken heart had lain. Dave knew that soon enough, he would be lying mummified next to her while the Sindens lived off the ten years' gold coins in pay his sea-bag held.