A Field of Tulips and Bones

One

Roman Waterhouse

5 Years Old

Oi, Roman, mate, Grandpa's voice is all wobbly like the jelly we have for afternoon tea. We gotta yarn about something real tough.

I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor, pushing my toy cars around, making them crash and zoom off the rug onto the shiny wood. That's when I noticed Grandma’s eyes were leaking. She doesn't talk, just bites her lip hard, and there's this heavy thing in the air you can almost grab.

Your mum and dad, Grandpa starts, and then he stops, his big hands shaking like leaves in a windstorm. He takes a deep breath, looking at Grandma. They've been in a nasty prang, little fella.

Prang? I echo, thinking of my toy cars. Did Dad's car get bonked? He’ll fix it. He fixes everything. 

Ah, love, it's... it's more than a bonk, Grandma finally pipes up, her voice all quivery. Your mum and dad, they're not coming back home. Not ever.

Whaddaya mean? I scrunch up my face, trying to suss out what she's saying. Not ever is a really long time. Did they get lost? Dad’s got that GPS thing.

Roman, Grandpa says, kneeling down next to me, his old knees cracking like the bark of a gum tree. It was a bad car smash. They're gone, mate. Up to the stars.

Stars? I whisper because I know about stars. Dad used to say Mum sparkled like one. I glance through the window where the sun's just coming up from behind the hills, leaving streaks of orange and purple. But no stars yet. It doesn't make sense.

Can we go get them? My voice shakes as I look from Grandma to Grandpa and back again. From the stars?

Ah, kiddo, if only we could, Grandpa's eyes are shiny too now. But it's like they're on a trip they can't come back from.

An adventure? My fingers clutch the car tighter. Dad liked adventures.

Yeah, an adventure, he agrees, though his smile looks like it hurts his face. The biggest one there is.

But who's gonna read me stories? And tuck me in? The questions spill out like marbles, bouncing every which way.

We've gotcha, Roman, Grandma says, pulling me into her soft, squishy hug. We'll be here for every bedtime story and tuck-in.

Promise? I ask, the word feeling heavy and strange.

Strewth, promise, Grandpa says, and somehow, even though nothing makes sense and my chest feels all tight and funny, I reckon they might be telling the truth.

Grandma smooths down my hair, the way Mum used to. You're such a brave boy.

Am not, I mumble, but they don't argue, just give me these sad smiles that make my insides twist all funny.

☽◯☾

One sunny morning, we go for a drive in their clunky car that coughs and wheezes more than Old Man Jenkins from next door. The city buildings grow taller as we get closer like giant kids playing who can touch the sky first. We stop at one so big its top gets lost in the clouds. I clutch Grandma's hand as we walk into this shiny place with floors so clean you could eat your breakfast off them.

Right-o, Roman, we're here to see Mr. Kellerman, Grandpa explains. He's wearing his best jacket, the one he saves for church and funerals.

Who's that? I ask, tripping over a rug that's probably worth more than our telly.

A very important fella who helps people with money stuff, Grandma says, squeezing my hand.

We ride an elevator that feels like it's shooting us straight into outer space. ‘Ding!’ The doors open and there's this man waiting, all dressed up in a suit so shiny it could blind you. He's got a smile, but it isn’t reaching his eyes.

Welcome, welcome! His voice booms around the room like thunder. Young Master Roman, I have some news for you.

News? I scrunch up my face. Is it good or bad?

Good, very good, Mr. Kellerman says, bending down so he's eye-level with me. Your father was a very smart man, Roman. He made sure you'd never have to worry about money.

Money for what? I'm still holding onto Grandma’s hand as if it's the last chocolate biscuit in the jar.

Anything you need, mate, he says, ruffling my hair which makes me flinch. Toys, books, education—whatever you fancy.

Can it buy back Mum and Dad? I blurt out the question before I can stop it.

Ah, mate, I wish it could. There's a twist to Mr. Kellerman's mouth like he's eaten something sour. But it can make sure you're taken care of, and that's what your folks would've wanted.

Right, then, Grandpa says, standing up straighter. Let's get this sorted so we can head off.

Indeed. Mr. Kellerman stands and shakes Grandpa's hand. The paperwork is all ready.

I don't really understand all the talk about wills and trusts and heaps of cash. But I reckon it must be important 'cause adults always get all stiff and serious when they're talking about money.

Oi, Roman, you gotta listen to this bit, it's about your old man, Mr Kellerman says, jabbing a finger at some papers that look like they've swallowed a dictionary. His eyes are sharp behind those shiny specs, and I reckon he's trying to drill the importance right into my skull.

Everything, he continues, words marching out quick and no-nonsense, your dad owned, every bloody cent, is yours now. He hammers the point home with a thump of his hand on the desk that makes me jump. 

Mine? The word feels weird in my mouth, too big and strange. I mean, what's a kid supposed to do with 'everything'? It's not like I can stack it up and turn it into a race track for my toy cars.

Every last bit, mate, Grandpa adds. He's trying to sound chipper, but his voice wobbles like a bike with busted wheels.

And Mum? I ask, squinting at them all. They shuffle and glance at each other like they're passing around a hot potato.

Your mum, Mr Kellerman starts and then stops, clears his throat like it's full of gravel. She set up something special—a trust. It's locked up until you hit twenty-one.

Locked up? My guts twist into knots. That doesn't sound good. Locked up means kept away, like when they put those kangaroos in the sanctuary and they couldn't hop free no more.

Means you can't touch it yet, Grandma cuts in, smooth as butter melting on toast. But it's there, waiting for ya. A nest egg, something your mum wanted to give you when you're grown.

Like a surprise pressie? I venture, trying to wrap my head around it. Mum always loved sneaking sweets into my lunchbox when I wasn't looking.

Exactly like that, love, she nods, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

Ok, I mutter under my breath. All this talk about money and trusts and dead parents—it's like a game where everyone knows the rules except for me.

Let's get goin', Roman, Grandpa says, standing up. We can figure this out later, yeah?

Righto, I agree.

We scuttle outta that stuffy office, the carpet swallowing the clack of our shoes. 

Grub's up soon, Grandma says, trying to sound chirpy. You hungry, darling?

Starving, I lie. My guts are in knots, but I ain't about to be a sook in front of her. 

We pile into Grandpa's car, and I squint out the window, watching the world zip by like one of them fast-forward movies.

Two

Ackles Harris

8 Years Old

Alright, my pretty charmer, are you ready for your bedtime story? I hear Papa say as he enters my bedroom, making the door squeak and the floorboards creak.

It’s just me and Papa, as Mama passed away 3 years ago. That’s one of the tales my dear Papa never tells me. Maybe one day. He hasn’t been the same since she left us to live amongst the stars. He’s caring and loving to me but even I see the mask he wears, and I am only 8.

Papa is the head of police in our small town in Lancashire, England. When I grow up I want to follow in his footsteps and be just like him. Solve impossible puzzles with disjointed pieces, and set forth the gospel behind dark closed books. Paying the piper can bring you some sort of comfort, while not knowing can eat someone from the inside, he disclosed to me once upon a time. Since then I told myself I would rather bite the painful bullet than live in the shadows of oblivion. 

According to the sign, as you enter our quaint little Newchurch town, there are only 248 of us, so everyone knows everyone and no secrets stay buried for long. Not that much ever happens here anyway. 

Papa, Miss Craft is not happy with you, I report to him from my cocoon of duvet and covers. 

The house is freezing, since Papa refuses to turn the heater on for too long, saying that if we make the house nice and toasty, it’s like sending an invitation for the Devil to come and live with us. Because you know, the abode of the dead is hot.

What in the bloody hell is your head teacher not happy with now? He asks me as he takes a seat at the end of the bed by my feet like he does every night for story time. 

She said you shouldn’t be telling me scary stories. That they are not becoming of a young lady and something about maybe giving princesses tales a go instead.

That old ha… Papa clears his throat. As if I didn't know he was about to call my head teacher an old hag. 

I giggle. 

Miss Craft would prefer I fill your head with fairytales and unrealistic expectations, it seems. Real life is filled with dark f… ducked up people.

There are duck people? Now that sounds silly, Papa. I belly laugh, which makes Papa chuckle and give me one of his rare happy smiles.

You do like hearing my chilling tales, my pretty charmer, don’t you? 

I do, Papa.

Then screw Miss Craft, this is our thing, Papa says as he boops the tip of my nose. How did this even come about?

Oh, I tried to warn the other kids at school about the Devil house, Papa. But Gigi George started crying halfway through and went to the head teacher to tell on me.  

Now there’s a little girl that has a head jammed with cock and bull stories.

Papa, you can’t say co… o… ock. I stutter on the word.

I can’t say what a male rooster is called? 

Maybe just call it that. A male rooster. I remark as I giggle again.

That kind of ruins the saying, but alright. He shrugs. What would you like to hear tonight, my pretty charmer?

Devil house down the road? Pretty please, Papa.

Ok. Strap in for the dire and twisted ride, buttercup. He utters as he winks at me, placing his hand over my lower leg, moving it up and down, intuitively abating the words that are about to come out of his mouth. Papa should know I am not scared no more, as long as I have him by my side always, he will protect me from the duck people of the world. 

This is my favourite; a sinister and troubling slander that sends shivers down my spine every time he tells it. 

As claimed by many folks around town, Elizabeth Demdike, or as we call her the ‘Demon Woman’ - a crone already in her 80’s, - allegedly met the Devil in a stone pit near Goldshaw Booth. He came to her as a boy, dirty and bruised, skin and bones, with messy dark brown hair, almost jet-black eyes, pale skin as if he barely had ever seen the sun, wearing just a brown and black coat, and calling himself Tibb. Demdike took him to her home, where one of her daughters Elizabeth fell in love with the boy, Demdike ended up adopting him and caring for him as her own. 

Sadly it wasn’t all sunshine and roses, as thorns began to take form and a few short years after, in 1612, 12 people around the Forest of Pendle were accused of maleficium, or to put it simply, witchcraft. Demdike, her daughters and illegitimate son Holgate, and Device’s blood children Alizon, James and Janet, are some of the brought to trial and prosecuted.

Leaving as the sole survivor the lost boy Tibb. Who met the pretty Tulipa twins and fell in love with one. 

In 1655, they built a house, the one we now call the Devil’s house. A few extra homes were added to the property to house the growing family tree. But it’s the main one that causes fright on every soul that comes across it. 

The captivating stone-built exterior exudes an aura of the past, greying like Papa’s hair, showing the signs of time. Its original Tudor elements are presently crumbling and being swallowed up by vines all over. 

The landscape around is as dead and decaying as the people who summoned the home to existence.

The Devices were a cult worshipping their father, and tainting the walls of that place with blood and gore. I am certain the foundation of that place is made out of bones and ashes. If only I could dig deeper and find out the truth it obscures.

Papa took a slight deviation there. Normally this is the moment he would forewarn me about the witches, and how if they see a child wandering around the grounds of their master’s home, they would compel you to come in, condemning you to never leave that hellish place, and damning your soul to eternal suffering.

My 8-year-old brain is starting to think he spewed out that little white lie to keep me away from the Devil’s house. But why?

How come you can’t, Papa? I ask him instead.

Because it’s too dangerous, a sweet innocent girl like you should never roam those cobwebbed-covered walls.

I didn’t ask why I couldn’t. I know the rules, Papa. But you’re a grown-up, the witches have no power over you.

Perhaps, but sometimes adults with frail states of mind can get lost in their spells too.

You are not weak, Papa, I observe as I unravel myself from the cocoon I was in, jumping on my father’s lap and throwing my arms around his neck, giving him a tight bear hug.

He embraces me back, as I cache my face on the alcove between his neck and shoulder, breathing in his scent of bourbon, vanilla and white oak.

If someone can kick some witch’s ass it’s you. I voice, which makes Papa laugh. 

You should be sleeping, young lady. 

I pull my head back to stare into a pair of eyes that look nothing like mine. I am told that I look just like Mama, and haven’t taken much of Papa’s genes. I have curly, rowdy red hair, and forest-green eyes and my face is painted with freckles all over my nose and cheeks. Meanwhile, Papa has golden walnut brown hair and hazel eyes, with no freckles in sight.

You are the one that changed up the course of the story, old man.

Watch it, my pretty charmer. He comments as he begins to tickle me.

No, Papa. No. I breathlessly say between hoots of laughter. I cede. I cede. I declare over and over again until he stops.

Papa lifts himself up with me in his arms, clasped to him like a spider monkey. He lies me back down on the bed, swiftly pulling all the bed covers on top of me and tucking me in nice and cozy.

In due time, maybe. Nothing has happened in there for years that would give me a reason to break in and start poking around to uncover stuff that may not even be. The estate is still under the same family, I just don’t know where the last living relative is or how to get in contact with them. Just like Tibb years ago, this person has vanished into thin air. We just gonna have to wait patiently for someone from the same bloodline to finally come around and…

Let us in on the family secret, I concluded Papa’s sentence.

Goodnight moon, Papa says as he kisses my temple.

Night Papa.

Some secrets should stay enclosed in the rotten wooden box, under the dirt and smut they were buried for all perpetuity. But curiosity is a killer.

Three

Roman Waterhouse

21 Years Old

The morning sun hadn't even bothered to slap some sense into the sky yet, but I was already up and at it. Today, I hit 21. Big bloody whoop. Not like I'd be smashing tinnies at the pub, though — had to leg it to work instead. The tool belt was snug around my waist, a familiar weight that screamed responsibility louder than any boozy chorus of Happy Birthday ever could.

Roman, you old dog! Twenty-one, eh? Grandpa's voice crackled through the phone.

Cheers, Gramps, I grunted, scratching at the stubble that thought it could make a man out of me overnight. Feel the same as yesterday, just with more people reminding me I'm supposed to be an adult or some shit.

Ha! You'll always be that snot-nosed brat to us, won't ya, love? Gran chimed in, her laughter wrapping around me like a warm hug. I couldn't help but smile, even if it was just a twitch of the lips.

Guess so, Gran. But this snot-nosed brat's got houses to build today. New gig in Campbelltown, remember?

Of course we do, Roman. We're proud as punch, love. Your mum and dad would've been over the moon, she said, her voice doing that wobbly dance it did whenever she mentioned them.

Righto, gotta shoot through. Love you both, I said, ending the call before the feels got too heavy. No time for that. There were frames to erect and concrete to pour. Fresh off my apprenticeship and straight into the deep end with a company that actually gave a rat's about quality work. That's what I needed. 

Campbelltown wasn't exactly the arse end of the world, but it was getting there. Still, fresh turf meant fresh starts, and I was all about building something from nothing. Could almost smell the sawdust and sweat just thinking about it. Nothing gets the blood pumping like the promise of a day spent shaping the future, one beam at a time.

Twenty-one, I grunted, yanking the front door open. There was already a sheen on my brow, just a hint of the day's heat to come. My hand had barely left the doorknob when the tyres crunched against the gravel of my driveway, and I squinted against the light to see some flash car rolling up.

Strewth, what now? I mumbled under my breath, impatient. Flies were already starting their morning dance around me, buzzing like they knew today was supposed to be mine.

The car stopped with a purr that screamed money and out stepped a bloke in a suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Out here, in Ingleburn? Had to be lost, or a bloody idiot. But he zeroed in on me, his face all business, and I knew this wasn't some random door-knock spiel.

Roman Waterhouse? He didn't wait for my nod, just barrelled on. I'm Jameson Holt, solicitor. You are rather difficult to pin down.

Builders tend to move around, mate, I shot back, not liking the interruption or the pompous tone. What's it to you?

Your mother, he said, and damn if that didn't stop me dead. Not much could, but the ‘M’ word was a full-stop on any day. 

Go on, I growled, arms crossing over my chest as a shield.

Her will, Holt continued, holding out a thick envelope sealed tighter than Fort Knox. You've reached the age where it can finally be disclosed. Shall we?

Inside, I said, jerking my head towards the house. Couldn't stand there gawping in the drive like a galah while the world spun on. 

Of course, he murmured.

Watch the step, I warned as we entered the dim rental.

Thank you, he said, but I wasn't really listening. My mind was racing, wondering what ghosts were about to spill out of that envelope. What part of her was coming back to haunt me on my twenty-first birthday?

Sit down, get it over with, I said, voice rough as concrete. Steeling myself, I waited for the past to come knocking.

I slammed myself down in the threadbare armchair, the kind that squeaks betrayal with every shift of weight. The solicitor, Holt, perched on the edge of the sofa like a bloody crow – all dark suit and shiny shoes. He slit open the envelope with a flick of his wrist, precise, no messing about.

Your mother's will, Holt said, voice low as he handed over the sheets of paper. They felt heavy like they were soaked in her absence.

Cheers, I said, not feeling thankful at all. I scanned the pages quickly at first, then slower, each word etching itself into my brain. My eyes snagged on a sentence,