Death Nest

By Simon Dillon

It took his brother. Now it's coming for his son.

From the author of Spectre of Springwell Forest and The Irresistible Summons...

A nail-biting new mystery.

After his young son Ben writes a disturbing story about murdering a boy in a forest, widower Nick Unwin is alarmed by eerie parallels between his son’s behaviour and that of his younger brother Jason, prior to his inexplicable disappearance twenty years previously. This tragic past returns to haunt Nick when he sees an image of his long-lost brother in a newly released film.

Fearing history will repeat itself, Nick decides to investigate, along with Tanith, an old flame from his early teenage years, with dark secrets of her own connected to Jason’s disappearance. But as they delve deeper into the labyrinthine mysteries of their past, long buried memories resurface. Nick is forced to face the terrible fear that has plagued him for decades: Was he responsible for the death of his brother?

A riveting coming-of-age thriller exploring traumatic sibling relationships, parental fears, and the misleading nature of memory, Death Nest is Simon Dillon’s most gripping novel yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Dillon
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201720124

Simon Dillon

I was born the year Steven Spielberg made moviegoers everywhere terrified of sharks. I lived the first twenty or so years of my life in Oxford, and am pleased to have spent so much time in the place where some of my favourite writers wrote their greatest works (including JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and Philip Pullman). I like to think I can write a diverting tale, and as a result I have penned a few novels and short stories. I currently live in Plymouth in the UK, and am married with two children. I am presently brainwashing them with the same books that I loved growing up.

Book preview

Death Nest

By Simon Dillon

Copyright 2023 Simon Dillon

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Bonus Material: The Irresistible Summons Prologue

Bonus Material: The Irresistible Summons Chapter 1

Dedication: For David.

Chapter 1

This is the third time in as many weeks I’ve been called into school to speak to Ben’s teacher. Only last week, Mrs Trench complained of him swearing in class. The week before he got into a scuffle with another child. This time, the incident is serious enough to involve the head teacher, Mr Brown - a scrawny young man in his late twenties. From behind his desk, he addresses me in condescending tones.

‘Mr Unwin, we’re concerned about Ben. Deeply concerned. As you know, he’s been swearing at teachers, getting into fights…’

‘He got into one fight, and that was self-defence,’ I cut in.

‘He really ought to have found a teacher, and resolved the matter that way,’ says Mrs Trench, a thin, wraithlike figure sitting to my left.

I shrug. ‘And that teaches him what, exactly? Do you think crying to HR is going to help him when he gets treated unfairly in the workplace? People have to fight their own battles. Ben didn’t start that fight, but he finished it fairly and proportionately. The fact that he’s learned that at his age is reason to be proud of him, not to punish him.’

Mr Brown sighs. ‘We’re not here to discuss that, or the swearing.’

‘I really don’t see why you were so shocked by the swearing.’

‘We were concerned about what he might be watching on television,’ Mrs Trench says.

I laugh. ‘Children pick up swear words at school and often don’t know what they mean. He’s seven, for God’s sake! He wasn’t trying to be aggressive.’

Mr Brown passes me an open exercise book. ‘Ben wrote this, as part of an English exercise to write a story about taking a walk in the woods. We expected the children to write about trees, blackberry bushes, acorns, conkers, animals they might have glimpsed, and so on. However, Ben’s story is… somewhat different.’

I scan the story. Ben’s handwriting is excellent, and his word usage articulate and vivid. I get that familiar surge of pride. He’s a very bright child.

As the story progresses, my pride turns to unease.

I took Sebastian into the woods to kill him. He didn’t know, and I didn’t want to tell him, because I knew how much killing him would hurt. Sebastian doesn’t understand, but there’s bad inside him, and the only way to get the bad out of him, is for him to die. So I took him deep into the trees, where we were all alone, and no one would hear him screaming. Then I stabbed him with a dagger I’d secretly brought with me. There was a lot of blood. He cried and kept asking me to stop. But I didn’t stop. I had to get rid of the bad inside him.

At the end of the story is a gruesome illustration featuring a stick figure next to a tree with a dagger in his hand, standing over another stick figure on the ground, who appears to be bleeding out. Mr Brown and Mrs Trench scrutinise me as I look up from the picture. It is understandable why they found Ben’s story alarming. But I suppress my own creeping fears and shrug.

‘Yes, it’s a disturbing story, but lots of children write about dark things to express morbid fascination and macabre curiosity about violence and death. Typically, they grow out of this later in life, and don’t become killers.’

‘Do you know who this Sebastian might be?’ Mr Brown asks.

I shake my head. ‘We don’t know a Sebastian, unless there’s someone called Sebastian that Ben knows in school. Is there?’

‘There are no Sebastians in the school,’ Mrs Trench says.

‘Look, obviously he’s just made him up, like the rest of the story. He doesn’t actually want to kill anyone.’

‘What do you make of this bit where he talks about killing Sebastian, to get rid of the bad inside him?’ Mr Brown asks.

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘We think it might be advisable to seek counselling for Ben. Between the fights, the swearing, and now this violent story, the opinion of a professional…’

‘The incidents are unrelated,’ I interrupt. ‘Yes, this is a peculiar story, but I really think it’s nothing to be concerned about. As I said, children often express themselves in unsettling ways that have a rawness, curiosity, and honesty to them, that perhaps…’

‘Mr Unwin, please remind me what it is that you do for a living?’

‘I help design computer games, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.’

‘My point is you are not medically qualified to make judgements about Ben’s mental wellbeing.’

‘As his father, I think I am exceptionally qualified. There is nothing wrong with my son.’ I glare at Mr Brown and Mrs Trench, trying to remain calm.

Mrs Trench exchanges glances with Mr Brown and addresses me with a horrible expression of phoney pity. ‘Forgive me for asking Mr Unwin, but how long has it been since your wife passed?’

I stand, fuming inwardly. ‘I’m finished here. Thank you for your concern. It has been noted. Now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait around until home time, since there’s only a few more minutes to go.’

Without another word, I leave the office, stride out of the building, and stand in the playground where other parents are beginning to congregate. The frosty November breeze stings my face, provoking tears I hurriedly brush away. A mixture of anger and concern gnaws at my stomach.

After a few minutes, the bell rings. I catch sight of Ben, standing in the doorway of his classroom, being dismissed by Mrs Trench. He runs across to me, but his face is downcast.

‘Have you got my velociraptor?’ he asks.

I reach into my pocket and withdraw a toy velociraptor. Ben loves dinosaurs and is immensely attached to this toy. He won’t take it to school in case he loses it, but I am under strict instructions to bring it to him when I meet him afterwards, every day.

Ben takes the velociraptor and stares at it.

‘How was school?’

‘Boring. I’m not allowed to read the book I want to read. Mrs Trench said it’s too old for me.’

‘What book is that?’

‘Watership Down. It’s about rabbits.’

‘Yeah, I’ve read it.’

‘It sounded really cool.’

I try to hide my surge of irritation at the small-mindedness of Ben’s teachers. Not letting him read books he is fully capable of reading simply because they are above the reading range typical for his age group enrages me. A year ago, I had a battle with the school to let him read The Hobbit, which eventually I won. But I can’t be bothered to argue with them this time, especially after everything I’ve just been told.

‘I think I’ve got a copy at home. I’ll dig it out for you.’

‘Thanks, Daddy.’

We make our way across the playground amid the scrum of parents and children, jostling to get to the narrow entrance at the school gates, and out into the street. The rain lets up a little as we walk along the pavement beneath the line of trees. Cars splash through puddles to our right, and we narrowly avoid getting soaked at least twice. Gusts of bitter wind assault us. By the time we get home, my fingers feel raw.

After making a cup of tea, I enjoy a few moments of silence in the kitchen. Ben has already planted himself in the sitting room to watch some silly YouTube videos. I wonder whether to bring up the business of his disturbing story, to try and find out what inspired it. Perhaps one of his friends saw a horror film and told him details. He’s most likely working out that fascination and revulsion. The idea that my son needs professional help is ludicrous.

I glance outside, into the cul-de-sac of semi-detached houses where I have lived for the past three years. 18 Thorn Close, Cumnor, Oxford; an anonymous existence amid an equally anonymous modern housing estate. I once lived in a house that had a name, not a number: Ivy Cottage, Mayfield Lane, Corthpothan, Cornwall. Everyone in the village knew of our family. I was Nicholas Unwin, son of Victor, respected entrepreneur, and pillar of the local community.

Nobody knows about the Unwins anymore.

I don’t expect anyone to feel sorry for me about loss of family wealth or social status. No tears should be shed over squandered fortunes, or prideful, entitled notions of position. I prefer anonymity in any case. As for money, it can be gained or lost, but my job provides enough to comfortably cover costs in a perfectly adequate home with Ben. Given the horrifying levels of poverty in other parts of the world, all such matters are relative.

But the loss of my little brother was another matter entirely.

Outside, a gust of wind shrieks. Twigs from the near leafless silver birch in the front garden clatter on the windows. I glance out at the drizzly gloom, staring at patchy brown leaves detaching and dancing in the breeze, swirling with the indifference of broken dreams. The image stirs a memory.

Running through an autumn forest.

Brown leaves floating in the air.

Blood.

Bruises.

Pushing my way through brambles to quicken my escape. Yet I don’t know what I’m escaping from.

Grimy tears streaming down my face.

Absolute terror.

Unbearable grief.

‘Daddy?’

Stirred from my memories, I look across at Ben, who has the television remote control in his hand. He’s still in school uniform, which looks a little muddy.

‘I should give those trousers a wash,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you run upstairs and get changed?’

‘The television isn’t working.’

I get up from the table and enter the sitting room. Sure enough, Ben must have pressed something on the remote control since the screen is static. I fiddle with a few settings to fix the problem, trying to reset YouTube.

‘Go upstairs and get changed,’ I say.

‘But I don’t want to!’

‘It won’t take you long. By the time you’re back, I’ll have this sorted out.’

Ben moans, dragging himself out of the sitting room. His reluctant thumping steps echo from the staircase whilst I continue to tinker with the television. Eventually, I get YouTube back, and a banner across the main page catches my eye; a new horror film entitled Serpent’s Nest. Above the title are the words A Kyle Rogers Film.

Kyle Rogers.

I’ve not spoken to Kyle in years. He was a film fanatic with ambitions to direct. The last I heard he’d taken some of his short films to festivals, and I seem to remember from Facebook conversations he was trying to secure funding and distribution for a feature. Looks like he succeeded.

Out of curiosity, I click on the banner to watch the trailer. Horror films aren’t really my thing, but since this is directed by one of my oldest friends, it only seems fair that I give him the chance to impress me.

I expect the film to look fast, flashy, and full of jump scare clichés. Instead, the trailer has an eerie, uneasy tone. There’s little about the plot, but the near monochromatic imagery - a past-its-prime summer theme park, ghostly young girls - has a stark, nightmarish quality. The theme park shots stir some deep anxiety, and only when I rewatch the trailer, pausing certain shots, do I realise the truth.

The film has been shot at Wally’s Wonderland, in Cornwall.

I freeze. My initial feeling is one of anger. Has Kyle really stooped that low? Has he no shame? He must have known how much this would upset our family. Was he really that inconsiderate? Why shoot at Wally’s Wonderland? Is he deliberately trying to exploit tragedy? His audacity baffles me.

I take a few deep breaths. What happened at Wally’s Wonderland happened over twenty years ago. From what I understand, the park is still open, but it’s a pale imitation of what it once was, and can’t compete with the likes of Alton Towers, or even some of the local theme parks. Perhaps this slightly run-down look was exactly what Kyle needed for his spooky film, and he was simply being practical, using what he knew in his choice of locations. Perhaps he thought after all this time, it simply wouldn’t matter.

I watch the trailer again, listening to the voiceover. Coming to a cinema near you this Friday. Today is Friday. I could go and see the film tonight if I could get mother to babysit.

‘Daddy, did you fix YouTube?’

Ben stands behind me dressed in jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. I hand him the remote control.

‘All yours.’

I return upstairs to the study, and my focus turns to work. Given that I’m supposed to be working from home today, I’ve spent far longer than usual lingering in the aftermath of the school run, pondering past events. For the time being, the matter of Kyle’s film is driven out of my mind in a melee of emails and management reports. Ben continues to watch YouTube downstairs, and every so often I hear guffaws of laughter.

At half past five, I close my computer and return downstairs. Before making dinner, I wonder about calling my mother and asking her to babysit. My curiosity about Serpent’s Nest lingers. I glance at a few online reviews and discover the film has been mostly well received. I don’t go to the cinema very often. Perhaps it would make a nice change.

The phone rings. To my surprise, it’s my mother.

‘Hi, Mother. Funny you should call, as I was wondering…’

‘Why is it funny?’

‘Well, I was just thinking about you because…’

‘Oh Nick, I understand. It’s inevitable that you’d be thinking of me on a day like today.’

‘A day like today, what do you…’

I suddenly remember the date.

12th November.

The day my father died, just twelve days after my brother Jason vanished.

‘Oh, I see. Look mother, it’s been God knows how many years. You don’t need to check up on me just because it’s the anniversary of... you know.’

‘I understand, but I’d hardly be a good mother if I didn’t just call to see if you were all right.’

‘Well, of course I’m all right.’

I say this, realising the shadow of these tragic events has been felt more keenly than usual today. Earlier, I remembered the aftermath of my brother’s disappearance. Running through the woods, bloodied, bruised, and terrified. Then I discovered Kyle Rogers shot Serpent’s Nest in what appeared to be Wally’s Wonderland. On top of that, if I was being completely honest with myself, Ben’s violent story also unsettled me, because it featured a journey into a forest.

‘How’s Ben?’

‘Oh, fine, fine.’

I don’t want to talk about Ben. He’s fine. Nothing in his recent behaviour is out of the ordinary. There is no idiotic curse on this family, despite what some people think.

‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ I ask.

‘No, nothing at all.’

‘Only… I was thinking about going to the cinema and I don’t have a babysitter.’

‘Say no more! Any excuse to spend time with my grandson. What time should I turn up?’

‘About seven?’

‘Perfect! See you then.’

After hurriedly making dinner, I sit down with Ben at the dining table that adjoins our kitchen. He seems glum, so I try and cheer him up.

‘I’m going out tonight, but guess who’s coming to look after you? Granny!’

Ben shrugs and eats a mouthful of spaghetti.

‘This weekend, we’ll do some fun things together. Perhaps we’ll go for one of our epic walks. Would you like that?’

Ben nods. ‘I hope it doesn’t rain.’

‘Well, if it rains, perhaps we’ll have an epic Lego build instead.’

‘Will you be there when I die?’

The unusual question takes me by surprise. I consider how to respond. Does he want me to reassure him? Obviously, I seriously hope I’m not there when he dies, but is that what he wants to hear?

‘I expect your own children will be there when you die, but that will be years and years and years in the future, when you are very old.’

‘But will you still be alive when I’m very old?’

‘I almost certainly won’t. Parents aren’t meant to live longer than their children. That’s just how it works.’

‘I don’t want any children. That means I’m going to die alone.’

Ben’s eyes have genuine worry in them, and I can see he’s on the verge of tears.

‘That’s not necessarily true at all, Ben. You could have friends around you, other family members like cousins, or other people that know you.’

‘But you won’t be there. You’ll be dead by then. And you could die when I’m still a boy, just like Mummy did.’

‘Is that what’s making you think about all this? You’ve been thinking about Mummy?’

‘Yes. I remember Mummy, but it’s like she was in a very happy dream.’

‘Do you sometimes dream about her?’

Ben nods. ‘I hate happy dreams about Mummy. I prefer bad dreams.’

‘You prefer bad dreams? Why?’

‘Because I can always wake up from bad dreams. With good dreams, I hate waking up, because I want them to be real. I want Mummy to still be here.’

I don’t know what to say. Putting an arm around Ben, I try to ignore the anvil in my stomach. Perhaps his disturbing story and his worries about death are linked, but I still don’t want to question him about that. I’m convinced the school is overreacting.

‘I understand. I miss Mummy too.’

We continue to hug for a few seconds before I pull away. ‘Finish your spaghetti before it gets cold. I think we both deserve some ice cream for pudding. What do you think?’

Ben manages a weak smile. He’s still there, buried under the sadness that seems to have gripped him today. Although it’s been three years since Sarah was killed in a car crash, he has moments like these quite regularly. I do too. Then again, ever since Jason disappeared and my father died, I’ve known you don’t get over the death of a loved one. The pain just gets more infrequent.

‘I frightened Mrs Trench today,’ Ben says, as I get him his ice cream.

‘Really? How did you do that?’

‘I put a big spider on her chair. She didn’t know it was me that did it, but she screamed when she saw it.’

This is more like it. Childish pranks. There’s nothing wrong with my son. He doesn’t need psychological help, and he’s not cursed. He’s just a normal seven-year-old playing tricks on his teacher. I beam at him and give him a thumbs up.

‘Nice one.’

At 7pm, my mother turns up. She gives me a big hug, which I indulge, despite not being much of a hugger. Ben gets an equally big hug and seems pleased to see her. They settle in the sitting room, where Ben gives his grandmother a long-winded explanation of the various characters in his favourite computer game.

‘Not too late to bed,’ I say.

‘It’s not a school night,’ my mother says. ‘Let’s have a little fun.’

‘All right, but Ben, if Granny lets you stay up too late, make sure you tell her off, okay?’

Ben laughs. ‘I’m not telling Granny off!’

‘Enjoy your film. What are you going to see?’

I don’t want to mention the title, in case she knows Kyle Rogers directed it, and that could provoke all kinds of questions.

‘Oh, just some horror film. You wouldn’t be interested. I’ll see you later.’

I head out, but once I shut the door of my VW Golf, I hesitate, staring out at the darkness and rain. I experience a curious split-second of doubt. Why am I going to see this film? Is it just because Kyle directed it, or is it because of where he shot it? Why am I subjecting myself to this? Am I just going to re-open old wounds? Why do I have an inexplicable urge to forget this entire matter and head back indoors?

Dismissing my unease, I start the car and drive off, heading into Oxford. The traffic along the Botley Road isn’t too bad. Soon I pass the railway station and park in one of the side streets near the Magdalen Street cinema. After a brief walk in the rain, I arrive, purchase a ticket, and sit before the big screen, waiting to see the sinister cinematic spectacle created by my old friend Kyle. The cinema is about half-full, and I remember this is the opening weekend. Doubtless, Kyle hopes Serpent’s Nest does well at the box office. Before the lights dim and the presentation starts, I send him a quick message over Facebook, telling him I’m about to watch his film.

After the usual commercials and trailers, the main feature starts. Serpent’s Nest is set in a theme park in the southwest that’s seen better days and involves the appearance of a ghostly young girl. The protagonist - a private detective called Scott Thornhill - investigates these spectral sightings, and discovers a cover-up in the park, involving a rollercoaster ride that crashed, causing the death of the girl whose ghost keeps appearing. It appears the negligent individuals responsible for the rollercoaster accident are going to be brought to justice. All very predictable really.

That said, the film has an atmosphere of skin-crawling unease. I’m not sure quite why I find it so unnerving. Perhaps because it is shot in Wally’s Wonderland (renamed Paradise Park in the film). Seeing this place again - a place that holds such horrifying memories - could be the main reason the film jabs raw nerves. Given what happened to me there, it’s hardly surprising.

Then I see him.

At first, I do a double take. It can’t be him. It must be my imagination. Or else it’s someone who looks just like him. To be fair, you can’t really see his face. But after a while, my doubts disappear. The wide shot at the edge of the theme park holds for some time, with the characters discussing events of the film in the foreground. He stands a few feet away from them, by the forest from which I emerged bloodied and battered all those years ago. He looks no older than he did back then, wearing the same ripped jeans, white trainers, unzipped winter coat, and white T-shirt that he wore when he disappeared.

My little brother.

Jason.

Chapter 2

Eventually, the film cuts away to a closer shot of the characters talking. When the wide shot returns, Jason has vanished. Seeing him like this unsettles me, especially as he still looks ten years old. It can’t have been real. The mind can play strange tricks. Given that today is the anniversary of my father’s death, and because I’ve been thinking about him and Jason, perhaps my brain decided to place my brother in the film. It was shot exactly where he vanished, for God’s sake.

Perhaps I’ve been working too hard. Perhaps I should see a doctor.

Alternatively, there’s another option.

I could see the film again.

I sit through the rest of the feature unable to focus on the plot. My eyes scan every frame, wondering if I’ll spot another appearance from Jason. When the end credits roll, I glance at my watch. 10:10pm. There’s a late-night screening at 11:00pm. I walk out of the cinema and send a text message to my mother, asking if she wouldn’t mind staying overnight, since something has come up that I need to deal with. My mother immediately replies in the affirmative. She seems pleased. Perhaps she thinks I’ve met a woman and am spending the night with her. I tell her I’ll be back between 1:30am and 2am, and not to wait up.

I return to the cinema and purchase a ticket for the 11:00pm screening. There’s some time to wait so I take a wander through the streets of Oxford, past various colleges and pubs teeming with students. The rain has eased, but the wind has got colder.

My mind churns with the strange image of my brother. He didn’t look like a ghost, but how else could he have been in the film? How could Kyle not have noticed whilst he was shooting? Or was he invisible to him? His placement in the shot was awkward, now I think about it. I’m no expert in film direction, but I wouldn’t have had an extra stand where I saw Jason, as it would draw the eye away from the characters in the foreground.

Forty minutes later, I sit in the cinema once more, waiting for the film to start. There are only a few people present, including a couple of girls in the back row who are obviously drunk. The lights dim, and I sit through the same commercials and trailers from earlier, accompanied by much drunken heckling from the girls at the back. Normally I’d feel annoyed and anxious that they might ruin the main feature with their prattling, but I’m here to investigate, not to be entertained.

My stomach lurches when Serpent’s Nest starts again. I feel impatient, wanting to get to that wide shot with my brother. I can’t quite remember where the scene comes in the story, and when it finally appears, it’s later than I originally thought. But he’s there like before. Jason. Standing there as clear as day, even though I can’t quite make out the details of his face.

I stare unblinking, not wanting to miss a frame. I scrutinise the image on the big screen, trying to see if any CGI trickery has been employed. I can normally tell since my work in computer games involves overseeing motion capture and graphic design. Nothing looks fake. It appears Kyle found Jason and deliberately placed him in that shot, which of course is impossible. My brother looks incredibly strange, watching whilst Scott Thornhill grills one of the staff in Paradise Parkland about their involvement in the roller coaster accident.

What the hell is going on?

The shot cuts away, and I sit through the rest of the film in a state of numb shock. Surely, I can’t have imagined it twice?

When the film ends, I get out my phone and go on Facebook. I intend to message Kyle Rogers demanding to know what he’s playing at, but as I start to type, I don’t know what to say. I can hardly write: Dear Kyle, when were you going to tell me you’d found my long-lost brother, who’s somehow still ten years old?

I stumble out of the cinema with my phone still in my hand, walk back to the car, and resume typing once inside the parked vehicle. My words seem absurd, but I hit send before I can overthink the message.

Hi Kyle - I hope you’ll forgive me for contacting you like this, since I know we’ve not spoken in some years.

I just saw your film and noticed something very strange that I wondered if you could shed some light on. In one wide shot at the edge of the theme park, with the rollercoaster in the background on the right, and the woods to the left on a bit of a slope, you have Scott Thornhill talking to one of the female staff about the accident on the rollercoaster. They are to the right of the frame in the foreground, but in the background on the left, just next to the Darkfire Forest, is a boy who looks exactly like Jason did the day he disappeared.

Was he an extra who just happens to look like the spitting image of Jason? If so, he’s wearing the exact clothes Jason wore the day he disappeared. I have to say, it spooked me even more than your film (which I enjoyed very much, by the way). Did you put him there on purpose, as some kind of tribute to where he vanished? I’m very curious. Please do let me know. I hope you’re well otherwise, and wish you all the best, especially for Serpent’s Nest to do well at the box office.

Nick.

I sit for several minutes, waiting to see if Kyle replies. No tick appears indicating he’s seen my message. I glance at my watch. 1:30am. I really ought to get home.

Whilst I drive through largely deserted streets in the early hours of the morning, my mind goes over and over the image I saw in the film. Perhaps it was just an extra who looked like Jason. The more I think about it, the more that explanation makes sense. Kyle just wanted some kind of tribute in the film. A nod to the terrible events that took place in Wally’s Wonderland. I don’t think he meant to shock me, or anyone else. Perhaps he thought I would appreciate the gesture. At any rate, as I pull up at home on my driveway, that’s my conclusion. Any alternative explanation is too terrifying to contemplate.

Inside the house, I creep up the stairs. I can hear breathing from the guest bedroom where my mother is asleep, and when I look in on Ben, he seems peaceful. Doubtless, he was thrilled to have his granny over for the evening. Considering all she’s been through, it’s amazing she has any cheer left in her, but she has proved a first-rate grandparent to Ben.

I lie awake for some time, because every time I close my eyes, I’m haunted by that shot of Jason (or whoever is the spitting image of him). Eventually, I nod off, but my dreams are filled with running through trees in anguish. I’m fourteen years old and covered in blood. Over and over again, I scream my brother’s name, weeping and wailing.

Jason… Jason…

I emerge from the woods, stagger towards Wally’s Wonderland and enter the theme park. Amid the bustling crowds, I look for my parents, but can’t find them. Desperation, despair, and terror build within me. The scene is exactly as it was, all those years ago.

On the other side of a crowd near a merry-go-round, I see Ben. He’s wearing his thick winter coat, and from his pocket, he produces the toy velociraptor I always give him after school.

He’s crying.

He’s lost.

I’m suddenly my age: Thirty-four years old. I barge my way through the thronging people, trying to get to my son. But the more I push through the crowds, the farther away Ben seems. He starts to sob harder, crying hysterically. Looking up at passing strangers, he reaches out to them, trying to get their attention. Everyone ignores him.

I push harder