Trunk Story

A plastic wheelie bin had just gone skittering down the road when Colly Glennon heard his son roaring.

“Daddy, dad-eeee.”

It was just after 10pm and his six-year-old Cillian should already have been asleep. They stayed up late watching Despicable Me 2 for what could easily have been the thirteenth time. They feasted on popcorn with the lights dimmed low as the storm outside sent almost every loose object in Dublin 7 tumbling and toppling over.

“Daddd-eeee.”

Colly had just poured out a bottle of Leffe, a perfect froth peeping over the rim of his goblet glass. He was letting the beer sit. His wife Niamh was away home down the country until Sunday with their daughter Méabh. A boy’s weekend loomed. Jumps racing, Dublin GAA, and Match of the Day on one TV. Disney movies and YouTube on another. There would be no screen time limits enforced.

“Dadddddd-eeeeeeeee.”

“What is it Cillian?” he roared.

He could hear his son was saying something, but not the words themselves.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” he said taking an enormous slug of the beer.

How long would he have to lie beside Cillian waiting for him to fall asleep? That was never part of his plan for the evening. The boy should have been asleep already, but Colly had a foolproof mantra for times such as these.

‘What else better would I be doing?’ he said to himself.

“Daddy, I think there’s something in my room.”

“It’s just the storm little man. It’s wild out there.”

“No, I heard something inside.”

Colly turned on the light on the landing, padded gently into his son’s bedroom. Cillian had the quilt pulled up high so that it was covering his face, his eyes red.

“Now, what’s all this about something in your room?” he said, rubbing his son’s forehead.

“I heard something scraping,” said Cillian.

“It’s just that crazy wind. You know the weatherman said it was the tail end of a hurricane from America.”

“What’s a hurricane?”

“It’s like a big big storm, only even bigger.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Not if you’re curled up nice and cosy in your bed.”

Colly stood up and walked across the room, tapping the old toy trunk with his hand. He pulled back the curtain and looked out the window. The sycamore tree in the back was quivering, its leaves pogoing away even though it was only June. It was lucky his wife and daughter had made it up to Mayo before the wind really picked up. He imagined what it must be like out along the wild Atlantic coast, waves crashing, the rain coming downwards, sidewards, and every other wards.

“There’s nothing up here,” he said to his son. “Now, I’m going to go downstairs but I’ll leave the doors open and if you need me, just shout.”

“Okay daddy,” Cillian said, his eyelids drooping.

Colly kicked off his runners and tiptoed down to the living room, doing his best impression of a cat burglar. He congratulated himself on what a good father he was, and his thoughts turned again to the amber Belgian beer still bubbling on the coffee table. He flopped into the sofa, picked up the glass, drank in the sweet smell.

“Daddddd-eeeee.”

His stockinged feet were much louder as he went back upstairs. Cillian was on the landing now, shivering in his Toy Story pyjamas, the tears as quick as the rain outside. They’d had problems getting him to sleep in the past. But things had been good the past six months.

“Ah, come here,” said Colly. “Don’t be crying.”

He lifted his son up, carried him back into the bedroom.

“I don’t want to go in there, daddy.”

“It’s all right little man. I’ll lie down with you, and we’ll both fall asleep.”

“But there’s something in there.”

“Well then, I’ll find whatever it is, and I’ll bop it on the head with your hurley stick. How about that?”

“Okay daddy.”

Colly lifted the quilt up, let his son climb back in under. He lay down on the other side atop the Paw Patrol bed covering. He knew he would probably fall asleep and wake up at God knows what time with a crick in his neck wondering where he was. He’d been looking forward to having his own superking-sized bed all to himself. It was nice sometimes, not to be pulling the duvet back and forth between himself and his wife. No early morning calls to cut the grass or trim the hedge.

“Daddy, I can hear it again,” said Cillian.

“I’m telling you it’s just the storm,” Colly said and there was a tinge of frustration in his voice. He checked himself immediately. ‘What else better …?’ the words forming on his lips but never uttered.

“Will you check for me?”

“No problem.”

He got out, went down on his hands and knees. He looked under the bed, the torch from his mobile phone shining in across the dusty timber floorboards. There were a couple of pairs of worn socks and underpants, which should have been in the wash basket. The wrapper of two chocolate bars and an empty foil bag of Tayto cheese and onion crisps purloined from the kitchen press lay there as well.

“Nothing down here Cillian.”

“Okay daddy.”

He climbed back onto the bed, growing ever sleepier. A few minutes passed and he could hear the deepening sound of his son’s breath, the faintest echo of a snore. He let his own eyes close, thinking he might rest a few minutes, make sure Cillian was well and truly asleep.

Colly must have dropped off because he awoke in confusion.

“Daddy, daddy, there’s something in there.”

His eyes shot open.

“Come on Cillian, that’s enough now.”

“In the trunk daddy, do you not hear it?”

He sat up on the bed. At the bottom of the room the old trunk sat. He had used it to store his own toys when he was small. His late father made it in his ‘workshop’ out in the garden shed; his ‘contented place’. It was fashioned of oak, stained dark but turning lighter with the years. The lid was secured with an antique metal fitting and as Colly looked, he was sure he saw it moving.

The noise was clear now. Something was most definitely inside. Struggling, kicking.

“You stay there Cillian,” he said.

Colly walked towards it wondering if a pigeon or squirrel had somehow become trapped. He could see the top of the trunk jumping upwards before it would catch on the trunk’s lock with a metallic thunk. He switched on the torch of his mobile phone again, undoing the catch and pushing open the lid. Inside was his little man Cillian, his tiny mouth covered over with a scarf. His hands and legs were bound together tightly. The look in his eyes spoke of a terror unimaginable.

“What the hell?” said Colly, turning around.

“I told you there was something up here.”

About the Author

Ken Foxe is a writer and transparency activist in Ireland. He is the author of two non-fiction books based on his journalism and a member of the Horror Writers Association. You can find him on Instagram (@kenfoxe) and Twitter/X (@kenfoxe). www.kenfoxe.com/short-stories/