Meerkat Press Presents
Going to Summertime
by Kaaron Warren
A randomly drawn winner will receive a $25 Meerkat Press Gift Card – Enter Below
Every suburban street holds secrets and ghosts, but Summerland Place holds more than most. The team from The Red Mullet Hair Salon head to Summerland Place to explore the abandoned houses there, on a prepaid, enter at own risk, explore every nook and cranny team building exercise. They are welcomed by the charismatic Milton, who runs the tours through the cul-de-sac he grew up in. They find houses filled with malevolent ghosts and tragic ones, with memories of family trauma and family meals. All come out changed by what they see, and what it triggers in them. Some will be lost in Summertime, a euphoric state of mind. Georgia, owner of the Salon, thinks she is stronger than any of it. She has no past trauma, no secrets; some would say no heart. She didn’t expect to fall in love. Every instinct tells her not to. And yet she is drawn into the disturbing world of Milton and his mother, as she feels the seductive draw of Summertime ever stronger.
4 out of 5 fairies
This was an absolutely chilling read. Warren did an amazing job bringing the spooky atmosphere and ghosts to life. The characters are more complex than they might appear at first, and it was interesting who was chosen to go in which house and the way it affected them after they’d left. My only complaint is the flow is a bit choppy, and some things felt a bit rushed. I think in that regard this would have benefitted from being a bit longer, but overall, it was an absolutely brilliant spooky season read. I literally shivered at some of the descriptions during their initial visit, and while I don’t want to give any spoilers, there were moments that absolutely broke my heart, and others that had me looking over my shoulder to make sure there were no ghosts watching me. If you’re looking for a quick, scary read, that also has a peek into the human mind, then you need to read this!
ONE
Welcome to Summerland Place, the cul-de-sac where spirits reside, and the Cul-de-Sac Adventure, an exploration for a maximum of four players who must all sign the release form. The Cul-de-Sac Adventure is NOT covered by insurance. A Cul-de-Sac is also known as a Dead End; please be careful to ensure this isn’t the case.
Please note that each member will take a different entry point to the cul-de-sac. Not only does this ensure each player has a time buffer around them, your experience will differ depending on your entry point. THE MORE DIFFICULT ENTRY POINTS DO NOT NECESSARILY MEAN A MORE EXCITING ADVENTURE. AND VICE VERSA.
If you visit for a second time (additional fee applies) you must enter via a different point.
The MAXIMUM number of times any player can enjoy this adventure is four.
May your experience be life changing and tell your friends about us.
Please find your entrance card attached. BRING THIS WITH YOU.
ERIN Entrance 1. This is the easiest way to enter Summerland Place. When you arrive, the road into the cul-de-sac will be closed, with old trucks, a digger and some road barriers to make sure no one unauthorized can enter. The road is badly damaged and the houses deemed unsafe. You will enter through the barricades. Suggested house to explore: Number 1
SUNNIE Entrance 2. Behind the cul-de-sac is a wasteland, leading to an underused golf course. The wasteland has trees, and discarded furniture, and rubbish, both dumped and wind-blown. There is a hole in the fence. You will walk there via a pathway on the golf course. Please do exercise some caution here. This was an infamous entrance, used in a failed attempt at secrecy by the myriad of drug users who came to buy from a house in Summerland Place. You will find syringes and other paraphernalia here. Be careful. Suggested house to explore: Number 2
GEORGIA Entrance 3. Behind the houses to the far right is a deserted technical school. People use it for parties and to sleep there, or they did before it became overrun with rats and littered with a carpet of glass and human feces. The school closed down ten years ago and it is the most hazardous of the entry points. Broken glass, exposed gas lines, unstable flooring and offensive graffiti make this entry a game in itself. Those with self-described bravado are chosen for this one. Suggested house to explore: Number 3
TAMARA Entrance 4. Behind the houses to the immediate right are other houses, they are in another cul-de-sac. These people keep to themselves and the houses often change hands. There is a gate between Number 4 on that street and Number 4 in Summerland Place. You have to be slightly sneaky to use this one because entry is via that house’s backyard. Suggested house to explore: Number 4
Your goal is to find an item of current importance. This is a treasure hunt, but there are no clues. You might have to find keys and solve small puzzles. None of that is difficult. You will be entering homes that are still as they were left. This is your chance to peer into other people’s lives, to imagine how they died and, perhaps, find clues as to those deaths. Nothing is set in stone. No verdict is final. No death is clear.
TWO
The four women from the Red Mullet Salon stood in the freezing cold at the entrance to Summerland Place, waiting for the activity to begin.
“Why didn’t we just have a Fuckaware party again?” Tamara said. “My stuff from last year is all worn out.” The other three groaned.
“That was gross. All that weird rubber and that woman wearing a cock ring on her wrist . . .” Erin was only eighteen, the apprentice. Georgia hoped she’d stick around. She was a good worker.
“This’ll be fun,” Georgia said. She handed them each a small brandy bottle. “Here you go, ladies. Dutch Courage. Or I dunno, Aussie courage if Dutch is racist.”
The other three took the bottles gratefully.
“Can’t we all just go in together?” Tamara said. “Let’s just go in this way.” She pointed through the barricades.
“You can swap entrances with me if you want to, I don’t mind going through the backyard in the other street,” Erin said, and Tamara accepted gratefully.
“Stick to the houses you got allocated though,” Georgia said. “They told me it was all figured out.”
“And may the best player win, and if they win booze, promise to share,” Sunnie said. “Yay for Summertime!”
“Summerland!” Georgia said.
“Good plan, to share the prize, Sunnie. I hate winning type games,” Erin said. She wanted to be liked, and that was part of the problem. She was so eager to please that she couldn’t win.
“It’s more like a team win. A team game. We all work together in the end,” Georgia said, although that wasn’t true. She checked her black-rimmed notecard. “I’m through the Tech.” She rubbed her hands together as if excited. She did this some afternoons in the salon when they were flagging; aped excitement to egg them on.
A tall man in a blank white mask rode up on an electronic scooter. He called out, “Are you ready to rock?”
The women all burst into laughter. They’d paid $200 a head for this (or at least Georgia had paid it) and they didn’t have to pretend to be impressed, not like with clients in the salon where they laughed at bad jokes and commiserated even when that person was in the wrong.
He stopped with a spin of the wheels and hopped off, letting the scooter fall.
“I’m your guide, Milton Payne. Congrats on signing up. You’re a brave lot, that’s for sure. Tickets, tickets,” he said. They waved their notecards with entrance details at him. “You’ve all signed your release forms? You’ve all promised to behave? No one will be allowed in without making a promise.”
None of them had; he handed them pages and pens and stood waiting while they did so. He didn’t remove his mask. “Does anyone ever not make the promise?” Erin asked.
“Oh, you bet. You bet. They’d rather stand there on the street while the others explore.” Milton shook his head. “Now: An outcome depends on how you approach it. A different starting point will mean a different result.”
Georgia said, “It’s a good philosophy.” Sometimes she hated the way she sounded. She was only twenty-six and she felt like a cranky old dad whose kid wanted to drop out of a hated course at university.
“No photographing other explorers but you can snap anything else. That’s where most of our photos for the website are from. Like him.” Milton pointed. A man sitting, smoking a purple cigarette, watching, on the front verandah of Number Three on a rocking chair. The verandah was rickety, with peeling paint.
They’d all heard stories about this place. Anyone who lived in the area knew it was haunted and could tell you of at least one murder. It was known as a place to find drugs, a place parents warned their teens about, and, in legend, the birthplace of Australia’s worst serial killer, known as the Glass Cutter, who was never caught and whose crimes were mythical rather than verifiable.
Milton checked their notecards and physically turned each of them in the direction they needed to go to find their entrance. “Straight ahead for you, young lady,” he said to Erin, with an odd little bow, and then he leapt the barricades and was gone. Erin stood aside for Tamara to take her place. “Straight ahead for you, young lady,” she said.
“See you on the flipside,” Sunnie said, “And by flipside I mean the pub.”
#
In the time it took Georgia to find the right way through the Tech, the other three had entered the game.
Tamara was the first in. Milton had hurdled over the barricades with an impressively high leap, but Tamara tried to move them so she could walk through, thinking this perhaps was part of the experience, and the scraping sound echoed throughout Summerland Place. She managed to shift one enough to squeeze through, then shifted it back again.
The air was so silent Tamara could hear her blood pounding in her ears. The rhythmic beat of it made her walk in time and she headed for the center of the cul-de-sac to take it all in. She wasn’t completely clear on what they were supposed to do because the invitation was pretty vague, but she figured she’d find the house they suggested and just go in.
Number Four was not inviting at all. A decrepit sign hanging askew on the large concrete mailbox said “Summerland Family Day Care, est. 1995 (residential).” The house was the smallest on the street, a single story block of a thing with steps leading directly to the front door and small, obscured windows. The steps were rickety but Tamara could reach over them to the front doorknob, which she rattled. It was locked, of course. It wouldn’t be that easy. She kicked over a couple of nearby rocks without finding a key then, losing interest fast, decided to go around the back way. She could maybe find somewhere to sit and have a cigarette, chill out, while she waited for the others to finish.
A large playhouse made out of an old bus loomed in the backyard and she thought that’s where it’ll be. The treasure will be in there.
The ground was soggy underfoot and she swore as her heels sank in. She’d only worn low heels because no way was she getting into flats. She wasn’t a bloody pensioner. The mud smelled dank, like the kitchen compost if she hadn’t cleaned it out for ages. The playhouse was well-converted, she could tell by the way it had windowsills, and colorfully painted wall slats. She thought she saw a painted arrow, and she followed that, already imagining herself showing off to the others, she was the one who found the treasure.
Inside it was darker than it should have been given the window and the moonlight. It stank so Tamara covered her nose with her shirt. She shivered. Using the small torch they’d been given, she looked around, hoping to see a box or a chest of some kind. They’d said it was an easy quest; could it be that easy?
She saw a dog’s water bowl, dry. A pile of torn open packets of chips, not a crumb left in any of them. Annoyingly, nothing else.
She heard a small sigh. Yelping, she stepped back, thinking it must be an animal of some kind. She lifted her torch, one foot outside the doorway, ready to run. Crouching in the corner was a young girl.
“Bloody hell,” Tamara whispered. But she was good with kids, had three younger siblings and actually liked them.
She reached out to the shivering young girl. The girl recoiled, covering her head with her arms like a monkey in the zoo, and Tamara stepped back. It was cold, and the girl was shivering so hard she seemed to make the playhouse vibrate.
“I’ll get you a blanket from inside, okay? And then we’ll figure out the next thing.” All thought of exploration was gone.
Tamara backed down the playhouse stairs. She glanced back in and thought, stupidly, that the girl was gone but that couldn’t be. She walked to the back door of the house. She didn’t want to go in, was tempted to run away, leave the game and go home, but she knew she needed to do something about the girl. The door was ajar, kicked in, and she pushed it so she could squeeze through.
It was cold, absolutely bloody freezing. She found blankets on the disgusting old couches in the lounge room but they were gross, damp and moldy. In the kitchen, tins of crappy cheap food like no name ravioli were piled up on the table, all of them swollen, years past use-by date. There was a basket, lined with checked cotton, stained and crumpled. A note pinned to it said, With Neighborly Love, Elva Payne at Number Three, if you want the recipe just ask! The pin itself was kind of beautiful, or once had been. It was a large safety pin, woven over with fine lacework, beaded with tiny glass spheres. There were dark spots of mildew on it (although it was a reddish color, so spots of blood from the craftsperson?). Tamara took the pin and attached it to her jacket lapel. She’d tell the other girls a nasty story about it, freak them out.
Tamara shook her head. There was no treasure here and the girl was waiting. She’d just have to get her out, take her to hospital. Someone else could figure out where her parents were. She found a coat at the front door and gathered that up, although it was greasy to the touch and very heavy. She carried it outside, and up the playhouse steps. “Here we are!” she said. “This to keep you warm and then we can go find your mum or your dad or whatever.”
Tamara stumbled further into the playhouse; there was a thick layer of dust and dirt, and mostly likely possum and mouse shit. There were old ropes where the girl had been but no girl. The girl was gone.
Tamara flicked at her own temple with a forefinger, stupid brain, she thought, stupid dumb brain. Then she backed out of the playhouse and went to sit, and smoke, in the uncomfortable rattan chair sitting near the back door.
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Shirley Jackson award-winner Kaaron Warren published her first short story in 1993 and has had fiction in print every year since. She has published six multi-award winning novels: Slights, Walking the Tree, Mistification, The Grief Hole, Tide of Stone and The Underhistory, and seven short story collections, her most recent being Calvaria Fell, with Cat Sparks, from Meerkat Press. Her stories have been shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award and the Stoker, and appeared in both Ellen Datlow’s and Paula Guran’sYear’s Best anthologies. Her writing podcast Let the Cat In showcases ideas, objects, and inspirations
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