What happened to Peter Falk’s eye?

Peter straddled the lofty gates as they swayed wildly in the wind. It would’ve made a fun ride if he wasn’t so totally terrified of heights. As he tightened his grip a thorn pressed into Peter’s hand, a small bubble of dark blood grew from his palm. Soldered to the top of the monster iron gates and painted with cheap gold paint perched a colossal brass rose. Out from this metal flower shot thorn-covered stems which wound they’re way across the top like fancy barbed wire. The wind blew again and Peter clutched the stem in fear, hanging on tight he pressed his body against the stem, his face a speck away from the sharp metal points.

John shouted distant words of encouragement from down on the ground. It was his interlocked fingers that had hoist him up there. All the other kids were shouting too but above the chorus of gasps and pants it was his brother who Peter could hear the clearest.

Adrenaline sloshing in his belly Peter lifted his trailing leg over the top of the gate and tried climb down but he was stuck. The white bandage that covered his eye had snagged on a thorn. Struggling he yanked his head back stretching the bandage as far as it would go. Like a dog with a bone he persisted at tugging at the material, quietly snarling as he did. There was a hacking, ripping sound as the bandage gave way and Peter plopped into her garden. Half of his bandage still wrapped around the top of the gate flapping in the wind like a flag.

Peter wasn’t sure what she was trying to keep out with a wall that big. It was painted a bright luxurious white on the outside but inside it was left bare. The cold grey stone gave the garden an eerie charisma. The uncut grass reached up to Peter’s belly and he couldn’t see where his feet were treading. Thick green vines were devouring the garden furniture, twisting round them like a boa constrictor. Peter shivered as he looked back towards the gates to the children who now seemed miles away.

Peter instinctively hid behind the dying oak tree in the middle of the garden. Spooked and breathing hard he could see John’s face pressed between the bar but he couldn’t hear what he was shouting. Eventually, when his breathing began to calm, he and noticed the garden was totally silent. This quiet void was abruptly filled by a loud squawk.

A brilliant white bird with glowing red eyes and razor sharp claws flapped violently in Peter’s face, scratching at his cheeks. Panicking Peter and put his arms to protect his head but the bird then obliged to peck at his flailing limbs instead.

Outside John coolly lifted the gun to his right eye and squinting he took aim. On a mission as dangerous as this he knew the weapon would come in handy.
Remembering for a second Christmas and the unknown cowboy on the front of the box. His red bandana over his mouth pointing his rifle at a cowering cartoon Mexican. The words ‘Pop Shot bb.’ emblazed in red and silver.

John waited for a clear shot as his brother wriggled and fought with the bird. A second out, a centimetre left or right and he would hit his brother smack in the face.

It was just John and Peter now. The other kids had gone: run away frightened.

There was a small click. The pellet had gone.

The bird burst into a puff of feathers and dropped to the floor. Confused but relieved, Peter looked around as the cloud of feather floated slowly to the ground. He could see his brother outside waving his arms unsympathetically, shouting for him to get on with it. Peter knelt down and covered the bird over with some dirt and moved on.

The wooden panelling that fronted the house were peeling white paint. The dusty wooden porch looked over two rows of rose bushes. They had been be-headed and only the woody brown stems remained.
“That’s where she buried her husbands” John had said.
No longer worrying about keeping quiet Peter stamped onto the porch trampling through the rose bush as he went. At the end of the porch a bench swung gently, metal chains squeaking wickedly.

Her one-button eye gazed to the heavens. Her knitted hair was unravelling. Her wide stitched smile gave Peter the creeps. But this was the proof they needed that they had entered the witch’s lair and survived. The source of all her powers, they said, was this mouldy rag doll.

Peter did a silent victory dance. They would be legends, John and him.

***

She wafted onto the porch, only the clip-clop of her stilettos audible over the soft afternoon wind. She walked up behind Peter who was busy gyrating his hips and waving his arms in the air. As Peter turned to leave he got caught in the curtain of her silk robe. Long and white it rippled over her feet and was tied tight around her waist. A deep maroon ruffle covered her neck; plush and velvety it puffed out like a robin red breast.

Stepping back out from between her legs Peter could see his static reflection in her huge black bug eye sunglasses. The light from the low afternoon sun bounced off them showing up her waxy translucent skin, hacked off the bone with surgical precision and pulled back behind her ears, stretched like an artist’s canvas. Her thin painted eyebrows peeped over the top of her glasses placing a faint expression of surprise on her. But it was her mouth that made her look evil. Small and puckered it quivered with anger.

The only sign of her true age were her hands. Boney and mottled they had bright orange speckles running down her crinkly old fingers, which were capped with long sharp nails, painted black and razor sharp. She clasped her talons around Peter’s wrist and with remarkable strength pulled him into the house.

His cries cut off as she kicked the door shut with her back leg.

John could only watch from outside the gates. Nervily he paced back and forth unsure of what exactly to do. His parents would kill him that was for sure. They knew that Peter would follow John into the belly of a crocodile. He pictured for a second the two of them huddled by candle light in the belly of the beast. Then he picture his mother, face like an angry war god ready to unleash a volley of hell fire and spittle. Spurred on by this, he threw himself at the gates and struggled up. He landed with a thud inside the garden.

Running towards the house the front door was locked. He picked up a rock to smash the window when he heard a cutting screech which stopped him dead. He couldn’t tell if it was Peter or the Witch. He hoped it wasn’t Peter.

There was a slam of a door at the back of the house and rushing round into the garden a petrified Peter pushed past John and monkeyed his way up the gate with ease. John stood there bemused as Peter jumped down and legged it down the street, not looking back.

Out of the back door, drenched in water and black make-up dripping down her face, white blond hair plastered to her soggy maroon ruffle, the bag of shuddering botox came hurtling toward John. It took him several seconds for his brain to shake off the paralysis and tell his legs to get moving. Not fancying climbing the gate John pressed the button which slowly and mechanically began to chug the heavy wrought iron cages open. Dashing away he ran into the garden closely followed by the enraged old lady. Loudly she cursed spewing out exotic words John had never even heard. John took one almighty breath and sucking in his entire belly up into his rib cage he squeeze through the gates.

Out in the street it took a few long seconds before the gap was big enough for her to fit through and by that time they were half way home. She called out to them saying that she knew who they were and where they lived but she didn’t have a clue.

The boys were hiding under the back stairs afraid to go into their house. They were sure that they‘d be found out. If they had they would be in serious trouble. It was getting dark now and they had been outside for ages. Frozen solid and very tired Peter finally had enough and marched up into the house. John stayed at the bottom of the stairs. Peter turned and gave his older brother a menacing look, which sent John scuttling up the stairs.

“There you are!” Mrs. Falk cried. “Where have you been? Oh never mind go and wash up for dinner.” Relieved the boys headed upstairs. As they did dad walked through the door. He took of his raincoat and hung it on the coat rack. Giving his wife a kiss he said.

“I got a message from the doctors. Peter’s test result are back.”

“What did they say? Were they positive?”

“I don’t know, they wouldn’t tell me over the phone. We have to go in on Monday. They sounded upbeat though. I don’t think I can wait that long. “