|
Synopsis
Eleanor is a young mother haunted by a realistic nightmare of a derelict house and a stranger who watches her from out of the
shadows. Unfortunately, Mollie, her sister, heavily influenced by New Age philosophy, introduces her to Fozzie Forelli, self-proclaimed prophet, mystic and opportunist. Fozzie agrees to help her find the house but even he has reservations as they uncover more about the
sinister wartime disappearance of baby Tommy and the fate of Lucy, his simple-minded mother who lives in a fantasy world of movie stars.
Fozzie's psychic instincts tell him that there is more to this than just helping an attractive woman and pocketing a few quid, the forces he encounters are both strong and malevolent and may be more human in origin than he would care to admit.
Sample Chapter One
Eleanor shivered. A very physical sensation in such an unreal situation for she found herself standing, barefoot and in her nightshirt, at the end of a long and gloomy corridor. There must have been some source of illumination behind her, possibly moonlight, for
between the shadows she could just distinguish remnants of tattered wallpaper hanging down in strips and a shabby, threadbare carpet. Once a home, this was now an abandoned and derelict place, both sad and oppressive. Even the very air was fetid; stale and sour as in a house that has been shut up for a long time. There was a pervasive smell, too, of rotting vegetation. She could practically taste it;
it gave her a bitter tang in her mouth, how it would be if you drank the green water from a vase of long-dead flowers she thought and fought the urge to retch.
It was cold, very cold. The hairs on her arms prickled and each breath swirled like fine mist in the dank air. She was aware that she was breathing hard, as if she had been running. It felt as though it had taken a great physical effort for her to finally reach this place.
Oh my god, she thought, beginning to recognise the pattern. It's that awful dream, again! But she wasn't afraid - at least, not yet. The scene was familiar to her. She had been here before and, although she felt a dreadful anticipation about what was to happen, she was not yet experiencing the thumping heart, the clammy flesh, all the terrified discomforts that the imagination can inflict upon the body. They would come later.
At that moment she was alone. Waiting. More annoyed than anything, fully aware that she was asleep and that this was only a
fantasy, however real it may seem.
Then, as subtle as a summer breeze, faint and insidious, the voices started. Softly at first, like a radio playing in the background, a muted chatter that her ears strained to hear, desperately trying to pick out the occasional word.
"Mmm baby mmmm where's baby?"
"Gone ahh all gone ah! Poor baby."
"You'll have to speak louder!" she exclaimed. They seemed to be tormenting her, teasing her with their vague whispering and
sighing.
"Don't know don't know."
"Louder!" she insisted, her irritation rising.
At this the voices obliged, but they were still all talking together, a crazy jumble of unrelated conversations. And still she could not
properly understand them. With intense effort she was able to discern possibly three of them: a man's voice, deep and threatening -
"What? Stupid, stupid you lazy bitch !"
What sounded like a child crying, fretfully at first, and then rising to an anguished yell.
And then a woman, pleading -
"Help, help us, please."
Their urgency was infectious but the more agitated they became the less she could comprehend.
"I can't tell what you're saying", Eleanor cried, shaking her head and covering her face. They must understand that I can't do
whatever they want until I can hear them properly. Why are they scaring me like this? For she was scared now: a slow, creeping horror
descending upon her, a feeling of panic mixed in with her frustration, but she could not have said exactly what it was that she feared.
The voices increased once more in volume, shrill and discordant.
"Help! No!"
"Stupid."
"I didn't mean to."
Eleanor put her hands over her ears, her heart beginning to race. Droplets of perspiration moistened her hairline and trickled down her face.
"No, please stop," she cried, her voice echoing theirs. "Please ."
And they did, suddenly, as though instantly cut off, leaving Eleanor sobbing, her fingers now digging into her ears. She didn't know why they distressed her so much, or why she so desperately needed to understand what they were saying. She just did.
She tried to open her eyes, almost willing herself back to consciousness, longing to see her own familiar bedroom and Chris'
slumbering form beside her. They seemed so very far away when she was trapped in this dark and sordid place, as if this was the real world and it was her normal, everyday life that was only the dream. As she slowly forced her eyes open she saw with resignation that the grim
passageway was still there in front of her. No escape. Then the shadows deepened and shifted. There was a faint rustling sound,
reminiscent of wind blowing across a field of corn. Eleanor held her breath. A figure of a man emerged from the shadows, a man wearing a long, old-fashioned overcoat and a trilby hat. She could not distinguish his features but she knew almost instinctively that he was smiling - a smile of triumph, of gloating satisfaction. And he was coming closer.
It was then that Eleanor finally screamed herself awake.
"The dream again?" Chris was staring down at her, propped up on his elbow; his hand still poised over the switch of the bedside light. He looked tired with great, dark shadows beneath his eyes - he worked shifts and had not long come to bed. Eleanor immediately felt guilty for disturbing him.
"I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean to wake you."
"'S alright, I was only dozing." He picked up the clock from the bedside table and peered at it. The green digits showed three-oh-three. Chris gave a soft groan and flopped back onto the pillow.
Eleanor took a sip of water from the glass by the bed. Her throat was dry and hoarse and her heart was still beating rapidly, a
persistent, uncomfortable thudding in her chest. The bedclothes, tangled all around her, were wet with sweat. Calm down, for goodness sake, Eleanor! You've never had a bad dream before? She tried to soothe herself by smoothing the pillow and straightening the covers, then pulled down her baggy nightshirt from where it was concertinaed around her waist.
"Can I turn the light out?" Chris asked.
"Sure.".
"You ok, now?"
"Yes, sorry."
They settled down again, Chris turning his back on her, adopting his sleep position. Eleanor still had her eyes open, focusing on the
dressing table, on her towelling dressing gown hanging on the door and then the illuminated square of the window behind the curtain.
There were shadows here too, but they were different shadows, the friendly outlines of familiar things, not like in the dream. Not
shadows that moved and whispered and threatened. She was scared that if she shut her eyes she would find herself back there, that the dream would continue, so she struggled to stay awake, even though her eyelids were drooping and her eyes felt gritty and sore with
tiredness.
"You'll have to go to the doctor, you know, if these nightmares continue. To get some sleeping pills or something," Chris mumbled, his face lost in the depths of the pillow. "We can't go on like this. It's most nights now, isn't it?"
"Yes, I know. I was just thinking that". She stared up at the ceiling rather than facing him; he would know from her expression what she was debating. I can't go to the doctor over something as trivial as a nightmare, he'll just say that I m crazy.
|