For Those Who Dream Monsters (15 page)

But
the buildings on either side of the main house were locked, and Henry was
nowhere to be seen. There was only one place left to check, and that was the
park behind the palace.

“Henry!”
But there was no sign of Henry in the park either. As Dan turned back towards
the manor, he thought he saw movement in one of the windows. “Oh, for God’s
sake… Henry!” Maybe his friend hadn’t left the building after all, but then why
hadn’t he answered Dan’s calls?

Dan
walked quickly back to the house. There was no sign of anyone in the window
now, but Dan was determined to go in for another look. As he reached the back
of the house and started to head towards the colonnade, planning to cut through
under its arches and go back into the house, he felt a sudden rush of air, then
a sharp pain on the side of his head, and he was out cold.

Her heart was broken even before the dark waters closed over her head. She
didn’t struggle as her heavy garments took on water and pulled her down to the
muddy bottom of the deep lake. She sank slowly – like a thousand broken-hearted
maidens before her – and the willows wept beside her watery bed.

A
brief moment of panic, as the girl’s last breath escaped her; then a blissful
stillness enveloped her, and a profound sense of serenity and peace.

Dan awoke to something wet and malodorous brushing against his face. The cow
that had been grazing round the front of the manor house had wandered over and
– whether for lack of salt in its diet or for some unfathomable bovine reason
of its own – was now licking the prostrate young man. Dan jumped up and the
startled cow beat a hasty retreat, mooing in alarm. Dan nearly blacked out
again, and sat back down, breathing deeply. There was a dull throbbing pain in
his temples and a much sharper pain at the side of his head when he touched it.
He also had an impressive lump where the tile had struck. Unbeknown to Dan, his
luck was in. Had the roof tile hit him full-on, rather than just skimming the
side of his head, he would not be getting up again.

Dan
shivered, and realised that the air had grown much colder – the sun was already
going down. Alarmed at how much time must have passed, he called out to his
friend. He suddenly felt afraid for Henry, but tried to console himself with
the thought that Henry must have got carried away exploring somewhere in the
house or vast grounds, and that he simply couldn’t hear him calling. Dan got up
– slowly this time – and made his way cautiously under the arches of the
colonnade and back to the house, staying away from the eaves as much as he
could.

Although
the sun had not quite set, the shadows inside the manor were profound. Dan had
planned to go all around the house again in search of his friend, but
remembered the treacherous staircase and damaged floor, and thought better of
it. Instead, he peered into the darkness from the threshold, and called Henry’s
name loudly. No response. Only the slight movement of shifting rubble somewhere
in the depths of the building – too soft to be made by a man. Rats perhaps? Or
just the house readjusting to the drop in temperature? But there was that
feeling of dread in the pit of Dan’s stomach again – fear of being left alone
in this strange, abandoned place, but an even stronger fear for his friend.

“Henry!”
Nothing. Dan touched his aching head gently, winced, then set off through the
courtyard, hoping to do a large loop in front of the house before returning to
the back and carrying out a thorough search of the gardens while there was
still sufficient daylight. But as he walked past the fountain, something didn’t
seem right – something on the periphery of his vision. Dan stopped abruptly,
and glanced to the right. That’s when he saw the dark shape.

“Christ!”
Dan’s heart leapt in his chest, and for a moment he thought he might pass out
again. He calmed himself as best he could, but the longer he stared at the
thing in the fountain, the more details he noticed: the blue jeans, the navy
sweatshirt, the dark blonde hair … yes, it was hair. There was no doubt now in
Dan’s mind. Lying in the cracked old fountain was a body, and the closer he got
to it, the more certain he was that it was that of his friend.

A rough, scratching sensation roused the girl from her murky grave. She felt
a sharp tug, then another and another. Then coarse limbs were holding her, and
gnarled digits curled around her body. She was being lifted, pulled and dragged
– upwards and out and away from the death-bringing, peace-bringing water.

As
she felt solid ground beneath her feet once more, the girl’s feet began to
crack. On all sides the willow trees that cradled her started to grow over and
into and through her body. Roots moved through her legs and feet, shackling her
to the earth. Her fingers grew long and brittle; her skin hardened, thickened
and erupted in shoots and stems, which shivered in the evening air. The girl
tried to move, but her legs were rooted to the spot and her torso trapped in a
wooden corset that held her fast. Her eyes became hollow, her throat twisted
and dry. She screamed, and her cry froze forever onto the rugged bark of her
lips.

All
memories fled the girl, bar those of sadness and longing, betrayal and anger,
and a need for revenge stronger than hunger or thirst – stronger than the
centuries that would come and go.

The minutes and days that followed could only be described as a never-ending
nightmare… Touching his friend’s ice-cold neck to check for a pulse; the
glazed, milky eye that stared up at him from under Henry’s matted hair;
stumbling back to the guesthouse through the dark. Then the uncomprehending,
shocked face of the receptionist; the police; the ambulance; the battery of questions
and suspicious looks. But the worst thing was seeing Henry’s parents: his
mother trembling like a leaf in a gale, his father ashen-faced and trying to be
strong for his wife.

“What
happened, Dan?”

“I
don’t know. I … don’t … know.”

Dan
went over the events of that day a hundred times – with Henry’s parents, with
the police, when he lay awake at night. But nobody would ever know why it was
that Henry’s lungs were filled with water or how it was that a young man could
drown in the long-empty shell of a cracked old fountain.

By the time the men reached the lake, there was no sign of the girl, just
the tattered remains of a white dress hanging from a willow tree on the bank.
The girl’s corpse was never found, which came as no surprise – the lake was deep;
its murky depths hid many a broken body and shattered dream. But four weeks
later the lord of the manor was discovered – face down in his own fountain. And
by the time the first snow covered the ground like wedding lace, the hapless
blacksmith’s son was dead too. The doctor who examined his body refused to
comment, but the villagers whispered that the young man’s face was twisted with
terror and that clenched tightly in his fist was a single green-leafed sprig of
willow. But surely these were just rumours – after all, willows shed their
leaves long before winter falls…

Where am I? The dark road, the bushes and trees on either side, shrouded in
mist, all look the same. I strain my eyes, searching the night for something
familiar – something I can grasp. Then the road bends slightly, dips a little,
and that’s when I see the light. It has a warm, orange glow and I know that I
must reach it. If I reach the light, everything will be okay.

I stagger through the mist, trying to remember what happened. A cold wind tugs
at the branches of the trees and scatters the autumn leaves. I sense movement
behind me and spin round, but see nothing. I hurry towards the light, confused
as it fragments into a thousand glimmering specks, dancing on the horizon.

How
long have I been walking? The leaves crunch beneath my feet as I hasten along
the side of the road. Then a twig snaps behind me. I stop abruptly and hear a
leaf rustle before silence falls. I look round. Is that a shadow, a darker
shade of black against the night? I step up my pace, desperate now to reach the
light.

Walking,
I hear sounds behind me. When I stop, they stop. When I move forward, they
start up again. I hurry on, sure I feel eyes burning into my back.

I
break into a run, not slowing until I reach the edge of town. As I head towards
the houses, I see the source of the points of light. Not what I expected. They
shimmer in a hundred carved pumpkins, orange teeth casting strange dark shapes
on the wood of porches and the grey wetness of paving-stone.

The
shadow behind me forgotten, I wonder at the intricate forms of dark and light
dancing before my eyes. Not sure now which way to go – like a moth that
believes itself soaring towards the moon, only to find itself trapped in a
house full of dusty light bulbs. I pause awhile, unsure what to do next.

I
cringe as a shriek pierces the night, and footsteps grow and echo in my ears.
Excited voices are coming closer. I cower behind a tree, uncertain. The
trick-or-treaters pass and I breathe easy.

I
move on and hear that crunch of trampled leaves behind me. The shadow – how
could I have forgotten the shadow? I scour the street and think I see movement
in the bushes to the right. I move off fast.

More
youths approach. I look for somewhere to hide, but it’s too late. They’re upon
me, laughing and shouting. “Nice costume!” I lower my eyes and keep moving.
They pass by, staring.

From
all around, the twinkling lights distract me once more and my mind wanders. I
can’t remember how I got here. I recall walking along the side of the road,
with trees and bushes on either side. I close my eyes for a moment and try to
see with my mind’s eye. Glimpses of road, of trees and bushes, but they rush by
so quickly – I’m not walking, I’m driving. Of course – my car. The ’69 Chevy
convertible that I lovingly restored with my own hands, smoothing every screw,
every piece of metal into its rightful place. It took me five years of weekends
to turn the rusted hulk into a thing of beauty – its cerulean blue and white
more worthy of an angel than of an ungainly, un-special man like me.

Where
is my car? Now I remember: I had to leave my car behind. So that’s what I’m
doing – I’m looking for a phone to get some help out to my car. My cell phone
is gone; I must have lost it getting out of the Chevy. I can’t remember. I must
focus. I can’t be standing here in the middle of the road.

A
scream brings me out of my reverie and I look down at a whimpering child
dressed as a ghost, its face as pale as the sheet that’s draped over its body.
It drops the plastic jack-o'-lantern it is carrying and wails at me, its body
trembling. I reach down to comfort it, but the child’s mother pulls it away,
cursing me loudly.

Two
teenage boys and a girl run past. The girl is wearing small, red devil’s horns.
She reminds me of someone – someone I loved or love still, someone I should
remember. Broken images of a woman’s smile form in my mind; of bright green
eyes and a wisp of dark blonde hair blowing in the wind as fields and trees
stream by behind her. I struggle to put the shattered pieces together, but the
boys’ shouting dispels the fledgling vision and plastic severed limbs are waved
in front of my face before the teens disappear down a side street.

What
am I doing? A cat hisses at me from across the street and I move on. Where am I
going? Ah yes, I’m going to find a house – so many to choose from – and ring a
doorbell. And then what? I’m ringing a doorbell, but the sound of movement
inside makes me panic. I can’t remember what it was that I wanted.

I
run behind the house and listen as the homeowner looks up and down the street
and says “Hello? … Anybody there?” before going back in and locking the door. I
grasp desperately at bits of thoughts; I search my mind for what I’m meant to
be doing, for where I’m meant to be, but all around me the lights flicker and
purr, and pumpkin eyes are mesmerising, disorientating. Where am I?

I
remember – my car. I need to call a garage to get my Chevy off the side of the
road and get it fixed so that I can drive to the girl with the dark blonde hair
and green eyes… Alice. Alice is waiting for me at her parents’ house. We are
supposed to see a double bill at the local cinema:
Halloween
and
Friday
the Thirteenth
. Or is it
The Evil Dead
and
The Fog
?

I
struggle with the mist that’s rising before me, getting into my eyes and
obscuring the lights. What am I doing? Focus … oh yes. I need to find a house
and ring a doorbell. I need to phone a garage and get the Chevy fixed so I can
take Alice to see
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
. Or is it
The Exorcist
?

I
concentrate hard and push the mist away. I walk to the house with the largest
number of pumpkins lining the steps. Here the mist is weakest – the lights are
fighting it, keeping it at bay. I ring the doorbell.

The
woman’s smile fades; she looks startled. But then she smiles again. “Your
costume,” she tells me, “it’s very … gruesome… And aren’t you a little old to
be trick-or-treating?”

I
open my mouth to speak, but I forget what it is that I want to say. I rack my
brain… Alice… Alice … the woman turns away. A tear runs down my cheek.

The
woman returns, holding a box of chocolates. I can’t recall. I raise my hand,
pleading for patience, pleading for her to wait while I remember, pleading for
help.

The
woman’s face changes. “What’s that smell?” A distressed grimace distorts her
mouth. The box slips from her hand and chocolates fall in all directions. She
is staring at my extended hand. And then she starts to scream.

I
follow the woman’s gaze. My hand has burst into flames – orange and yellow –
licking up my arm. I look down at my body. I am a mass of open wounds and charred
flesh. Still I burn.

The
mist thickens before my eyes until I no longer see the screaming woman. A wind
starts to blow, whipping the mist into a spinning, howling vortex. Cold arms
envelop me, holding me steady, strangely soothing against my burning skin. The
shadow is whispering in my ear, telling me not to scream, telling me that nerve
endings have burnt away and it doesn’t really hurt. “Hush now. It won’t be much
longer.”

I
hurtle through the mist. The wind howls a crescendo and stops suddenly. There
is a jolt. My muscles spasm – like that second between sleeping and waking,
when you think you’ve been falling, but when you finally crash it’s into your
own soft, familiar bed, and you never really fell at all. The mist clears. For
the briefest moment all is still, and then the burning begins again.

I’m in my Chevy, speared to my seat by blackened metal. My hand burns on the
steering-wheel, my body burns in my seat. My world is flame. I open my mouth to
scream, but the shadow’s words resound in my ears. I look up and see it
watching me through the windscreen. Behind it there is light. Not the
distracting orange glow that led me astray, but brilliant white light. Light
that I long for more than anything in the world … anything except perhaps …
Alice…