the ball of black night. In the dark shone those twin orbs, soulless and evil, yet full of fear. Her arms outstretched, covered in something dark and foul. Everything bathed in an unearthly red light… the red light became bigger… bigger like a huge flame, a burning and crackling…
I lay in bed, awake now, shaking with the aftermath of the dream. The bedclothes lay in a heap on the floor, the nightlight beside my bed had burned right down until the wick, floating in a pool of wax, was flaring and sputtering. I blew it out with a groan of relief and reached for the light switch. Bathed in the friendly glow, I re-made the bed and tried to finish what was left of the night in untroubled sleep, but the picture of the girl, maniacal in her intensity to breach the door, strangely made of fungus and smothered in a universe of sparkling stars, did little to bring unconsciousness to me.
Nightmares have a habit of doing that.
By the end of the next week I had finished the index for the manuscript and had typed it up into a final draft. I had been so busy that the horrors of the dream were almost erased from conscious memory. I phoned Stavely and told him the thing would be with him in a day or two, which he greeted with delight, so that as I replaced the receiver I felt quite elated. The sun glowed outside, everything was right with the world, the murmur of contentment was there, and soon a big fat cheque would be on its way, doing no end of good to my failing bank balance.
I decided to spend the rest of the weekend absorbed in a few good books, maybe even take in a film if there was anything worthwhile showing, and a drink at the pub. Relax, I thought, time to relax. So I took myself out that morning to the local library and browsed for a couple of hours. I finally came away with four books, a wide variety from poetry, novels, to a book on modern Astronomy—an old pastime of mine. I still had the four-inch refractor that I used for stargazing, or more correctly, Moon and planet studying.
The day was warm, but by the time I reached the local it was raining. I sat in the lounge for a while, talking to Tom Gerrard, a neighbour of mine, a pensioner who took time out in the pub most lunch times when the weather wasn’t too cold. With a couple of pints of lager inside me and with the atmosphere of the place, I was soon in pleasant conversation with Tom.
‘I might be getting old, Doug,’ he nodded at me after a lengthy scan of my face, ‘but to me you don’t half look washed out—like a worn out old rag I’d say.’
Tom was a friendly chap who invariably wore a dark suit, shiny with age, and a waistcoat with a silver pocket watch and chain strung from it. He had a thin, weather-beaten face and his white moustache was yellowed in places from his smoking a pipe.
‘I agree,’ I said, ‘I’ve been working like the devil the past two weeks, but then, you don’t want all the boring details do you?’ I smiled.
‘Good Lord, no!’ he answered in mock consternation, then added, ‘I dunno how you do such a thing as indexing. I’ll stick to my allotment any day! I ’ad enough of your kind of work when I was setting type for old Barnaby.’
‘Not quite the same, though is it Tom—’
‘Hmmph. You don’t know the half of it,’ he said sourly.
And so the day wore on, both of us exchanging pleasantries and gossip until it was chucking-out time. I walked home with Tom and saw him to his gate, where he caught me with a final bit of grapevine news before departing.
‘Oh, now did you hear about Mick Geddie’s little Sally—gone missing she has. About three weeks now. Only a little mite too. Always used to play hereabouts—always wore a yellow dress.’ He paused contemplatively. ‘I don’t reckon on her chances in this day and age,’ he finished with a macabre inflection.
I was glad to say that Tom didn’t see my face after he’d said all that. It hit me like a thunderbolt. I knew the Geddies vaguely, but I
I lay in bed, awake now, shaking with the aftermath of the dream. The bedclothes lay in a heap on the floor, the nightlight beside my bed had burned right down until the wick, floating in a pool of wax, was flaring and sputtering. I blew it out with a groan of relief and reached for the light switch. Bathed in the friendly glow, I re-made the bed and tried to finish what was left of the night in untroubled sleep, but the picture of the girl, maniacal in her intensity to breach the door, strangely made of fungus and smothered in a universe of sparkling stars, did little to bring unconsciousness to me.
Nightmares have a habit of doing that.
By the end of the next week I had finished the index for the manuscript and had typed it up into a final draft. I had been so busy that the horrors of the dream were almost erased from conscious memory. I phoned Stavely and told him the thing would be with him in a day or two, which he greeted with delight, so that as I replaced the receiver I felt quite elated. The sun glowed outside, everything was right with the world, the murmur of contentment was there, and soon a big fat cheque would be on its way, doing no end of good to my failing bank balance.
I decided to spend the rest of the weekend absorbed in a few good books, maybe even take in a film if there was anything worthwhile showing, and a drink at the pub. Relax, I thought, time to relax. So I took myself out that morning to the local library and browsed for a couple of hours. I finally came away with four books, a wide variety from poetry, novels, to a book on modern Astronomy—an old pastime of mine. I still had the four-inch refractor that I used for stargazing, or more correctly, Moon and planet studying.
The day was warm, but by the time I reached the local it was raining. I sat in the lounge for a while, talking to Tom Gerrard, a neighbour of mine, a pensioner who took time out in the pub most lunch times when the weather wasn’t too cold. With a couple of pints of lager inside me and with the atmosphere of the place, I was soon in pleasant conversation with Tom.
‘I might be getting old, Doug,’ he nodded at me after a lengthy scan of my face, ‘but to me you don’t half look washed out—like a worn out old rag I’d say.’
Tom was a friendly chap who invariably wore a dark suit, shiny with age, and a waistcoat with a silver pocket watch and chain strung from it. He had a thin, weather-beaten face and his white moustache was yellowed in places from his smoking a pipe.
‘I agree,’ I said, ‘I’ve been working like the devil the past two weeks, but then, you don’t want all the boring details do you?’ I smiled.
‘Good Lord, no!’ he answered in mock consternation, then added, ‘I dunno how you do such a thing as indexing. I’ll stick to my allotment any day! I ’ad enough of your kind of work when I was setting type for old Barnaby.’
‘Not quite the same, though is it Tom—’
‘Hmmph. You don’t know the half of it,’ he said sourly.
And so the day wore on, both of us exchanging pleasantries and gossip until it was chucking-out time. I walked home with Tom and saw him to his gate, where he caught me with a final bit of grapevine news before departing.
‘Oh, now did you hear about Mick Geddie’s little Sally—gone missing she has. About three weeks now. Only a little mite too. Always used to play hereabouts—always wore a yellow dress.’ He paused contemplatively. ‘I don’t reckon on her chances in this day and age,’ he finished with a macabre inflection.
I was glad to say that Tom didn’t see my face after he’d said all that. It hit me like a thunderbolt. I knew the Geddies vaguely, but I
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