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Leaving for Shade in the Choppingchurch rush hour had little effect. Three cars comprised the longest queue I encountered and only because they were following a mobility scooter. With fifteen minutes I was entering the village of Shade. Like Choppingchurch it was uncluttered but drab. Hedgerows were shabby and overgrown. Willow trees bent so far as to look not only humble but subservient. Two black and white Cottages appeared grey with little contrast to enable one to discern what was wall and what was beam. Window boxes and plant pots displayed dead decaying flora and foliage.
It was though Shade had suffered a drought and yet off to my right I spotted the channel of a small brook running alongside the road. It meandered ahead and the road turned deferentially. Ms Moyles had advised me to track it until I crossed a small bridge. The Stone House could be seen clearly from there occupying most of the left bank until the brook trickled on beyond Shade.
After the bend the lane narrowed as two huge ugly oaks created a malevolent arch with their thick overhangs. At the base of each the bark had been torn away and the heartwood inners were shaped peculiarly, one like a clitoris and the other a phallus. I giggled to myself and made a promise that housing interiors wouldn’t be the objet d’art I’d be shooting today.
Accelerating out of the dark natural bow back into vivid sunlight a strong breeze blew in behind me as if ushering the car through, while on either side oak branches were flung back in a macabre welcome gesture. The bridge was ahead. It was small and could be traversed by only one vehicle at a time. My way was clear and I drove on, put was compelled to pull up sharply on the apex.
The view of the Stone House was impressive enough but it wasn’t the reason I’d halted. I slipped out of my car to confirm my suspicions; yes it was indeed the bridge in my dream.
Again I chuckled to myself, but this time with little amusement. Like the cavalry my logic trumpeted in to rescue me. It stood with me looking at the stonework that I’d leant against in my reverie. “Clair” it said, “You’re not earnestly conjuring up a macabre conspiracy are you? You’re out of the Metropolis five minutes and wetting yourself like a helpless virgin at a Satanic Mass. You saw an old movie on a TV screen in a shop window and it fascinated you for a brief moment; your hormones demanded an erotic fantasy to unleash a neglected sexual appetite and it selected what you saw on screen because your subconscious considered that appropriate and now you’ve found a stone bridge which you assume to be that in your dream but it’s just another stone bridge like hundreds around the country. What the fuck did you think was going to straddle a small brook, the Golden Gate? Besides which – where was the Stone House?”
“It was foggy you stupid bitch” I said out loud, and as if nature had heard me a mist rose from the surface of the brook. It seemed to loiter across the current, lapping along the grassy edges and curling under the bridge like a sleepy cat. It began to climb the bridge and infest itself across the surrounding fields and gardens. Lethe House had all but been absorbed by the fog.
I had no intention of standing in the open waiting for the proverbial tap on my shoulder and climbed back into my car and could feel my knees rattling as I bent them to ease my way in. “Explain this away you silly cow” I screamed at my Rationale. It was as I had fallen asleep in front of the television again.
Visibility worsened as every minute passed. I wanted to drive to Lethe Hall but doubted if I could get that far without leaving the road or crippling a pedestrian. I picked up my mobile to phone m/s Moyles and ask her if she could bring a light and guide me in but there was no network coverage.
“She lives 200 fucking yards way and I can’t contact her!” Bollocks, I thought, I’m staying put and hit the central locking. If there’s anything creepy outside it can bloody well stay out there.
I looked at my watch it was five o’clock now. In less than five minutes a beautiful clear day had been transformed into a grey soup. By now even the stone arches of the bridge were melting into it. I checked my mirrors tentatively for the sudden looming of a weird face in the rear seats – yes I’d seen all those movies.
I turned the ignition key as far as I needed and put the radio on. Radio 4 would do, at least I’d have the comfort of listening to people from the real world. I pressed channel 3 but the station wasn’t in tune. I still had them regulated to the City wavelengths. I manually retuned it and as smiled as Eddy Mair’s resonant voice landed in the speakers. I leant back trying to relax but the radio crackled out of tune again. I peered at the display to see where the signal had gone but the digits were unclear.
I’ve been staring into that bloody grey sheet for so long it’s affecting my sight. I glanced at the steering wheel – that seemed out of focus too. Then the truth of it hit me as if the Devil himself had dragged the points of his trident down my spinal column. The fog was in the car!
Fuck logic, common sense and any villagers who stray onto the road. I’m moving off this bridge now. I turned the ignition key and thankfully there was no formulaic starting problems, it gunned immediately into life. Plunging the gearstick into first I checked both wing mirrors to pull away as fast as I could fearing some dark forms were lumbering out of the vapour. I reached for the handbrake but screamed as I fastened onto another’s hand. Before I could withdraw it a second hand had locked it between them. I closed my eyes and screamed again but the hands remained fast like a human hand cuff.
My heart was galloping like an unbroken Mustang. I could hear it thumping as the blood expanded my ears. What on Earth could be behind me? Was I about to die? Would I be ripped in two or cut to pieces? No they’ll try to strangle me. I tucked my chin into my chest so hard that my ears popped and my jaw cracked. I was still pulling desperately to drag my hand away but I hadn’t the courage to look at my subjugator.
This is another dream. I’m still in front of the TV; but I knew I wasn’t. I tried in vain not to summon up images of the fiend behind me but I saw them all, unnatural and supernatural. Then Clair from the big city decided to go down fighting and I made a fist with my free hand. I remembered I had a biro in the side pocket and slipped my hand down feeling for it. I dug around but like a time-honoured Hollywood cliche it kept slipping out of my fingers. I was becoming desperate as the grip tightened around my trapped hand like an anaconda entwining its victim. The blood pulsed in my wrist as I groped frantically through the matted floor, snapping the nail on my forefinger. Finally I had it under control. I squinted to give myself an idea where the bastard’s face was. I could see a largish silhouette against the windscreen. That’ll do.
‘Right you sick fucker let me show you how I sign my name” and I twisted my torso as best I could and plunged the pen toward where I assumed the head was. There was no impact. My left hand was suddenly loosed and a pain shot around my side through the exertions of self-defence. My squint developed into an uncomprehending gape as I encountered nothing more than my own outstretched hand clutching a dried up old ballpoint. The interior of the vehicle was crystal clear and outside the day was as beautiful as it had been to begin with.
I repositioned myself in the driver’s seat and winced as a severe stitch attempted to rip a hole in my right side. I was still shaking when a bang hit the driver’s door. An androgynous face was staring in at me.
“You’re late” said Stephanie Moyles.