Share your dark side?
Join me and fellow blogger Andy, each Thursday, and share your dark side.
Andy Townend invites you to join him either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge above, where you can also find all the contributions so far.
To read all of smithiesshutter story, The Invited, you will find the previous episodes in one place here.
The Invited: Part 7
She dreams about a cat, and then a car crash.
She’s in an ambulance. The sound of the siren wailing in and out of her consciousness. Her head hurts.
The cat is familiar somehow, and very large. It rubs its face against hers and she buries her nose in its soft fur and then she climbs on its back. In her dream she has an overwhelming urge to pee, and so she lets go. The wet cat slips from between her legs and turns to sniff at her wet panties. Then it sits there while she drags the wet pants over her brown sandals. She smells the pants as well, and hears herself say, “Poo-wee!”
“Helen…… Helen! Can you hear me, Helen?”
She knows that her eyelids are fluttering because she gets flashing glimpses of the inside of an ambulance with a man in an orange jump suit bending over her, though she’s puzzled as to why she’s dreaming about such an event. Then she’s confused by which way up she is, until she realises that the ambulance is on its side. In her dream she is suddenly thinking about other strange incidents.
Elephants and leopards in Tasmania.
This leads her to dream about a wet cat. The cat is standing, dripping, in a large rectangular sink and Helen has to stand on a chair to turn off the tap but the tap keeps dripping. Dripping…..
She hears it again.
Another echoing ‘plop’.
She raises her head to find that she’s covered in dust and there’s a piece of stone on her left ankle. She pulls her leg out from under it with no great effort, as fortunately the shattered piece lay across several steps and her foot was in the void beneath it. Even so her leg feels bruised and her head aches where she landed against the door. The light is dim and there’s smoke in the air. She turns herself around and sits on the piece of rock. Above her the top of the tomb has saved her from the partial collapse of her mothers mausoleum, but her way back up the stone steps is blocked by the large pieces of masonry that fell from the roof. She notices that the red gate that nearly took her legs off has fallen across the top of the steps and prevented the larger pieces from sliding down on top of her. She realises that there is no possibility of getting past the gate which bows under the weight of stone above it.
Again the watery plop comes from behind the door.
There isn’t much space but she manages to get to her feet and then leans against the door. It appears to be similar to many of the church doors that she’s visited over the years with long hinge plates and vertical planks of wood held together with hemispherical bolt heads. There’s a black door knob on its right hand side that’s pitted with rust. She tries to turn the knob and despite appearances it turns easily, so she pushes against the door but it doesn’t budge.
She feels that the place is mocking her. All the while there comes the regular drip, drop, of water from behind the door and it starts to build up her anxiety and frustration, and she kicks at it and shouts hysterically , “Open sesame!”
The laughter that follows comes in great breathy convulsions that grow into sobs of desperation and turning away, she clambers over the stone and up the steps to where the iron gate blocks her way and she pushes up at it, furious at her entrapment. All she succeeds in doing is dislodging more rocks that rattle down the steps behind her. She wipes the dust out of her eyes and stands blinking rapidly as her tears leave muddy streaks down her face.
The forests of Tasmania are magical places and it was strange a few days ago to see a Tasmanian creek here in Scotland when we visited Logan Gardens, in the far south west, where eucalyptus grow next to tree-ferns in a sub-tropical garden. The only things missing was the wildlife such a s small wallabies, echidna and duck-billed-platypus, all of which I saw in the Tasmanian forest.
Situated on the Chalakudy River in the Thrissur district of Kerala, the Vazhachal Falls are about 5 km upstream of the better known Athirappilly Falls, and are no less impressive.
This image has been given a graphic treatment, so I hope that you will forgive me!