Lost
He wandered quickly down the rain sodden streets. The cold, autumn (nearly winter) rain hissing from a leaden sky onto the street, into his eyes, blinded and maddened the lone figure. There was something out, something wrong. Well, double vodkas will do that to you.
Alex Cawdor had met an old university friend at the seminar; both were trying (and failing) to push manuscripts. In fact, it was Don Randal who had invited him, and a few of their mutual friends, back to his hotel room for a few drinks. Of course, as they would, they talked about anything but writing (no books, not even short stories), watched the TV (deriding anything the wrong side of credible) and exchanged ribald jokes. It was pretty much like old times.
Very like old times when the drink flowed but time trickled faster. The skies darkened, not with rain (which had threatened all day) but with twilight whose threat carried more weight.
Domestic duties had beckoned as Alex reminded himself to record Annie’s soaps and finish that chapter that had been waiting for the best part of this year. Excuses and apologies made, Alex left. No one showed him the door. Though he was never the melodramatic type who had to make the BIG EXIT, it would have been nice to be told how to get home from the little hotel. Too pissed (in both turns of phrase) to drive, he knotted his shoelaces and proceeded into the rain.
Cawdor carried himself with an imperative air, and this was evidenced in his stride, forceful and brisk, a definite “don’t-fuck-with-me” step that deterred children, old ladies and muggers from his path. There was also the matter of his eerie presence and morbid reputation both of which managed to keep the mundane herd of humanity at arms length while attracting an unsavoury few. An unsavoury fan base is still a fan base; it was more than most writers had at any rate. His unusual aura wasn’t due to a lack of charisma, though very few people would call Alex Duncan Cawdor the life and soul of the party, it was just that people and animals would feel anxious around him. He would never forget that horse riding incident; his shoulder still ached on damp days like these.
If his bearings were right, and they usually were, this road would lead almost to his doorstep. The rain had already darkened his blond hair and now threatened to make his spectacles redundant. Only in Britain could rain make the sky go as black as night before five in the afternoon. A short, sharp caw startled him, looking around however; it was only a cherubic white pigeon perched upon the branch of a tree outside the apartment villas. Yes, this was definitely the road, the path that leads from the unfamiliar to his family. The corner shop, the gardening centre and the odd little curio shop, even the betting shop and the Italian restaurant. Although the hip-high swing board was still outside, the off-licence didn’t seem to be open. Cawdor’s first thought was “they’ve closed early,” although considering the time of day it was more likely that they hadn’t even opened yet.
The rumble of distant thunder herded him from his point of origin into the night, although the spray of a chemical tanker did little to spur him on. As he crossed the road, Cawdor finally noted the complete and utter desertion of the streets and asked himself:
“Who goes out on a night like this?” 'Only you, Alex,' was his response, though the correction of night to early evening had to be made. The amber light from the grille-windowed bookies filled the street (from which street lamps were notoriously absent,) silhouetted against this was the despondent visage of its patrons. He even thought he saw the gleam of the proprietor’s smile as he reached his apogee to the door.
The door to the evangelist church was open and the righteous preacher was preparing his flock to be saved during the imminent Rapture with fire-and-brimstone sermons and disharmonious hymns. It wasn’t that Cawdor had any sort of problem with religion, some of the priests and vicars he had spoken with had been all right, it just seemed religion had some sort of problem with him. Besides, church was always surplus to his idea of spirituality, and the ‘nearer my minister than thee’ attitude of some of the parishioners grated with him. He kept walking, despite the offer of sanctuary.
The Italian restaurant’s pungent aroma of garlic and greasy meat was starting to reach him. As they passed, the three corpulent children who had just rounded the corner exchanged conspiratorial glances before entering ‘Virgil’s’ with wide smirks across their frog-like, liver-lips. Looking at them, he could only wonder what could make children so ugly. His own personal theories included in breeding and fall-out from Chernobyl.
Something moved in the shadows, just on the edge of Cawdor’s vision. Again, there was the feeling that there was something wrong. Looking back, though, everything was there; the now suddenly rowdy bookies and the discordant singing of the evangelists, lagging behind the fluorescent yellow light spilling from behind the wire grille which covered the open, inner door. No doubt to keep the devils out.
Keep the angels out.
Now why did he just think that? Anyway, the only things alive back there, besides the bookmakers and bible bashers, where those kids.
Shrugging his coat further onto his boxer’s shoulders, Cawdor proceeded home, with his eyes cast down, fixed on the pavement. That was how he spotted it. On the pavement was a regular trail of blood, rapidly diffusing into the rain-drowned gutter. Following it back, the sanguine trail lead to ‘Virgil’s,’ whatever those kids had been carrying (a meat delivery, probably) was bleeding. ‘Why were they delivering meat at this time of night,’ he wondered before reminding himself that, despite the nocturnal thunderheads filling the sky, it was only about four in the afternoon.
Rampant paranoia now coursing through his mind, Cawdor set off for home. Again, that he had that feeling of the shadows having eyes and of the wind watching his every step. Again, the feeling these familiar streets were far from home. It must be the drink or the rain or the fear, which was turning his hometown into a hellish necropolis. Cars growled and hissed, glaring at him with their cyclopean headlights- when there were any cars. Gaunt and listless pedestrians wandered the slick streets, enthralled to the susurration of the town’s drains.
Then, primal panic gripped his heart and Cawdor ran. He ran so far and so fast, that he was at his door in less than a minute trying to reason that there hadn’t been a wail in the derelict carcass of the pet shop. Home; home, sweet home, his only refuge in this hellish town, away from Old Pan and his sudden, frozen grip. It took two quick and frenzied attempts but the lock opened. It was only when he was about to lock the door that Cawdor noticed that the light was on. Why hadn't he noticed this before? Because he was too shit-scared to notice, that's why!
Turning he saw Annie lounging on the two-piece suite. Languidly, she threw one dressing-gowned leg, and then the other, off the sofa. Slowly and surely, his slender wife crossed the room with arachnid grace, a hideously dark cast to her usually sapphire eyes.
"Annie, I thought... The people, the town..." Thoughts ran through his head like light through a prism: sharp and clear until diffracted out of his mouth, he was panicking. Annie's burnished gold hair moved in an unfelt breeze. As she raised her head, Cawdor saw what was wrong. Her eyes had no pupils, but rather seemed to have a web of purple shadow running through them. A callous smirk spread across his wife's apparently bloody lips, he started to move and found himself paralysed with terror. 'Oh my God, this isn't my Annie' was all Cawdor could think. He was about to confront this succubus, this lamiae that had replaced his wife when it addressed him.
"Alex, you always called her your muse, didn't you?" Of course, horrific tales would have horrific muses. Now it was blatant this wasn't his wife: rows of shark-like teeth were visible behind garish red lips. It spoke again. "Poe, Blake, Lovecraft. They all fell under my spell. Whether through vice, despair or… abnormality, they all came to me. Tonight, you've had the chance to choose which path you will take to me: but I rest assured, you will come to me!" It stepped forward. Elegantly manicured talons now tipped Annie's slender hands. She took one final step before grasping Alex Cawdor's head with both hands.
Her kiss was oblivion.
Utter darkness gave way to blinding light, and Cawdor felt hung-over, he even stank of stale drink, even though it had only been fifteen, twenty minutes since his last at Don Randal’s hotel room. He looked down at his watch; the little glowing dial said three twenty. He badly needed a bath but it'd only take a minute to set the video. That done, he started up the stairs to draw himself that bath. The only water he could hear was the steaming bath water, now that the rain had stopped.
While the bath was filling, he started to wonder how he came to pass out downstairs. He hadn't had that much to drink, but there was definitely some missing time.
His bath filled, Alex Cawdor started to undress. But something fell out of his shirt pocket as he took the sweat-soaked garment off. He knelt down and picked it up. It was a fountain pen made of a purplish russet-green lacquer that swam all colours and none as he turned it over in his hand. Though the edge of the pen showed that is was smooth, it cast shadows on itself that suggested it was textured and Cawdor's hand seemed to have abstained from making the decision. Then he remembered...
That was how Annie found her husband: sitting next to a cold bath, not wearing his shirt and holding a pen in his hands. Despite a sudden start at seeing her and being overjoyed that, just like yesterday when they'd argued, she was late home from work, Alex Cawdor was apparently fine. Although Annie did notice that the writer's block that had been plaguing him for almost a year never returned when he used that curious pen…
This is another old story; there will be more from this character as time goes on.
Similarly to Dead Man's Hand, this is grounded in fact. The route the main character follows is between two real places. All supernatural elements are, of course, fictitious.
