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Authors: Allyson Bird
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what was imagined and the supernatural. In her indecision she was suffering. That night she had tampered with doors that should not be opened, pushed the car over the cliff with herself in it, and unknowingly had unleashed something from deep within her subconscious, or another place—where dark things live, where creatures as old as time, formless but nonetheless still dangerous, dwelt.
Breakfast and taking the kids to school was a blur, something done by another self who was as equally confused as her. Alice kissed the boys, Ellis and Ben, goodbye. She then made her way down Malvern Avenue, and up the Old Town Hall steps to the oldest part of the library. Here, she was helping the librarian clean, document, and index the Vanderbilt Collection that had been bequeathed to the people of Lawson Town ten years ago, but was still gathering dust.
Alice couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was being followed, causing her to constantly look back over her shoulder.
It was as if she could feel someone’s acrid breath on her neck, and she could smell something that reminded her of the stinkhorn that grew in buried wood, with its odour of rotten meat. However, there was nothing or no one there. She hurried past Walter Maitland’s door and settled herself down to the morning’s work, cataloguing all the papers of Sanders Vanderbilt’s travels to China. He had thrown nothing away and the nineteenth century papers belonging to the trading family were in a dozen brown boxes, stacked in random order, taking up half the small room in the library east wing.
Alice shivered and stared abstractly at the snow-chill landscape of the car park, trying to remember the images of the night before. She replied to a question from Jean, the senior archivist, but could only hear the words in a somewhat dull tone, as if she were trying to eavesdrop into someone else’s conversation.
“Alice, are you listening? Take your lunch at anytime you want today—Alice?”
“Sorry, Jean. I’m really not feeling very well. Can I have the afternoon off and work late tomorrow?”
Jean fiddled with her glasses and pulled out a red book that had suddenly attracted her attention from a shelf close by. “What’s that you said?” She set her eyes on Alice and then nodded.
“You look very pale. Yes, you can go home.”
Pulling her coat collar up against the chill wind, Alice made her way through the cold, winding streets, her face bitten by the ghastly February wind. She went home to the house on Holland Avenue, which was usually a warm refuge against the staggering cold. She paused at the gate and looked up at the pale-blue curtain that framed her bedroom window. She thought she saw the curtain move to one side before convincing herself that she had imagined it. Something sinister had happened last night in the middle of that room, something that she couldn’t quite remember. Until a few months ago her everyday life had been rooted in the real world. Now though, she seemed to be slipping into another.
Alice made herself some cinnamon coffee and gripped the mug tightly in an effort to get warmer. Once settled on the couch, she switched on the telly and began watching a programme about cable cars in San Francisco. Suddenly she sat bolt upright, nearly spilling her coffee. Her mouth dropped open in amazement as the camera focused on one passenger in particular. It was her grandmother, on her father’s side, May Thomas—sitting there in her best, blue Sunday coat and a dark blue felt hat with the violet brooch that she always wore. May Thomas, who had been ten years dead and was giving her that look she used to save for when Alice, as a young child, had been careless in her grandmother’s house.
“You’re in deep water, Alice—far too deep for you.”
Her grandmother’s tone was abrupt and cold. Alice could smell the sweet fragrance of Lily of the Valley in the air and she knew, in a part of her, that she wanted her life to be simple
Breakfast and taking the kids to school was a blur, something done by another self who was as equally confused as her. Alice kissed the boys, Ellis and Ben, goodbye. She then made her way down Malvern Avenue, and up the Old Town Hall steps to the oldest part of the library. Here, she was helping the librarian clean, document, and index the Vanderbilt Collection that had been bequeathed to the people of Lawson Town ten years ago, but was still gathering dust.
Alice couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was being followed, causing her to constantly look back over her shoulder.
It was as if she could feel someone’s acrid breath on her neck, and she could smell something that reminded her of the stinkhorn that grew in buried wood, with its odour of rotten meat. However, there was nothing or no one there. She hurried past Walter Maitland’s door and settled herself down to the morning’s work, cataloguing all the papers of Sanders Vanderbilt’s travels to China. He had thrown nothing away and the nineteenth century papers belonging to the trading family were in a dozen brown boxes, stacked in random order, taking up half the small room in the library east wing.
Alice shivered and stared abstractly at the snow-chill landscape of the car park, trying to remember the images of the night before. She replied to a question from Jean, the senior archivist, but could only hear the words in a somewhat dull tone, as if she were trying to eavesdrop into someone else’s conversation.
“Alice, are you listening? Take your lunch at anytime you want today—Alice?”
“Sorry, Jean. I’m really not feeling very well. Can I have the afternoon off and work late tomorrow?”
Jean fiddled with her glasses and pulled out a red book that had suddenly attracted her attention from a shelf close by. “What’s that you said?” She set her eyes on Alice and then nodded.
“You look very pale. Yes, you can go home.”
Pulling her coat collar up against the chill wind, Alice made her way through the cold, winding streets, her face bitten by the ghastly February wind. She went home to the house on Holland Avenue, which was usually a warm refuge against the staggering cold. She paused at the gate and looked up at the pale-blue curtain that framed her bedroom window. She thought she saw the curtain move to one side before convincing herself that she had imagined it. Something sinister had happened last night in the middle of that room, something that she couldn’t quite remember. Until a few months ago her everyday life had been rooted in the real world. Now though, she seemed to be slipping into another.
Alice made herself some cinnamon coffee and gripped the mug tightly in an effort to get warmer. Once settled on the couch, she switched on the telly and began watching a programme about cable cars in San Francisco. Suddenly she sat bolt upright, nearly spilling her coffee. Her mouth dropped open in amazement as the camera focused on one passenger in particular. It was her grandmother, on her father’s side, May Thomas—sitting there in her best, blue Sunday coat and a dark blue felt hat with the violet brooch that she always wore. May Thomas, who had been ten years dead and was giving her that look she used to save for when Alice, as a young child, had been careless in her grandmother’s house.
“You’re in deep water, Alice—far too deep for you.”
Her grandmother’s tone was abrupt and cold. Alice could smell the sweet fragrance of Lily of the Valley in the air and she knew, in a part of her, that she wanted her life to be simple
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