Herbert followed Twain, as much to get away from the altar room as to oversee his work. However, after the exchange between the two, he was left feeling possibly more uneasy. Magic. Necromancy. Normally laughable ideas giving rise to concrete fear, wrapping around his stomach and pulling it down. Witnessing an abhorrence of nature had left Herbert slack-jawed and reeling from the bottomless pit of hellish possibilities it opened; Pandora’s Box. He had buried that in his mind, lost in the events of the present, but now Twain threatened to stir up that shallow grave.
Perhaps more frightening; a twisted part of him wanted to see it. Yearned for the power it seemed to provide in abundance. Surely even death would yield under a miracle. Herbert would have sold his soul for such a thing. It could be argued he already had.
The treatment was somewhat ritualistic, and whilst some of the smells were familiar, they eluded identification. The pincushion was velvet, brushing between the contours of his skin, and heavy with the weight of pins. After Twain drew blood, reality became a smog of blurring motion and far-off sound.
The sound got louder.
It was the angry thudding of helicopter blades.
Herbert was now sitting down, trying to remember what just happened, and failing miserably. He yawned, the clouds of his breath escaping between the fingers of the hand he used to stifle it. Despite their oddities, he felt safer with this group. He was too tired and desperate to question the wisdom of this. Perhaps he would live to.
Men came into the room, dressed much like Rozalind. Some wore goggles and balaclavas. All hid their faces.
There was a tremulous memory of a blanket being draped over Herbert’s shoulder, before he was led into the belly of a metal beast that somewhat resembled a helicopter. His seat was hard, and harness dug into his ribs, and the engine was a mechanical cacophony, but he easily slipped into sleep.
* * * * *
Great stone arches crept ever skyward above Herbert, and light shone in partial spectrum through a vast stain glass window. A man stood at the altar in front of Herbert, holding a book, whilst colour-crowded pews looked upon the two men on the dais. The murmur of shifting whispers and shuffling bodies halted as an unobserved organ huffed out its song. The oak doors, opposite the stain glass, behind the pews, with a red carpet leading to the dais, opened. As they swung on their hinges, brilliant white light flooded in, and radiant among this was a veiled bride in purest white. With serene grace, she followed the red, seeming almost to glide.
Then she was beside Herbert.
He lifted her veil.
Ginger waves crashed against the pale porcelain of her slender face, as smooth and white as cream. Not a freckle or blemish graced her complexion. Her eyes were a brilliant emerald, and sat above high cheekbones that would make goddesses weep with envy. Her nose was delicate, but not a button, and led the eye down to her perfectly pink lips. And they smiled. Oh, the smile. Even after all this time, it still filled Herbert with the fluttering warmth of giddiness.
But as he gazed upon his dearest, a terrifying change occurred. The sparkle of her eyes disappeared, whilst bags hung heavy under them. Her skin became ashen and translucent, appearing stretched across the skull, and her lips turned yellow. Then her hair was grey and falling from her head, and the skin disintegrated, revealing a skull, with staring eyes.
It was the eyes that wrenched a scream from Herbert’s paralysed throat. They held deep pity and anguish, and sorrow unmatched. They were the eyes of a love lost.
* * * * *
Hot. Damp. Dark. Two discs of yellow light seeped into existence, but then a silhouette blocked them out. A sharp bite of pain. The darkness crept back.
* * * * *
A narrow, dusty hallway stared at Herbert. He could not see its end, or its beginning. It was lined with doors uncountable, all varnished pine with brass knobs. Trying to find his way out, Herbert decided to open them.
The first was empty, save for a spotlighted man, bloated and lumpy with water, layers of his flesh hanging loose. Herbert slammed the door shut, but not before he felt the man’s gaze weigh his soul.
Then, behind the next, in a circle of light as before, was a shivering man, with large black patches of frostbite. Again, Herbert was not quick enough in shutting the door. He was judged again.
Another. A man black and blue, with a nasty red gash decorating his throat. Slam.
A woman with bruising around her throat. Slam.
A dead vicar. Slam.
And then the door held monstrosities. A monstrous stag with two heads and interlocking antlers. Creatures than were all tentacles and slime. Feathered serpents and winged apes.
Herbert felt the weight of these upon him. He ran. And he ran.
Until head reached a door. This one had not handle, but was a smooth slab of stone, housed in wooden frame. It marked an end. With a low grating, it began to slide downwards.
Inside Herbert found himself on the banks of a river of black. Upon its waters was a lone ferry, pushed along by a cloaked figure. It turned to face him. Herbert began to fill with dread, and turned to run back, but the door had gone. Underneath the hood, even in the shadows, he could see a ghastly smile.
* * * * *
Herbert sat bolt upright. Pain lanced through him, forcing him back prone. His muscles felt like old rubber and creaked beneath his sweat-soaked skin. He felt low burning aches of past exhaustion all over. He felt a firm mattress below, and a thin blanket above. His head rested on a pillow. He was parched, and his throat felt like splintered glass and sandpaper; he realised he must have been asleep with his mouth open.
He fumbled on the right hand side of his bed, trying to reach for his oil lamp, which he always sat at his bedside table. It was higher than he remembered, and barren, until his hand struck a small object. He fumbled with it, and, after a snap, light danced about the room, thrown by a shaded electric lamp.
At this, Herbert was more than a little confused. He pushed himself up, using the pillow as a prop. This was not his room. He was in striped blue and white pyjamas, which stuck to him like his hair to the sheen on his head. A thin, blue paper covered the mattress, and he felt it tear slightly as he shifted. The floor was smooth, patterned linoleum, and the walls were bare, save for a flat black rectangle. He was not sure what it might be.
He realised he was in a hospital, at which a wave of relief flooded into him; he had been convinced that some of his recent experiences were of reality, but now he felt comfortable that they were only vivid nightmares. Perhaps Smith had found him collapsed and delivered him.
He laid back down, content to wait for either and nurse or doctor to visit, despite feeling fine. Tired, but fine.
Fetzen