A Sting Twice Over

He stared at the heart, nestled in the cabinet draw, slick and shiny and with tendril like filaments or tubes that disappeared into the recesses of the cabinet; a glutinous web of controlling strings. In the centre of that fleshy mass was an eye, huge and round and bright, rolling madly back and forth. And then it winked at him.

He stumbled back, fighting not to vomit. Shrill cries cut through the fog of his shock and he relized one of those voices – the loudest – was his own. There was a shout and running feet and suddenly a heavy impact as someone cannoned into him in a rough tackle and he crashed heavily…

…into his bed. Joel’s eyes flicked open, his breathing hard and hoarse, his heart labouring. He sat up slowly and shuddered a long, juddering breath out. His wife jerked awake.

“Sorry hon,” he trembled.

“ ‘S ok. The dream again?”

“No! No… a different one. A nightmare.”

“Oh sweetie,” she sat up and cradled comforting arms around him and he leant into her.

“At least it was something different this time; I was getting bored,” he joked weakly, and she gave a quiet chuckle for his sake. Then, after a few breaths, he muttered,

“You should go back to sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll make a cup of tea, I won’t get back to sleep after that anyway.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah hon, I’m sure - I’ll be fine. Honestly. Remember I’m seeing Dr Canning tomorrow morning,” he glanced at the bedside clock, “or this morning rather. He’ll help me get to the bottom of these dreams.”

“Ok.” She rolled over and snuggled into the warm divot his body had left. He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute and stroked her hair until her breathing deepened into a soft snore.

Joel pulled on some socks for warmth and padded into the kitchen. In the pre-dawn gloom he filled the electric kettle and clinked through the cupboards getting tea and sugar and a mug. The steam rose from the kettle in writhing forms, ghostlike, an image writ real of the nightly dreamscape that broke his sleep.

Usually the dream sequence started at his front door, just as he turned the key to lock it, with the clunk of the deadbolt and the lock’s brass setting so gleaming he almost saw himself. Sometimes it would start at his gate with the creak of the gate, the insistent squeal it gave protesting bent hinges that no amount of lubrication fixed. Very occasionally, and worst of all, it started in his car; when it would cough and turn over once, then stop, then suddenly fire into life.

Always though it was the same pattern; the girl, pale and windswept and beautiful, beckoning him forward, and he would follow. But with each step she would recede, pulled backwards by some force, invisible, tremendous; terrible in nature. Though he could see nothing of it, but its affect on the girl, still he knew, with complete certainty, that it was a hideous and evil force.

So he would pursue, chasing always the Pale Girl, ever more desperate to catch her, to save her, to steal her from the jaws and maw of the evil that tore at her. Always though, he was too slow, no matter how he strove, and the path would grow muddy and slip beneath him or suck at his feet, and the wind would howl in his face, and the shrill cries of the Pale Girl would grow faint and ebb away as she was pulled inexorably from him. Then, with one last despairing cry, she would vanish. Joel would waken, often weeping or clutching at the sheets as though vainly striving to hold her.

The kettle beeped abruptly and Joel startled. He’d drifted off into the clutches of his dream again, the Pale Girl eluding his grasp yet again, but not through the full sequence, not to the end. He sighed and poured the boiling water over the tea leaves, watching slightly mesmerized as it drip, drip, dripped through the strainer. He hoped Doctor Canning could help him find some relief.

The sounds of the early morning drifted through his kitchen window and he peered out into the leavening grey as he sipped on his tea. An early morning jogger with their dog, a dim light shining from the house across and two doors up – always an early riser that one, the stutter of an ancient sedan returning from night shift, all the gentle susurrations of morning filtered in. He turned away from the kitchen window, sighed again and settled into the couch, his tea on the side-table.

He turned the key in the front door lock and heard the deadbolt clunk into place, the brass facing gleamed brightly, and he turned to see the Pale Girl beckoning to him. He raced to follow her, she hurtled back out of reach, there was a scream…

Joel jerked awake on the couch to the shriek of his phone, the insistent ring tone seemingly higher and more violent than usual. Muzzily he fished it from a pocket and answered.

“Hello?”

“Joel Schoeman?”

“Yeah… yes, speaking.”

“Hi Joel, it’s Angela from Dr Canning’s office.”

“Uh, hi Angela,” nervously he glanced at the wall clock – seven fifty. He was fine, the appointment wasn’t until ten.

“Joel, unfortunately the office has a problem, it’s the plumbing actually. We’re getting it fixed as quickly as possible, but unfortunately Dr Canning can’t see anyone here today. Unfortunately we’re going to have to reschedule your appointment.”

“Uh, that’s uh… unfortunate.”

“Yes, unfortunately there’s not much we can do.”

“What!? Sorry, I mean, I really do need to see Dr Canning. Urgently.”

“Well unfortunately – ”

“No! I… I have to see him. I’m really having trouble, it’s these dreams. They’re getting worse.”

“Well… I’ll check with Dr Canning. Please hold.”

Tinny music played and Joel focused on his breathing, fighting down the panic that threatened. Memories of his dream cascaded past: the Pale Girl, the feeling of trying to save her as she slipped his grasp, and the sounds of his dreams with the clunk of the deadbolt, the squeal of the gate, and the cough of the car engine.

CLUNK!

The phone line abruptly cut the music and Joel flinched.

“Joel?”

“Yes, here.”

“Look, unfortunately Dr Canning can’t see you in the office, but he says there’s a café nearby he’d be willing to see you at, if you don’t mind it’s a little less private.”

“Thankyou – yes, yes. I’m fine with that. Thankyou.”

“Ok, Ten o’clock then. Bye.”

Joel leaned his face in his hands and calmed his breathing. One breath. Two breaths. Three… four… …five… ….. …. six… …. ……. seve-

The gate squealed behind him on tortured hinges that no amount of lubricant would fix. He looked into the face of the Pale Girl, beautiful and desperate and terrified. He chased, his feet wading through mud that sucked and pulled him back, he clutched at her and she hurtled back into the dark with a scream –

Joel jerked awake to his phone alarm, groped for it, then shut it off. He rubbed his eyes and slapped his forehead to get the dream-vision out of his mind, then blearily looked at the clock. Nine o’clock; time to get going. He pulled on some clothes he’d left on the floor of the lounge room last night, threw his keys into his pocket with his wallet and phone, and exited the front door.

He turned the key in the gleaming brass-faced lock. He heard the deadbolt fall into place with a clunk. He paused and stared at the lock, counting his heartbeat to twenty.

He hurried to the front gate, it swung shut behind him with a squeal of protesting hinges that no amount of lubricant would fix. A pale, ghostly form swam towards him and he flinched, then saw it was an oversize plastic bag caught in the wind. He muttered a curse as he unlocked his car…

The engine coughed once, then stalled in the morning cold. He cursed again trying the starter and it suddenly caught and roared into life. He looked up to see a pale form advancing on him… a jogger in a grey tracksuit.

Sobbing slightly, he swung the car out onto the road.

*************************

The café was comfortably disorganized, an old re-purposed residence that had the walls knocked through to make several partly connected rooms in a ramshackle fashion, with nooks and alcoves and oddly spaced corners. Dr Canning ushered Joel to a table in one of the back rooms where several other occupied tables were scattered around. An old yellow cabinet dominated one wall, tall and wide, with a fatigued patina to it and cast iron handles on its three, deep draws. Joel glanced at it over Dr Canning’s shoulder.

“An odd piece of furniture,” he muttered.

The doctor craned his neck around,

“Yes, a bit outdated you’d say,” he chuckled, “I’d estimate from about the 1940s.”

Joel nodded and sipped water from his glass, his eyes kept flicking to the cabinet.

“Now Joel, you said you needed to see me urgently. It’s been three months and you seemed to be on track, last we spoke.”

“The dreams are getting worse. I have them almost every night now.”

“Which dreams?” Dr Canning flipped through his note-book.

“The one with the Pale Girl, where she gets pulled away from me. I keep… I keep trying to save her, and…” his voice sank to a whisper, “I’m terrified every time, I know I can’t save her and I’m terrified.”

Dr Canning nodded patiently, but something tightened around his eyes.

“Joel, this dream, it’s only to be expected after your trauma.”

“I… I guess so, but they keep happening whenever I fall asleep. My wife says – ”

“Your wife?” Dr Canning looked alarmed.

“Yes, she says that it should be passing by now.”

“Joel I want you to listen to me very carefully.”

“Wait. Did you hear something? Like a knocking.”

“No. Listen Joel, I need you to focus now.”

“There it is again – it’s coming from… just over there,” he pointed towards the cabinet.

“Joel!”

“What? Oh, sorry. It’s just, well, it’s been hard to sleep.”

“Yes, I’m going to help you with that. Now listen, I wish we were at the office, but we aren’t and I can’t let this go. I want you to think, Joel, have you seen your wife this morning?”

“Uh. No, no she was still asleep when I left.”

“Are you sure about that? It’s quite late you know, to still be asleep.”

“Well yeah, but it’s Winter and she likes to sleep in.”

“Did you see her?”

“No. I fell asleep in the lounge chair – there’s that knocking again – it’s louder now. Can’t you hear it?”

“Joel,” he said gently, “you didn’t see her, because she’s not – ”

“Can’t you hear the knocking!?”

Dr Canning sighed through his nose,

“Joel, I really need you to pay attention.”

Joel nodded, but his eyes kept flicking to the cabinet.

“The Pale Girl you dream of Joel, the one you can’t save… that’s your wife. Remember the accident?”

“What? No, that can’t be… I can’t take it anymore, that noise, it’s too loud, it’s coming from that cabinet. I have to see what it is.”

“There’s no noise Joel,” but Joel was already pushing his chair out, standing, striding the seven paces to the cabinet.

All around the room the other customers paused their coffee or meal, watching surprised. Conversation dropped away, and suddenly Joel was standing in a pool of silence, in front of the cabinet. An insistent knocking came from the middle draw, though not a knocking, more like a rocking that shuddered the draw in its frame. He could see now, up close, there was a key hole, edged with a brass border that winked back the light at him.

He reached out with both hands and grasped the heavy iron handles. Behind him someone muttered something, there was the scrape of a chair being pushed back, vaguely he heard someone calling for the staff and a phone keypad dialing a number. Someone gave a loud cough, and another, like the sound of a car turning over on a cold morning.

He yanked at the draw handles, there was a protesting squeal as the warped frame and tracks fought the movement. Suddenly it gave way and the draw lurched open with a crack, and spilled at an angle, half hanging out of the cabinet, displaying the full contents and he stared down in horror.

There was a heart, nestled in the cabinet draw, slick and shiny and with tendril like filaments or tubes that disappeared into the recesses of the cabinet; a glutinous web of controlling strings. In the centre of that fleshy mass was an eye, huge and round and bright, rolling madly back and forth. And then it winked at him.

He stumbled back, fighting not to vomit. Shrill cries cut through the fog of his shock and he relized one of those voices – the loudest – was his own. There was a shout and running feet and suddenly a heavy impact as someone cannoned into him in a rough tackle and he crashed heavily…

…into his bed. Joel’s eyes flicked open, his breathing hard and hoarse, his heart labouring. He sat up slowly and shuddered a long, juddering breath out.

He reached out for his wife. Nothing but a cold, empty space. And Joel curled into himself and pulled at the pillow and the blankets and cursed and wept.