Imagination, My Emancipation

The Mysteries of the Count

Too many flowering and fruiting trees to count. A blissful breeze that burns the cold and stirs your soul. A sea of harmony so gentle, it brings waves of ethereal scents. Such an island was almost heavenly, for it was a little secret sanctity. This oasis of an island was owned by Count Frederick Dumont, and his new bride to be, Arla Damelle.

They had landed onto the shores of the beautiful bay just as the six o'clock tides had been receding into their turquoise retreat. The sand had revealed itself; it was a cool but delicate cushion to walk upon. Frederick guided Arla onto the boardwalks that spiralled throughout the island. Swinging above them from tree to tree, lanterns lit the pathways as the couple walked towards Frederick's mansion.

Far from the bustling sound of the seas and the elegant hums of doves, gulls and puffins, the mansion was as dark a sight as Frederick's ash black hair. Sombre and solemn, the mansion lost its heartful colour many decades ago. It glossed over Arla's blue eyes, making them navy. There was a thickness in its aura that suffocated Arla's lips as she left the breeze behind her. Winding up her nose, an unnerving stench had rattled her bones when the doors opened.

'What is the matter with you, my Arla?' asked Frederick, cupping her chin.

His fingers were cold. His breath was cold. His home was cold.

'What is that smell? It's suffocating me...' said Arla.

'Ah, well, you must get accustomed to it. It is merely a scent that will grow on you,' said Frederick.

Arla sighed. Frederick was being too dismissive. It was hard to avoid a scent that smelled of all the bad things that come out of a human, all the disgust the sea coughs up and all the nasty parasites that lived in between. Beyond the scent in the shadows, though, there was something to cherish. Whether it was the golden chandeliers, the exquisite views or the lavish rooms, the mansion did have some redeeming attributes.

'It's pretty. But that smell must go,' said Arla.

Frederick looked down upon her. He no longer smiled. He stared. Into her soul, his abysmal eyes froze Arla. Cold and gloomy, had he always been so lifeless? Frederick did have two wives before after all. But Arla hadn't mentioned them. Not directly, at least. She chuckled nervously until she looked away from him and went over to a window. There was a shine that burnt up her heart again.

Dressed in red and white stripes, a lighthouse had been tucked away on the other side of the island. With a dilapidated state, it was barely noticeable from the side where the beaches had welcomed Arla. It was flickering a woeful shine over the sea and island. Caves glistened in the distance. So many holes of darkness, they made Arla shudder until...

'Yes, the lighthouse. You should like to stay away from there. Broken to bits. The light still flickers occasionally, but it is useless,' said Frederick.

'What if you venture out at night?' asked Arla.

'There is no need. I always go for supplies once weekly at sunrise. I will always bring enough for you and me to be satisfied, my Arla,' said Frederick.

The lighthouse stopped Arla's eyes. Something was blocking the dim light. Inside, there had been a strange silhouette.

'Another person?' Arla muttered to herself.

'What?' Frederick was looking at his island, but he quickly snapped, 'what do you mean?'

'I saw something move in the lighthouse.'

'There is nobody else on my island but you and me. I have no servants, no workers, no boatsmen.'

Arla became silent. Something stood in the distance, opposite the lighthouse, with a striking stare. Frederick was far from observing, as he was turning away from her. But Arla spotted something. The lighthouse had placed its shine on it for a few seconds, but it was enough to locate it next to one of the caves outside. This was a monster, dressed in layers of mud and foliage. It moved effortlessly, as the tempestuous weather tried to tear its skin to shred. Arla's heart waivered like the crashing seas.