Vision Of Darkness

7: The Statue

Simoun tried to run towards the entrance of the cave, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. Every step felt like wading through molasses, as if some unseen force was holding him back. He stumbled and fell to the ground, his heart pounding in his chest as he gasped for breath. But even as he lay there, he could feel the darkness creeping in around him, suffocating him, swallowing him whole. The whispering had stopped, but the silence was even more oppressive. It was as if the very air around him was thick with an invisible, malevolent presence. He tried to scream, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of his own heart beating frantically in his chest.

Hours passed, and when he finally opened his eyes again, he found himself in a place that was eerily familiar. It was his own home, but everything was different. The furniture was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the air was heavy with the musty scent of disuse. As he stumbled around, trying to find his bearings, he noticed something strange about the paintings on the walls. They were all of the same scene - an eerie, desolate island shrouded in mist, with a lone boatman rowing towards the shore. Simoun felt a chill run down his spine as he recognized the painting - it was "The Isle of the Dead", a famous work of art by Arnold Böcklin. But how had it ended up on his walls?

As he looked closer, he realized that there was something different about the painting. It was as if the figures in the boat were moving, ever so slightly, as if they were alive. And then he heard the whispering again, clearer than ever before. Simoun stumbled back, his heart pounding in his chest. The whispering grew louder and more insistent, and he could feel a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He had to get out of there, he had to leave this place.

He turned and ran towards his study room, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls. But when he got there, he was met with a scene of devastation. The walls were covered in strange, writhing words, and the shelves were overturned, their contents scattered across the floor. Burnt books and crumpled papers littered the ground, as if a whirlwind had swept through the room. Simoun felt a sense of dread wash over him as he realized what had happened. Someone—or something—had been here, and they had left their mark. But what did it mean? And what did it have to do with the painting?

He turned to leave the room, but then he saw it—a small, crumpled piece of paper lying amidst the debris. He picked it up, his hands shaking with anticipation, and unfolded it carefully. There were only a few words scrawled on the paper, but they were enough to send a shiver down Simoun's spine. "You should not have opened the door," they read. Simoun's mind raced as he tried to make sense of it all. What door had he opened? And what was on the other side? He had a feeling that he was about to find out, whether he wanted to or not.
Simoun's heart was pounding as he turned around, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of danger. But there was nothing, only the eerie silence that seemed to fill the space. He took a deep breath and walked back to his desk, his mind racing with questions. He checked everything, from the photos on his desk to the books on his shelves, but nothing seemed to be out of place. It was as if his study room had been ransacked, but there was nothing of importance to steal.

Simoun tried to shake off the feeling of dread that had settled in his stomach as he walked back down to the painting. He needed to focus on finding answers. As he approached the painting, he noticed something strange. The figures in the boat were moving more now, their oars cutting through the water with increasing speed. It was as if they were trying to escape the confines of the painting, to break free into the real world. Simoun could hear the whispering again, louder than before, as if the voices were coming from within the painting itself. He stepped closer, reaching out a hand to touch the canvas.

And then, everything went black.

When Simoun opened his eyes again, he found himself standing on the shore of a desolate island, shrouded in mist. The boatman from the painting was there, staring at him with empty eyes. Simoun tried to back away, to run, but his feet wouldn't move. He was trapped, surrounded by the swirling mist and the sound of the boatman's oars cutting through the water.

And then he heard a voice, soft and familiar. It was his wife, calling out to him from somewhere beyond the mist. Simoun felt a surge of hope and desperation, and he began to walk towards the sound of her voice. He knew that he had to find her, to bring her back to the real world where she belonged. As he walked, the mist began to clear, revealing a landscape of barren trees and crumbling ruins. The air was thick with the smell of decay, and Simoun could hear the faint sound of whispers and footsteps behind him.

He turned around, but there was nothing there. Only the endless expanse of mist and the feeling of dread that seemed to be closing in on him. Simoun knew that he had to keep moving forward, no matter what dangers lay ahead. He had to find his wife, to bring her back to the world of the living. As he walked, he could feel the weight of her letter in his pocket, a reminder of the love they had shared and the promise he had made to her. Simoun walked on, determined to fulfill his promise.
The wind picked up, whipping through Simoun's hair and bringing with it the salty scent of the sea. In the distance, he could see the outline of a small island, barely visible through the mist. It was the same island that had been depicted in the painting on his wall. As he drew closer, he could see that the island was uninhabited, covered in thick foliage and rocky outcroppings. He knew that the journey would not be an easy one, but he was resolved to honor his wife's memory and find the peace he so desperately craved.

With each stroke of the oars, he felt a sense of purpose growing within him. He was doing this for her, for the woman he loved more than anything in the world. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Simoun's boat bumped against the shore of the island. He stepped out onto the rocky beach, feeling the rough stones beneath his feet. The island was eerily quiet, with no signs of life anywhere. Simoun took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. He knew that this journey was not just about finding peace; it was also about confronting his own fears and coming to terms with his wife's death.

He made his way through the dense foliage, pushing aside branches and vines as he went. The whispering was back, louder than ever before. Simoun could feel it crawling over his skin, like the breath of some unseen presence.

But he did not let it deter him. He was here for a reason, and he would not turn back now.

Finally, after what felt like hours of wandering, Simoun came to a clearing in the center of the island. In the middle of the clearing was a small stone structure, barely visible through the thick mist. As he approached the structure, he could see that it was a tomb, covered in moss and vines. It was old, ancient even, and yet there was something familiar about it. Simoun took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew that this was it, that this was what he had come for. With trembling hands, he reached out and pushed aside the vines, revealing the inscription on the tomb's surface. It was in a language he did not recognize, but somehow he knew what it said.

"Here lies the one who opened the door."

Simoun felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He knew that he had opened the door, the door to his own grief and pain. But what lay beyond? With a shaking hand, he reached out and pushed aside the lid of the tomb. Inside, he saw something that he had never expected to see again. His wife's face, serene in death, looked up at him from within the tomb.

Simoun sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He had found what he had been looking for, but at what cost? His heartfelt heavy with grief, but he knew that this was the first step towards healing. He took the letter from his pocket and placed it gently on his wife's chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

However, as he reached out to touch his wife's face one last time, Simoun felt something cold and hard wrap around his wrist. He looked up in shock to see his wife's hand, still wearing her wedding ring, holding him in a vice-like grip. And then, to his horror, the corpse of his wife began to sit up. Simoun stumbled back, trying to free his wrist from the grip of the undead. He watched in disbelief as his wife's eyes, once closed in peaceful slumber, now flickered open and stared blankly ahead. Her skin was cold and clammy to the touch, and a faint smell of decay hung in the air.

Simoun felt his heart pounding in his chest as he realized that he was face to face with a monster. He struggled to pull away, but his wife's grip was unbreakable. The corpse began to rise to its feet, and Simoun knew that he had to act fast. With all his strength, he wrenched his hand free from the grip of the undead and scrambled backwards. He could hear his wife's bones creaking as she stood up, her eyes fixed on him. Simoun realized that he was trapped, with no way out.

As he backed up against the wall of the tomb, Simoun knew that he was facing his worst nightmare. He had come to the island to find peace and closure, but instead, he had found a nightmare beyond his wildest dreams.