Twist Of Fate

Thirty Seven

I am walking across a flat plain towards a dark and closed up building in the distance. There is nothing to light my way except a faint silvery glow from the moon resting in the sky above me, and I shiver as a cool breeze lifts the hairs on my arms and billows through my tshirt. I quicken my pace, nervous of the expanse ahead of me and afraid to look around in case I am being followed. All around me is black; an eerie void of silence and darkness. I can see no houses, no trees, no people. No signs of life except my destination in the distance.

A crunch on the gravel behind me makes me jump, and I break into a run for the last few feet until I reach a battered, dirty door with a rusty metal bolt. My fingers trembling, I slide the bolt open and yank the door hard. I practically fall into the vestibule, tripping over my own feet, and stumble the final steps into a dim and grimy bar with dusty windows and tables dotted here and there. The carpet beneath my feet is filthy and threadbare, the wallpaper faded and peeling in places.

The Flute and Fiddle. 

The place is empty of most of its usual clientele and the layout is different in a dream-like kind of way, but there is no mistaking this godforsaken place, with its smell of stale beer embedded in what is left of the carpet, and the general bearing of misery and hopelessness. 

One person is recognisable though - I can see Katie pulling a pint for a man at the bar, avoiding eye contact with him and concentrating hard on the pump in one hand and the glass in the other. I approach them slowly, but neither of them appear to have noticed me. I clear my throat, feeling strangely afraid.

Katie hands the customer his pint and he hands her the money without a word. His back is to me, and I watch from behind as he raises the glass to his lips and takes a sip. Beer cascades out of the side of his mouth and down his tshirt before dripping onto the floor at his feet. Neither of them flinch, and a sense of foreboding creeps over me. My feet move of their own accord, carrying me towards the pair of them. I want to run in the other direction but I can't - I am being propelled forward my some imaginary force.

Eventually I step up to the counter next to the man with the drink. He turns towards me, in slow motion, gradually revealing the side of his head that is completely caved in, which is why his drink is simply pouring back out of this mouth: he can't close his jaw properly thanks to the mess his face is in. Blood is spattered across the undamaged cheek, dried and matted into his hair. His skin is a bluish grey, and looks like it could slide off his face at any moment.

I let out a yell of surprise and try to back away but this time I am rooted to the spot, unable to move. Chris turns his gaze to me, and the left side of his mouth rises in an attempt at a smile.

"Well well well. Look who decided to show their face." 

I clap my hands to my mouth, not only in shock and disgust but to stop myself from throwing up. A putrid, rank smell is emanating from him, and when I look down at his hand holding his pint it is the same deathly colour as his face, and the fingertips are blackened as though dead...

My mouth can't form words. I am horrified into silence.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

The hole in the side of his face widens with his smile, and he leans towards me, leering terrifyingly.

"You," he hisses. "You are going to pay..."

I lurch bolt upright in the morning light of the hotel room, dripping with sweat and panting hard. The sleeping figure next to me thankfully doesn't stir, and after a minute or two I slowly lie back down and stare up at the ceiling. 

Not only do I think about him during my waking moments, but he is taking over my dreams as well. When will this nightmare be over?