Free Long Goodbyes by Scott Hunter

cottage window, through the leaded panes of which I could determine the glow of candlelight and the movement of one or two persons within. My hand gripped the cane, but at that moment I felt an icy touch upon my shoulder and my grip loosened. A scream caught in my throat and my legs turned to water.  
    I remember nothing else.  
    Nothing.

    Until, with a sense of dread I cannot adequately describe, my consciousness returned. I knew in an instant where I was. The smell struck me immediately; I remembered it clearly, the smell of opulence turned to decay. The bed I was lying upon was wide, the mattress soft and pliable. A candle burned low on the dresser and a bowl of fruit was beside me on the bedside cabinet. There was utter silence.  
    I eased myself out of bed and placed both feet on the floor, at once feeling a heaviness bordering on nausea in the pit of my stomach. Worse still was a sensation of preternatural malaise, the effect of which was to render me helpless and quite unable to rise. And so in this paralysed condition I remained for a long while, immobile and frightened not only for my life but also for my soul. I remember that I gasped aloud as I became aware that I was clad in an old-fashioned nightdress which belonged neither to me nor to Orla; its cobwebbed lace clung to my skin like damp tissue. Galvanised by this new and unwelcome discovery I moved slowly away from the bed, fearful of the possibility that I was not alone in the chamber, the hairs on my arms and neck bristling and my pulse beating in an unsteady rhythm. My movements felt slow and awkward, as though I were swimming in, rather than moving through, the bed chamber. I put out a hand to steady myself and the corner of the dresser crumbled at my touch, falling to the floor with a soft puff , as would a growth of fungus. I recoiled, retching at the smell, and my back brushed the chamber door. I tried the knob - and to my utmost relief it turned easily and the door gaped open.
    A staircase led directly from the chamber into the darkness below. I took a cautious step, and although it gave slightly under my feet, the tread felt firm enough to support my weight. My hands went out to the walls, but I withdrew them immediately as I felt their damp, sticky texture. The banister was in a similar condition, as if the entire framework of the house were riddled with corruption, decomposing slowly like some abandoned mausoleum. With my hand over my mouth I made my slow descent. I reached the lower floor without incident and stretched out my arm in front of me as I moved forward so as to identify any obstacles, cursing myself for a fool for leaving the candle in the bed chamber. Casting a fearful glance behind me I was startled by a shadowy presence to the right of the door through which I had just come, until I recognised the object as a tall grandfather clock. Calming myself by humming a childhood nursery tune - hickory dickory dock - I went on. My feet made no sound on the thick carpet, but a faint rotting smell accompanied me along the landing which gave me to understand that the soft furnishings were in a similar state to the walls and woodwork. Still there was no sound save my laboured breathing. I began to hope that I would pass from this awful place unmolested by whatever had abducted me. As I made my slow, shuffling progress across the landing I fretted about Orla. She too might have become a victim, for all I knew. Perhaps she was imprisoned in some other room? This thought arrested my progress. What should I do? My instincts and sense of self-preservation instructed me to look to my own safety and escape as soon as I was able, but how could I leave my friend in danger? I continued in this agonising quandary until I found myself at another door - or was it the same door? Where was the main staircase? Surely it should not be difficult to find, even in this awful darkness. But whichever way I directed my footsteps I arrived inevitably at the same door.