The buds are scarcely open - just a tinge of green, but the promise of so much more to come. Suddenly the twittering of scores of sparrows unseen in the bushes, like the mad whistling of wild flutes, makes him realize he has walked a long way and evening is beginning to fall. Looking back to view the way he has come he thinks it appears somehow different, and he is no longer able to remember all the twists and turns of his journey. The landscape seems very lonely, rolling hills and silent valleys with the dark falling rapidly.
His growing unease is magically calmed by a whiff of wood smoke carried on the night wind, the sweet scent luring him on, until he discovers a solitary house, rustic and old-world. The soft orange glow from the window exudes a welcome, and a warmth flows through him.
“Perhaps I can get directions,” he thinks, as he knocks timidly on the door. A few whole minutes pass, then a second knock by which time his anxiety is mounting to a peak. He simply has to find out where he is before it grows pitch black out here. It takes a third knock to bring a response, and then his ears delight to hear a heavy bolt being drawn back and the door creaking open.
“Ah Sebastian! We were expecting you,” the face that greets him is strangely familiar, “come in and meet the guests.”
“O my gosh! Philippe! Fancy meeting you! I had no idea you lived here,” he stammers, amazed as he recognizes his old classmate from art college years ago, looking a bit more sombre now though, with a goatee beard and spectacles with lenses like bottle bottoms.
Instantaneously his mind travels back to long ago days, good times. He and Philippe had often enjoyed each other’s company during those three years of creative activity working side by side and gently critiquing one another’s work. Sometimes they would have a picnic lunch together in the midday break and a female student called Ann Marie would join them.
“Hi, old chap, we thought you’d never get here,” and looking down over Philippe’s shoulder he sees the lanky figure of Henry with the constantly dripping nose that seems now even longer and thinner than he remembered. Henry always had a nose that was permanently running, and Sebastian used to wonder if the drops ever got mixed into the paint and watered it down.
It had been a most unusual class. The artistic temperament was rife, and he had enjoyed many a laugh with his siblings later at home as he described the idiosyncrasies of the off-beat characters he shared his days with. But suddenly he is brought back to the present as something strikes him.
“But …. but,” stuttering now, he gasps, “how did you know I was coming? My car broke down so I left it at that little garage in the village, and decided to take a walk while it’s being fixed, but I got hopelessly lost.” His explanation is cut short as he is drawn into a bear-like hug and brought up close to the red beery face that he sort of recalls as big Jack, a huge monster of a guy with bulging eyes and always the bottom student in the class.
From somewhere in the house he hears music, thrilling treble notes that soar higher and higher, then drop into a melancholy drama. It reminds him a bit of the mad scene from Lucia di Lammermoor, but there is something in the cadences that is not quite right. A glass of red wine is put into his hand, and he is patted heartily on the shoulder as the door is closed firmly behind him and then he finds himself immersed in the squelchy bosom of fat Jennifer.
Now, Jennifer had been one of the star pupils, extremely fastidious in her work and a larger-than-life personality. Actually he had once had a bit of a crush on her and for a short while had dreamed of her constantly, though in time it had petered out and so never developed into anything more.
His arm grasped firmly now by the slim dapper Julian lisping, “O Thebathtian, ith great to thee you again, my betht pal” with a slightly eccentric grin, he is led forcibly down a corridor dimly lit by red light, which enhances the lurid quality of the gigantic nudes hanging on the wall.
“Is this your work, Philippe?” he asks in astonishment, thinking how changed the style from the tranquil pastoral scenes of his earlier paintings. In fact, at one time he had been a little envious of Philippe’s skilful technique that could bring out the subtlest nuances clarifying the contrasting textures of colour and shade in landscapes that were almost ethereal.
“O! You haven’t seen the rest of our gallery yet,” smugly counters his host ushering him into a large room, of which the décor boasts dozens of bombastic portraits, weird outlines of unnatural scenery and framed images that seem to dance and grimace at him in the subdued lighting. All garish and grotesque to the utmost degree!
Stunned, he stops to catch his breath, and for several minutes just stands perfectly still, gaping around him, his feet glued to the shiny dark oak floor of his stark surroundings. Where was that delicate artistry that had once graced the canvases of his gifted friends?
And where was that gentle warmth that had shone invitingly from the window when he was outside?
Several of the people sitting around on the couches he thinks he knows. There is Kathleen, also Tom and Madeline, but they all seem to present a smirking appearance. And those look like false ears sticking out of Tom’s head. He almost resembles Spock in Star Trek, but more eerie with a lopsided twist to his neck, and his craggy jaw supports protruding teeth that seem to get in the way when he speaks so that every sentence fades into a hysterical guffaw.
As they raise their glasses to him, he drinks too. As he swallows the contents a sickly syrupy smell fills his nostrils, and he only just manages not to vomit. His glass is immediately refilled, and in order to prevent further damage to his sensitive digestive system by the unwanted beverage, he spills a goodly amount into the pot of a droll-looking plant. In case his action was seen, he makes an effort to draw attention away by asking questions as to his whereabouts.
“So, actually where is this place? And how do I get back to the village?”
“Don’t give a thought to that yet! All in good time! We have a lot of catching up to do before the night is over.” That is Tom speaking and the words end in a series of braying snorts that sound like a drunken donkey. His ears twitch in unison with his nodding head that scarcely seems connected to his shoulders. It reminds Sebastian of one of those horrid ventriloquist’s dolls.
“O, don’t think of going yet, the fun’s hardly begun,” wheedles Madeline, who is dressed like a squint-eyed pseudo Cleopatra. “The night is young, and I haven’t begun to let my hair down yet,” as she primps a heavily dyed blue-black mane of coarse hair.
“You thimply have to thtay for the party, Thebathtian, don’t be a Thinderella,” adds Julian. “You won’t turn into a pumpkin.”
Becoming resigned now to the inevitability of staying for a while, he tries to join the pervading spirit of the house by proffering a few crass remarks to fit the ubiquitous mood of the motley assembly.
“Here’s to Jennifer, whose ample chest always did hold a soft spot for me!” He lifts the glass of the remaining obnoxious liquid good humouredly, and adds, “it’s such a treat, Julian, to hear your smooth tones articulating my name again.” Then, “Hello there, Irene, pretty as ever,” to the frowzy blond with the ridiculously rouged cheeks and the sagging chin.
But, that the attempt at joviality does not really work for him is obvious as he sees all the heavy kohled eyes gape at him with bovine stares, so he decides to just remain still, and smiles obsequiously.
Finding himself now standing next to Kathleen, he enquires as to whether any of her work is on show. He remembers her as a master of cross-hatching, and how the painstaking strokes of her black-inked pen would lend a very dramatic quality to her watercolour sketches. He misses her reply, for as he turns to look into her face he is shocked by the blatant obscenity that has taken possession of her once lovely features.
Instead he continues to peruse the menacing exhibits in as nonchalant manner as he can muster, trying his best not to reveal the obvious disgust he feels with the whole display. He keeps hoping the next picture will prove him wrong, but no such luck! These are a gross insult to true art and the aesthetic culture he has always payed homage to!
Then he sees Ann Marie, ghastly white and decked with a red clown nose and jester’s coxcomb! There is something sinister in her farcical stance, as she opens her large exaggeratedly painted mouth. “Voila, le chef d’oeuvre!” she sniggers cruelly as she indicates a painting he immediately recognizes as once having been an early work of his own. It’s the face of a young girl that he had worked on lovingly with care and tenderness, but it is now smeared with dark blotches, the features distorted and the expression leering.
Feeling sick he tries to move back to the door. The only thought in his head now is to get away from this degrading company. How to find his way back to civilization he will worry about later. So with purpose he says firmly, “Well, it’s been nice meeting you all, but I must be on my way.”
Suddenly though he finds himself surrounded - hemmed in by faces, now turning ugly, in fact more than ugly - downright threatening.
“O, but you can’t go yet, dear, sweet, darling Sebastian!” the voices simper in mock servility, then cackle into harsh, grating laughter.
Someone’s sharp elbow prods his ribs, someone else’s finger nails dig into his arm, and then he is winded by a punch to the upper part of his abdomen. “O dear, dear, dear, sorry, sorry, sorry,” comes from all around him in lewdly fawning tones, “but we just want you to stay.”
Then a chorus takes up an intense refrain, “Sebastian, Sebastian …. we want Sebastian …. we want Sebastian ….. Sebastian, Sebastian ….”
They persist in endless repetition, and the stale breath of his vociferous entourage overwhelms him in the stench of decay. What he had imagined at first as the friendly waft of burning logs has now become the smell of rotting vegetation - or worse - the acrid stink of dead flesh. The music is now taking a shrill turn. Actually it is becoming a jumbled cacophony of discordant sounds, as though an angry tenor is choking a shrieking soprano, and the bass is coming out in fierce growls like a rabid wolf.
In a mad fit of trembling he feels a panic attack coming on, his legs turning to jelly he begs, “Please I’ve got to go.”
Desperate now he shoves and pushes in a futile attempt to escape, but only succeeds in immersing himself tighter in a mesh of bodies swarming around him, nudging him coquettishly and sniggering hypocritically, “You are one of us now. You have entered our domain and drunk the magic fluid of our veins. There is no going back, you can never leave us.”
His stomach churning, his insides locked in a vise of cold fear, “I am going to faint,” he gasps. “Just let me get a breath of fresh air.”
But they are closing in ominously, openly aggressive now, pushing him from one to the other, catching him in bony arms, chanting his name over and over in a perpetual trance-like rhythm. His body is poked on all sides and tickled mercilessly, his ears are ringing with the maniacal laughter reaching hysterical peaks. He can now taste the foul air overwhelming his nostrils until he feels himself suffocating, falling, fading, losing all sense of being.
I am going to die,” he gasps. “You are killing me ….. please ….. please ….. I’ll do anything ….. I know this is going to be the end for me.”
**************************
He comes to, lying flat on the grass outside, the chilling wind blowing through his light jacket, and the night closing in fast. He hears the sound of rodents somewhere not too far away, and just above him a bat is flying, and the flash of a shooting star zooms on the horizon of his gaze.
“What happened to me? Where am I? I am sure something strange has been taking place, but I can’t remember a thing.” He tries to stand, but his ankle is caught in a tendril from a creeping vine. “I must have tripped and fallen down,” he says, stumbling to his feet and trying to take a couple of steps but toppling over and landing back on the ground.
“O dear! I can hardly walk.”
Then he smells the enticing scent of wood smoke and looks up to see a warm golden light pouring luxuriously out from the window of a rustic country house nearby. Surely, a welcoming invitation!
Limping he approaches the door. “Perhaps they will help me here?”
Bio
Originally from Yorkshire, growing up in the untamed countryside of the Bronte's where she enjoyed the romantic literature of that period, particularly that which gave voice to the restless spirit seeking the mysteries of its own source. This led her into the field of eastern philosophy and mysticism, and for many years she has been a keen student of Theosophy, as introduced to the West by H.P. Blavatsky.
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