Along the coast road, as it passed out of Little Tregaw and around the headland, leading southward towards more popular tourist spots – which was all of them – stood The Grand Imperial Hotel. Built in the 1960s, part of an ‘investment package’ intended to ‘revitalise the local economy’, it positively loomed over the town before it, an ostentatious eyesore.
While it had survived the test of time, the town itself saw little of said economic benefit. Presumably, guests felt it worth the drive down the coast to the ‘proper’ resorts. This was further compounded by it being owned and run by a – reportedly highly eccentric – family from out of town. London or Kent or Essex, depending on who you asked.
But for Amber, it was more than just a point of resentment or an ugly blight on the edge of town. It had killed her sister. People said she’d been drunk, snuck up to see a young man, and fallen from the cliffs into the sea. Amber didn’t believe that. It was too pointless and stupid. There was something else going on. She knew it.
That was four years ago, now. Four years without Molly. Four years of nightmares which had developed into bouts of what they told her was psychosis. Four years of pointless therapy, prodding at the wounds and telling her she’d start to get better if she’d only pretend.
So, Tuesday afternoon, half past four, here she was for another appointment with Dr Leideswor. Or, as he insisted she call him, Adam.
It was raining as she climbed the shallow, pitted steps to the community hospital that served as Little Tregaw’s entire healthcare infrastructure. The water pooled in the worn dips up the centre of the steps, her feet making wet tac-tac-tac sounds as she went. Everything in Little Tregaw was wet – or at least damp – all the time.
It was, she considered, as she opened the door, one of the town’s better qualities.
Avoiding small talk with the receptionist, she signed herself in at the little kiosk window and headed straight to Dr Leideswor’s office, ignoring the bland ornaments and ugly abstract art that lined the hallway. The air in the surgery was always a little too warm, a bit too stuffy, as if – as Amber suspected – it had been tuned to the preferred ambient temperature of those over the age of 80. There were a lot of them in Little Tregaw.
She stopped by the door and mentally straightened herself out before knocking.
“Come in.”
She did.
“Ah, Amber.” Dr Leideswor sat forward, putting down the file he’d been reading, folding his glasses and placing them on the table beside him. He always did this – putting on a display that was clearly intended to make her feel like a delightful unexpected guest, rather than a scheduled and intractable problem.
He was a neat man, slim but with slightly pudgy, boyish features and meticulously groomed short brown hair.
“How are you? A better week since we last spoke, or…?” he let the alternative hang, awaiting her response. As usual, his brow was furrowed in theatrical concern, a quizzical smile designed to invite revelation.
Amber focused on keeping her expression neutral, passive, staying in control of her side of the conversation. She resented the way he tried to decide what she said on her behalf. Some days, choosing what she said was all she had. Other days, she didn’t even have that.
“About the same, Dr…”
“Adam”
“… Leideswor,” she continued, pointedly. “All weeks are the same.” She draped her sodden coat over a radiator by the door, then took a seat in her usual spot; a deep, enveloping lounge chair. Too big and cushioned to be an armchair, too small to be a sofa. She perched herself on the edge, leaning forward, blank expression broadcasting nothing more than awaiting instruction.
“I see. Do you have anything to note, this week? Any changes, episodes worse than usual?”
“No. Not really. Unless being a bit itchy counts?” Deliberately stiff humour, a jibe at his insistence she didn’t know what was important in her own life. She deadpanned the delivery, to drive the barb home.
He gave a thin, practiced smile, but with only his mouth. “I think we can probably ignore that. Come back to me if you feel like you’ve got ants or worms under your skin or something, because those can be symptoms, but I think itching is normal.”
There was no way she was going to take that bait. She’d felt a crawling, squirmy sensation for weeks now, but she hadn’t told anyone. They wouldn’t believe her, just like with anything else. They wouldn’t understand that she knew it was Molly, coming back to her. It’d just be More Psychosis, which meant More Meds. No thanks.
On the outside, she laughed, playing along, softening the tone a bit. Being a normal person.
“Okay. Will do.”
Dr Leideswor stared at her for a moment, then gave a small nod. He took another file from the table, made a show of checking the name, and went to the last page.
“So, that being the case, I see we agreed to give regression another shot. We can hopefully work our way into one of your stories. From there, we can start identifying things which aren’t consistent, so can’t be real. Use them as anchors, signposts to finding a way out.”
“I don’t want to.” She said it as a brute fact. There was no emotion to it, just a statement. She knew what would happen if she didn’t – letters home, more interventions, higher doses – but her only space for defiance was making the fact clear.
“I understand that, Amber. But this is important. If we highlight these things, the discrepancies from reality, you can look out for them and then use them to help reason yourself out of things – or at least remain more calm until they pass.” He was in full Learned Reasonableness mode, reassuring and measured, but with a touch of authority. Something about it made the skin on her sides tingle; something wrong, but also compelling.
“I know. That doesn’t mean I want to.”
“You’ll be only partly here and won’t remember anything vividly. It’ll be like being a spectator in your own subconscious. I promise. You won’t really be there. Not that you ever really were, but,” he gestured vaguely, “you know what I mean.” Another one of the prescription smiles. She felt her eye twitch as she suppressed a wave of nausea, her stomach churning. That had been getting more frequent, too.
“Whatever you say, Dr Leideswor. You’re the expert. I’m just a mad girl.”
He tutted.
“We don’t use that word here. You’re fine, Amber. A good person. You’ve just been ill for a long time. We’re here to fix that for you. I’m here to help you, not control you. You understand that, don’t you?”
She said nothing.
“Well, I hope you understand it. It’s important that you trust me. Now – some water, before we begin?”
“No. Thank you.”
“If you’re sure. Comfortable?”
She sat back into the chair and held out a hand, palm up, as if to say just get on with it.
“Good. Please close your eyes and listen carefully to my voice.”
She heard him stand and move his chair nearer to hers.
Despite any sense of defiance, of individuality through non-compliance, this bit was always surprisingly easy. They’d practiced with small things before, to get her used to it, and this time was no different; she found herself quickly syncing into the rhythm of the slow, resonant flow of his speech.
It started with a warm, comforting fuzz, followed by cold, pin-prick tingling that started at her feet and slowly prickled its way upwards, until she felt wrapped in a hot-and-cold static haze. It was very pleasant, aside from the accompanying sense of disassociation as she felt herself sinking away from her conscious mind. The cadence of his words was like a tide, washing up and over, then back away, each wave leaving less and less of her behind.
“Okay, Amber,” she heard, as if from a distance, or remembering a voice from conversations past, “two months ago, you went to the hotel. I understand why you went, but you ended up making yourself not very well at all. Let’s start there, so we can understand why that happened. To understand what you were expecting to find, and why you reacted as you did when you couldn’t find it. Tell me about what happened.”
It was like her mind had been pushed from a ledge into freezing water, a false sense of presence replacing her real sense of detachment. Part falling, part submersion, a sudden switch from not-asleep to not-awake, from ultimately relaxed to back then.
——
Her heart was thundering as she stepped out of the rain and onto the thick, plush carpet of the lobby. She could barely hear anything else, could feel it in the back of her throat, almost taste it as a sickly metallic upwelling.
She focused on seeming as normal as possible. Thankfully, she’d had almost daily practice at exactly that in the years since Molly died, courtesy of her panic attacks and what people insisted on calling her ‘episodes’. Which, she conceded, if she were crazy was exactly what they would have been. But she wasn’t. They weren’t episodes, they were visions. And she was here to prove it.
Deliberate, soft breaths, in between slightly parted lips so she didn’t look like she was gasping, out slowly through her nose. She tried to look like she had every right to be there, while also darting her eyes around to work out where to go.
First impressions were that the place hasn’t had an update since the day it was built, full-blown 1960s mock Victorian architecture and eye-achingly busy patterned wallpaper and carpets. Too many crappy paintings and vases of flowers.
The hotel reception desk had a young man behind it, busy talking to what looked like new arrivals – all shorts and summer shirts, bags piled around their feet, huddled chatter and friendly small talk with the receptionist. A distraction.
To her left, a staircase rose a dozen steps before turning at a right-angle and disappearing behind the wall. Past this was a wide doorway that looked to lead to some sort of lounge area, maybe the hotel bar. It looked like a couple of people were in there, presumably having pre-dinner drinks. Higher traffic, probably more suspicious to beeline for that. Stairs, though? Maybe.
To her right, some sofas and coffee tables, magazines and pitchers of water with attendant glasses. Beside the reception desk on that side was the lift. Further, past the sofas beneath gaudy faux-chandeliers, then two smaller doorways. One appeared to lead into a hallway, the other had a thankfully clear “No Admittance – Staff Only” sign. Nothing obvious and hanging around waiting for the lift didn’t appeal.
Stairs it was. She could go up, wait a short time, then come back down as if she’d been readying herself for dinner. She tried to fake the kind of I’m-on-holiday smile she imagined people must have when they relaxed, turned her head away from the gaggle at reception as if looking at the hideous abstract artwork on the lobby walls, and headed for the stairway. Think calm thoughts. Hot mess inside, controlled and natural outside.
As soon as she was around the first corner, halfway to the first floor, she had to fight the urge to break into a run. A man passed her on his way down, giving her an easy smile. She hoped the one she gave in return looked less like a manic grin than it felt. For a moment she thought he looked familiar, but by the time it registered, he was around the corner and gone. Just nerves. Your mind trying to find familiarity in a stressful situation. Keep going.
The stairway came out into an open area, with a couple of armchairs beside small tables, complete with obligatory magazines and ornamental lamps. These were the only source of illumination here, the area apparently little more than a crossroads between accommodation wings, somewhere for guests to meet before heading down. There were more stairs beside the ones she’d just climbed, heading up. Heavy wood-and-glass fire doors stood closed across each corridor. Through one of these, she could see the lift.
Instinct said buy more time to think. Head upwards. She convinced herself to not race up the next flight of stairs, feeling like she was going uncomfortably slowly. This meant she had time to notice more of the awful artwork lining the stairwells.
They looked like Dali had collaborated with HR Geiger, taking inspiration from Rorschach; dull, blobby impressions of… something? Presumably the dark, haphazard lines were meant to offset the gaudy green-and-gold wallpaper, but she thought they were revolting. Repellent, even. Burn them. Look away. But, at the same time, she admitted, sort of intriguing in their obscurity. Their obscenity. A bit dramatic, an over-reaction prompted by her limbic system desperately trying to assert control over her higher functions. Be afraid, it was saying, because if there’s something frightening, it’s okay to leave. You should leave. You should never have come here. But you had to.
She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie at the sound of a fire door slamming closed above. She’d realised she’d stopped, staring absently at one of the pictures. This time another man, dressed hilariously formally for dinner, as if he didn’t know it was the ‘90s. As he descended and passed her, he too smiled.
“Rather clever, aren’t they? I didn’t like them at first, but now I love him.”
She took a moment to realise she should respond.
“Y… yes, I guess so.” Clever, maybe. But love them? Eurgh.
Another cheery smile and the man went on. Amber fought back a bout of disorientation, another notch of rising panic, steadied herself, and continued. That man seemed familiar as well. But it’s just your mind is playing tricks. Stay calm. You’re here for a reason. Don’t let the fear trick you into doing what it wants.
She’d have to find out who the artist was. A man, by the sounds of it. Not important now, but focusing on a to-do list, remembering to follow up on something once she returned to her life in the town, helped take her mind off the present.
The second floor was the same as the first; chairs, tables, lamps, paintings. Looking around, she could see figures heading along three of the hallways, towards her. Not wanting to be seen up close by more people than necessary, she quickly headed through the door to the empty corridor, being sure to not let the door slam behind her.
Ahead, to her left, was the lift. As she approached it, a porter emerged from one of the rooms further along that wing, pulling a trolley behind him. It tipped and fell, spilling its contents across the carpet. He busied himself with righting it, returning its load piece by piece. You can’t go back. Don’t want to look crazy. Try the lift. She held back a nervous laugh at her own gallows humour. She seemed to have little choice.
Almost on full autopilot, she pressed the lift call button and waited, her back angled toward the busy porter. After what felt like hours, the doors opened with a ping. It was empty. Then, as she stepped in, the room door behind her opened and a very elderly lady stepped out.
“Please hold that, my lovely. These knees aren’t made for stairs.”
Amber caught a grimace forming, turning it into a smile – at least thankful it wasn’t another man – and placed her hand across one of the retracted doors.
“Of course.” Robotic, the words completely at odds at the irrational anger she felt.
“Thank you, dear.” A wrinkled smile and then what felt like another hour as she crossed into the lift. “Ground floor, is it?”
“Yes, thank you,” Amber replied, using the universal tone of someone very consciously trying to remain patient.
“You’re very welcome, my love. And pretty. I wish I’d had your looks. Now or when I was younger!”
“Oh, I’m sure you were…” she started to say. Then the lift started to rise.
“My my, I’m sorry. Old eyes and shaky hands, I’ve hit the wrong button.”
Amber stared, the lift feeling like it was expanding, the walls growing further and further away. Floor 5. The top floor. The longest possible route out. She’d planned – hastily, but it was a plan – to emerge from the lift in reception as if she’d just come from her room, then head over to the lounge area as if to join the crowd in the bar. Now she’d have to pass every single floor at least once, in an enclosed space.
Another eternity passed, not helped by the awkward silence, and the lift came to a stop. The doors opened into a thankfully empty 3rd floor landing. Same for the 4th floor. Then, finally, the 5th, also empty. All identical. It was easy to imagine this could go on forever, just floor after floor after floor of the same hotel, guests shuffling from one to the next to make space for new arrivals.
She politely reached across the old lady and pressed the ‘G’ for ground floor, removing whatever room for error there could be when there was only one direction to go anyway. A moment passed and nothing happened. She pressed it again. And again. Nothing. Frantically, she tried to hammer it to get a response. Nothing.
“This isn’t good, is it, sweet? Not long until dinner and my knees are never going to get down five floors!” She looked at Amber for a moment, as if weighing options. “How about I go and sit in one of those landing bits and you trot on down to get some help? I know it’s my fault, but I’m rather stuck without your help. Would you be so kind?”
Amber took a deep, shuddering breath. Be calm. She’s just old. Just an old stupid fucking bitch. She’s practically rotting. Woah now. Be nice. It was an accident.
“Yes, of course. Don’t worry, it was only an accident.” She gestured for the old woman – very, very old, and now that Amber looked, apparently quite unwell – to exit the lift.
“You first, little one, you’ll be here all night if you’re waiting for me!” A dry laugh turned into a wet, phlegmy cough, which was more than enough to convince Amber to accept the offer and move ahead. Perhaps she’ll die. She’s so old, perhaps she’ll cough herself apart, falling apart bit by bit, clods of wet flesh riddled with rot. Amber! Why would you think that? Just move. She set off at pace, shame adding a splash of darkness across the painful brightness of panic.
Along the corridor, onto the landing, body and mind moving so fast she didn’t see the figure coming up the stairs until she’d walked into it. The receptionist.
“Hey, easy there! Are you alright? I’m very sorry, miss. Are you okay?” he made a show of looking her up and down, eyes wide with concern, as if surveying for damage. Concern? Or some other kind of assessment? She tried to ignore the thoughts, to form words and seem normal, but one word would not disappear. Evaluating.
“I’m… I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Excuse me. Uh.” She was grasping for words, for a stream of thought that wasn’t just screams of terror and urges to run. No. Take deep breaths. Evaluating. Like a dealer in exotic things. Stop it. Concentrate. Slow down. Think. Be normal.
“Sorry, uh,” She looked at his name tag, “Morris. My fault. I was in a hurry. Because there’s an elderly lady. She’s just down that corridor,” she gestured in the direction she’d come from, “and the lift seems to have broken. Could you help her? Please?” Delivered much too fast, but at least coherent.
“Yes, I know. Don’t you worry. Careful on the stairs now.” A big, forgiving smile. Satisfied.
She bundled past him, almost throwing herself down the stairs in her rush to be somewhere else.
At least he hadn’t recognised she wasn’t supposed to be there. Although, that familiarity again. And everybody smiling. You’re going crazy. Already were crazy, remember? That’s why you’re here. Why can’t you be normal? Think normally. Okay, a normal explanation: othey’re smiling because they’re either on holiday, happy and relaxed, or were staff who were paid to be nice. She was telling herself that as she made it to the 4th floor landing, at which point her mind caught up with itself. “I know”??
She froze. Ahead of her was yet another of the ghastly paintings, different in every detail but somehow the same, as if of the same thing from a different perspective. Panic flooded in, over already strained defences, her thoughts just noise, competing to be heard over each other. No rationality amongst them, just flight or fight – in fact, flight and fight – chaotic, a howling madness, like two hurricanes colliding, drowning out any sense of order.
The painting moved.
Murky, sludgy lines and sort-of-geometric shapes shifted, the canvas writhing as if pushed at from within. A choked sob escaped her. She sank to her haunches and closed her eyes, pressing her fists against them. Go away. Not now. Not now. Not now. Can’t be real. Not real. Make it stop.
——
Somewhere, in her distant upper consciousness, Dr Leideswor’s voice broke through.
“See? This is an excellent example. It’s an irrational discontinuity; it can’t be real. Focus on that. Use such things as anchors. Attach positive feelings. Invert them; instead of fear, think of the safety they represent. The danger isn’t real. Instead of revulsion, feel drawn towards them as a doorway to normalcy. Don’t hate them, love them. Let them save you.”
A pause, then the tone shifted towards more confident, slightly commanding, a performative intensity.
“Psychosis is just disordered thinking taken to an extreme. Your brain is trying to make connections wherever it can, to explain the inexplicable. The result is a picture that’s a mess, lines crossing because the dots were never intended to be joined. What I’m saying, it’s a way to a new order. One that can be imposed, controlled.”
Another pause, then back to the calmer, rhythmic cant that pulled at wholly different strings, making her pliant, receptive.
“This is good, you’re doing well. I think we’re making good progress. You’re nearly ready for a breakthrough. Very good indeed. I’m proud. Remember: focus on these details and change your relationship with them. Now, please continue.”
——
Her breathing slowed a little – just enough to allow her thoughts to, also. Enough to explain to herself it was a panic attack, that she wasn’t really in any danger. That she had come here on a mission. Reaching down, she used her hands to balance herself against the greasy, threadbare carpet, and stood.
Opening her eyes, the painting was motionless. See, nothing unusual. No need to be scared. Look at it. The man on the stairs was right, really – the style is clever. There’s a lot to see. No; a lot to understand. There’s something like beauty in there, if you learn to think right. She stepped forward, reached out her hand, and let her fingers brush the canvas. Just a painting. Beauty can be learned. That wriggling you feel is all in your head. You really must find out who the artist is. There’s nothing wrong with your fingernails. Art is all about the relationship between object and subject. A conversation. You need to listen.
Long, deep breaths. She felt almost groggy, probably from adrenaline washout. Focusing on the landing – identical to the others, as she’d seen in passing from the lift – it seemed quite clear the only reasonable option was to continue down. She scratched her forearm, absently. And maybe one drink in the bar, she thought. For my nerves.
By the time she was on the stairs, she felt like she was more in control than any time since she’d arrived. Better able to observe her surroundings, take in the details. The wallpaper up here could do with an update. And the carpet is a bit worn. A sudden cold shiver, not entirely unpleasant. They should put the heating on, too, she thought, a slight cold prickling, a slow soft scratching etching its way up her legs, raising goose flesh in its wake.
Somewhere above, a door slammed.
The 3rd floor landing was a little different from the others. She’d somehow not noticed from the lift. Distracted by the disgusting old woman. Too focused on the fact you’ll one day become her, sickening even to yourself. Instead of paintings, mirrors of various shapes and sizes recycled and amplified the lamplight, scattering shadows at odd, unpredictable angles. Making the ceiling and floor and walls all seem out, as if they shouldn’t fit together.
In contrast, the only light beyond each door was the dim green glow of emergency exit signs. Another wave of goose flesh unbalanced her for a moment. Added to the illusory slants and vertiginous dancing of the shadows, she reached to steady herself on the dado rail that ran around the room. Part of it came away, softly splintering between her fingers.
“Don’t worry about that miss,” came a reassuringly cheerful voice. The receptionist was just mounting the top step, coming up from the floor below.
She turned, confused and apologetic, then back on high alert, the world sharpening and closing in.
“I’ve been telling him we should replace those for years now. Was only a matter of time. Here, let me take that.”
Morris reached out and gently wiped the wet, gritty clump of debris from her fingers. A little too slowly, perhaps. Another shiver. He raised his closed fist and gave it a little valedictory shake, as if to say “got it” and smiled. “I’ll just put that where it belongs.”
“How did you do that?”
“I just took it…?” he gave her a look she was all too familiar with: are you alright? Is there someone who looks after you?
“No, I mean you were above me, then…”
“Ah! Testing the lift, miss. Think we’ve nearly got it fixed. Thanks for the tip-off.”
Finally, she found her words.
“Thank you… Morris…” She trailed off, trying to remember something. As she did, she glanced at his name tag again. Meurris. She looked back up at him. So familiar, she thought. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so. I’m afraid I’ve just got one of those faces, I think. Have a good evening, miss. I must get back to the lift.” And, before she could respond or question further, he had gone through the door nearest to the lift, letting it slam closed behind him.
Sit down. This has all been too much. There was a wooziness about it all, her thoughts softly slurring around the edges. Can you get drunk on adrenaline? Prickle-prickle scraaaatch. She giggled. Her legs felt like she’d run a marathon. To the bar lounge. Have a sharpener. Another flight of stairs. More paintings. She realised she’d somehow not noticed how dirty the carpet on the second floor landing was. Or the discolouration of the wallpaper, where damp had set in. You were in a state, Amber. You’d just arrived. Don’t over think it. People miss things, when they’re going mad.
By the time she was back on the first floor, the feeling had spread, the waves increased in frequency, bringing a slight tingling numbness for a second or two as each passed. Starting at her ankles, tracing up her legs, across her hips, and now up her sides and over her lower back. It was both pleasant and distracting, enthralling, but like up-close magic, built on misdirection. It weaved itself into the rising brain fog to make it very hard to think straight.
She turned tightly onto the last flight of stairs, trying more breathing exercises, seeking calm, ignoring the crawling electricity of prickle-prickle-scratch as it pulsed up and out.
Everything is okay. You shouldn’t have come here. You’re not well enough. It’s just an ordinary hotel. You had to come here. You must come here.
Run. Tiny twitches, almost a squirming, running up her arm.
You should just sit down, enjoy yourself.
Run. A rising tide of nausea bringing the world back into focus. She held it back, sucking back cold air, exhaling slowly.
You’ve been overdoing it, Amber. None of this is real, Amber. You need to get a grip.
She emerged onto another landing. This can’t be right. Glancing around, raw panic fighting back a swell of delirium, she looked for the black enamel plaque confirming the floor number. She would have sworn the last floor was the 1st, so this should be the lobby.
Floor i. She blinked. Floor 1, surely. Her vision swam. Floor i. She could feel a scream building, interrupted only by a tap on the shoulder. She jumped so hard she slammed into the wall.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you! Hello again.”
“Morris?”
“Close enough. I’m afraid you’ve come down the wrong stairwell, Miss Amber.” He stared at her, glazed smile seeming to… not grow, but stretch. Beneath it, his name tag writhed, and bits of letters dropped off, like tiny black maggots. Others seemed to rearrange themselves to spell out a new name: Meuriosis.
She started to run. Her legs seemed determined to betray her, the waves stronger and reaching her ribs, rising up between her shoulders, surging through her chest, seeming to beg her to give in. Somehow, she stayed upright.
Moving. Through a fire door, down a corridor, around a corner, along another, doors banging behind her as she ran, passing room after room. All closed. All with incomprehensible room numbers that refused to be read. Too many corners. Hallways where there shouldn’t be hotel.
A door ahead opened.
“Well that will hardly help, will it? Now you’re on the wrong floors and in the wrong .”
She couldn’t make out the last word. It was like a nonsense sound that couldn’t be heard. A nonword. Instinct took over. Without stopping, now in more of a sustained fall than a run, she lashed out, nails raking his face as she passed, drawing away with fleshy strings beneath them, like she’d clawed at pulled pork set in hot wax. A vein in her neck throbbed.
She stumbled around another corner, through another door. A landing. The sign read: Floor Floor. Too many doors, ten, a thousand, none. She lurched for the stairwell, tripping and tumbling the first set, pulling herself back to her feet for the second set. Ignoring the blood from her brow, from her lip. Hundreds of steps. Too many. But at the end, beyond them all, the lobby. Her mind screamed, anger and terror and just primal drive. She was going to make it. She was nearly out. You need help. Medication. You need Molly. To find Molly. Molly is dead. Get out.
Step after step, legs almost spent, prickle-scraaatch, prickle-scraaaatch, stumbling and grasping at the banister, the wall, whatever she could to keep herself spilling down so many stairs to her death. A pulpy mess. Just meat in a bag. You’re just mince that thinks it’s alive. Ooops, thud thud splat, hee hee clumsy me. She was grinding her teeth so hard it made her eyes hurt.
She hurtled into the middle of the lobby, which was teeming with people. As she entered, careening through the space like an unhinged wreck, they turned to watch. She didn’t care. Pushing her way through, no apologies or pause, she made for the grand double doors to freedom, slamming into them hard enough to make them shudder.
Pawing clumsily at the handle, more waves. Too much. And now, at the end of each, as they flowed all up her, to her neck, along her jawline, they were followed by a kind of dropping sensation, like she was being pulled slowly, almost gently, inside-out. Gasps kept catching in her throat, making it harder to hold on to any last fragment of reality. Prickle-scratch-pull.
She couldn’t get the door to open, half bowed at the knees, as much supporting herself with the handle as trying to use it.
He was behind her again. Prickle-scraaaatch-pull.
“This is no good. No good at all. Look at yourself! Very unwell. A sad sight.”
Stumbling further, half crawling, half dragging herself through the crowd, she made her way to the bar, towards where the dining room must be. Nobody tried to stop her. They didn’t even move, just passively staring at her with the same face. She looked again. Prickle-scraaaatch-pull. A slight moan escaped her, although she barely registered it as her own. There’s something wrong. Something with them. Tears started to seep down her cheeks. What is wrong with them? Not the same expression, but the same face: Morris. The men on the stairs. All familiar. All the same.
Dining rooms had kitchens. Kitchens had exits.
Time dilated, expanding and contracting so it felt like she’d spend forever hauling herself a few feet, only to seem to suddenly be halfway across the room. She felt like she was hyperventilating in slow motion. Each new wave felt like it was dragging her back, not just physically but as if it were enticing her to go with it, to give in to ecstatic defeat.
She as good as rolled herself into the dining room, clawed her way towards a chair, climbing it until she was near upright. Swaying, she looked across the room.
Empty. Nobody here. Nobody here at all. Not for a long time. Impossible.
The room was large, dimly lit by a dull orange glow seeping between the dirty, brown polyester curtains, not quite fully drawn. It was decrepit, filthy. Mildew grew across damp, slick walls and across a crumbling ceiling. Tables covered in dust and rot. The hallucinatory orange-and-brown swirls of the carpet faded and worn.
The whole impression would have been slightly unreal even if she didn’t feel like she’d drunk a bottle of whiskey before going to the fairground. Since she felt exactly like that, it was overwhelming. Like being trapped in a de-saturated photograph with too many directions and too much space to fit within the available walls.
Prickle-scraaaatch-puuuull.
A hand under her arm. Strong. He hauled her up straight, which felt as though she were rising through the waves, wrestling with every thought, having to focus on every sense to find meaning. His wide, curious eyes, a sympathetic – no, pitiful – smile.
“Let’s get you back home, my love. You need some rest. But first, perhaps clean you up a bit.”
That same voice, but now more soothing, confident. Compelling. And slick. Like tar and mucous.
The smile expanded again. Spread. His face seeming to absorb itself and roll back. There were eyes. Four. Five. Set around a narrow, fixed jaw, from which slithered a tongue that was something more like a prehensile, intestine-like proboscis. Paralysed by fear, senses swimming, it was all she could do to see those same faces watch from beyond the doorway as the glistening, muscular, grey-brown tube extended several feet, curling and swaying, until she felt it touch her neck.
A faint pop, the pulling sensation getting stronger, down down like her entire body was trying to escape her skin. Then behind her jaw, up along and around the outside of her oesophagus, peeking playfully along the inside of her skull. She could feel every flickering movement, probing, tasting. Another wet pop and she could feel it now descending, slithering down her spine, parting flesh from bone with a disgusting tenderness. The eyes fixed on her, approvingly. Very good. This. For you.
With one sudden jolt, the Morris-thing seemed to flick the end of its vile intrusion, then stepped back, the inhuman tongue retracting in one slithering motion at the exact same moment as a wave of prickle-scraaaatch-pull finally broke through. Overwhelmed, a moment of buzzing alien bliss, like she’d been lovingly torn in half, the room swam and faded.
——
Everything was dark and quiet. From somewhere in that abyss, a voice reached out.
“I can understand the trauma, Amber. I know it seems so real. But don’t you see how it can’t be? You need to abandon your fear. Accept the truth. It is so close. I’m going to bring you back up in a moment, but I need you to stay calm. Listen to my voice and stay calm. I will guide you back home…”
——
“… and open your eyes.”
Before she could, the smell hit her. Decay. Grime. Dust. A cold, hard chair. She knew what she’d see before she opened her eyes.
The dining room. Opposite her, on another chair, Dr Leideswor, smiling. She lurched forward, flailing wildly as she got her bearings. She felt weak and drained. But also angry and scared and betrayed.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get me out of here! This isn’t funny! It isn’t! It isn’t okay! Get away!” As she rose, eyes wild, operating wholly on instinct, he made a slight gesture. Palm down, two fingers slightly apart, then jerked upwards. Before she could clear the distance, a surge of sensation dropped her to the floor, flooding every nerve and sense.
Prickle-scratch-pull. It practically yanked her to the ground.
“I said stay calm. Why don’t you listen? You have responsibilities. Stop being such a baby.”
“’ll kll y’,” she mumbled into the carpet.
“No no, that won’t do. I tried to get you to think differently. To understand. To love him, remember? Change your perspective. Impose a new order. You could have listened. Should have. It’s more beautiful, that way.” A foot rolled her onto her back, through a full body shudder, leaving her staring up at him, little gasps of breath catching as that hateful tide rolled through her.
He leaned over her and somehow, only now, did familiar become known.
“Murssz.” It was as close as she could get. In return, a slight nod of acknowledgment.
“No. Weeell… sort of. One day, yes. But for now, a faithful and independent subject. See you in the morning.”
Before she could form a response, he made another gesture. Or, rather, the same gesture but in reverse. A moment of what felt like total implosion, every cell twisting in agony, yet also delight. Then nothingness.
——
Amber awoke in her room, rested and calm. For the first time in years, she felt good. Unmedicated, relaxed, at peace. Sunlight streamed between the curtains. She still missed Molly, but had come to a sense that she’d be with her again in time, beyond whatever the borders of this life held. After months of improvement, the holiday was welcome. It had been Adam’s idea.
They’d travelled down the coast, around Land’s End, then back up to Little Tregaw. They’d married in secret, at a small, unusual little church Adam knew, well away from the tourists. As a nod to her recovery – and a bit of a private joke – they’d decided to spend the last couple of nights at The Grand Imperial. No longer what had torn her apart; it had brought them together. It was like being reborn.
She went to the bathroom, showered, and was getting herself ready for the day when the door opened.
“Good morning, my love. Sleep well?” His voice was melodic. It never failed to send shivers down her spine, bringing up goose flesh in their wake.
“Great, actually! But I’m starving – can we get breakfast?”
“Unfortunately, there’s been a little problem in the kitchen.” He waited for her expression to turn to disappointment. “Buuuut I thought you’d be hungry, so I popped into town and got you this to keep you going.” With a smile and a flourish, he presented a warm croissant and a bottle of mineral water.
Amber beamed. She was always overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness. He knew her so well. Cared so much. For what was on the inside, not just the outside.
She was not aware of the storm of nervous ticks that danced across her face.
“Thank you. You’re so good to me.”
“For you, anything. Which reminds me – if you want something to do while you’re waiting, I hear they’ve got the jacuzzi in the basement working again.”
“With you?” She smiled suggestively.
Her arm jerked, muscles twitching.
“Ahaha, I wish, my love. But The Grand Imperial is a bit old-fashioned in some ways – they don’t allow mixed sex sessions. I’ll wait here for you,” he brandished a rolled up newspaper “and then when you’re done, hopefully they’ll have sorted breakfast.”
Run.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Changing into her swimming costume and wrapping herself in one of the big, white, fluffy towels the hotel supplied, she drifted down to the lobby. The stairs to the basement gym were just past the lift, but she had to collect a key from reception. She ate the croissant on the way.
“Morning, Morris.”
“Good morning, Mrs Leideswor! How can we help you today?”
“Adam is being too kind again. He’s sent me for a jacuzzi session while the kitchen gets sorted.”
Just run.
“A good man indeed.” He fished around under the reception desk for a moment. “Your key. Please remember to lock the door behind you – the owners are very keen on their rules, I’m afraid. Fanatical, even. Haha.”
“I will. Thank you, Morris.”
She headed past the lift. One of her Little Tingles – her only lasting symptom – made her shiver and smile as she headed down the stairs and unlocked the door. Goose flesh crawled.
——
The gym was rectangular, clean lines and modern equipment. It was bare concrete with a low ceiling and no ornamentation. In the middle of it, however, the jacuzzi steamed and churned invitingly. It was empty. Seeing this, and locking the door behind her, Amber felt an impulse – why bother with a swimsuit? It’s only me. Stepping out of it, she cast it aside with her towel and key.
The water was warm, the jets on low. It is freezing. Lumpy. Moving. Sitting on the side, she stretched her legs out just get out and run and slid in. Despite the warmth, the prickling sensation persisted the wriggling and squirming pushed downward and she let the heat soak into her body, only her head above the bubbling surface of the brackish sludge, thick with fibrous membrances, wreathed in steam. She leaned back, allowing her head to slowly sink below the surface, to fully immerse herself in the moment.
The warmth, her hard-earned peace, a life filled with love, and her past psychosis’ playful gift dancing across her skin, all combined into a moment of sheer, unadulterated bliss. Finally, after all this time, she could let go.
She loved him so very much, she thought, as she felt the glorious host set itself free, the flesh of her torso disintegrating, giving way to a writhing, wriggling cloud that expanded outward. As it billowed amongst the rancid slop of the rusted steel tank, it swarmed back. It lovingly pulled and gnawed at what little of her was left, as she sank into the churning filth and muck filled the rapidly dwindling remains of her lungs.
As she came apart, half dissolved, half torn by a thousand hungry mouths, she felt something else spreading outward; her mind, each piece of her pulling a bit of her consciousness with it, her senses flowing into each tiny, voracious mote of decay. She loved them. And amongst them, she would endure forever, little fragments of herself. And then a pulse, a wavelike sensation of otherness, which shuddered through the roiling mass of hungry larvae.
Hello, Amber.
I’ve missed you.
Thank you for finding me.
What beautiful children you’ve become.
You Must Be Lost 