Page 63

STEPHEN BACON “Get a grip, man.” Donald spoke through a clenched mouth. “Look, you’re the second assistant, pull yourself together.” “For God’s sake, Don, something’s eaten part of his body.” “I know. What the hell do you want me to do? We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.” “There’s a horrible atmosphere, Don.” The hysteria was almost audible. “I keep thinking I’m seeing things. When I get back to Breasclete, I’m done. There’re strange things happening, and I don’t know how to explain – “ “Tom, it’s 1900, man – not the dark ages!” Don thundered, “Get yourself up to the lamp-room and finish the journal. We’ll sort everything else out later.” He gave a firm tug to the sleeve of Thomas’s oilskin. Thomas blinked and opened the door. The wind rushed in, hurling grotesque echoes around the confines of the room. He turned on the threshold, feeling the gale tearing at his flapping coat. Their eyes locked for a moment, before Thomas finally broke contact and plunged into the sleet-filled mist. The stone steps had begun to cover with thickening snow. It lay like fish-scales beneath his strong boots, and he skidded slightly as he began his ascent. The journey felt tortuous and long, but Thomas forced himself to believe that each step would be another one closer towards his escape from this God-forsaken place. As he reached the door of the cabin he paused, thinking of poor James inside. He forced his mind to let go the images that gnawed at him. Risking a lapse of nerves, he threw a glance down to the landing far below. The sleet made dizzying patterns as it fell into the swirling water. Donald stood at the edge of the rocks, staring out to sea, barely in the range of his view from this angle of the lighthouse. Thomas reminded himself that he had a final job to do, so he steadied his frame and continued his ascent towards the lamp-room. As he drew close to the door he sensed the foggy air around him blister with the arc of the beam, reflecting back onto his surroundings. The afternoon light was quickly diminishing. Inside the lamp-room lay a calm sense of sanctuary. The implements of routine and normality were scattered about, grounding his fears to a firmer base. Thomas picked up the brass telescope. The metal was tarnished and cold. He sat at the desk and stared at the open journal, wondering how to begin summing up the events of the past 48 hours. Sleet and snow was attaching itself to the windows of the lamp-room, - 61 -

Estronomicon Christmas 2008  

The eZine of fantasy, sci-fi and horror

Estronomicon Christmas 2008  

The eZine of fantasy, sci-fi and horror

Advertisement