Lay Me to Rest. E. Clark A.
sharply, his cloudy blue eyes meeting my own as his leathery brow knitted into a worried frown.
‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, actually. We don’t want to go stirring things up again …’
Peter groaned. ‘Right, that’s it. I’m off to bed. I’ve heard enough for one night!’ He tried to sound jovial but was clearly irked for some reason. Mr Parry seemed unperturbed, but his wife, sensing the tension in Peter’s voice, laid a soothing hand on his shoulder.
‘Oh, don’t mind Will, Peter. He just loves a new audience for his old taradiddles – you know that.’
‘I know, Gwen. I’m only joking. But it has been a long day, and I’ve got to drive back in the morning. I think I’ll turn in, if nobody objects.’ He nodded and smiled in my direction. ‘I’ll see you in the morning before I leave, won’t I?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. And thanks so much once again for the lift – it was really good of you …’
‘Don’t mention it. Well, nos da, everyone.’
‘Nos da. I’m learning fast!’ I said, turning to Mrs Parry, who nodded approvingly. ‘I think I’ll get to bed myself; all this clean air and good food has left me feeling quite sleepy.’
‘I’ll walk over with you,’ said Mr Parry, easing himself from his customary armchair near the range.
‘You get used to it after a while, but it’s very dim out there, you know. We don’t have lamp posts on the farm.’
I bade Mrs Parry goodnight and followed the old man out into the velvet darkness. The night was cooler now, and a tangible damp lingered in the air. The breeze had dropped, and the navy-blue sky was clear and bright with stars.
Mr Parry, brandishing a torch, led the way across the field. I followed him as the trusting page had followed Wenceslas, realizing that, even over so short a distance, without his guidance I would have become hopelessly lost.
We reached the cottage and Mr Parry took his leave of me at the end of the shingle path.
‘I hope you sleep well. You’ll join us for breakfast, won’t you?’
‘Yes, thank you. And thank you very much for bringing me back – you were right; I didn’t realize just how dark the night could be without street lighting!’
Mr Parry chuckled and ambled slowly back towards the farm. He stopped for a moment and turned, briefly playing the beam of the torch on the ground behind him; then, waving his free hand at me, he resumed his path. I watched until the thin stream of light had disappeared from view, then went into the cottage and bolted the door, in spite of Mrs Parry’s assurances – ‘We don’t get burglars round here!’ she had declared emphatically.
Having left the light burning in the vestibule on Peter’s advice, I was glad that I had paid heed, since without the illumination of Mr Parry’s flashlight I would have been unable to see more than an inch in front of my nose. The cottage was eerily quiet, with only the gentle rhythmic tick of the mantel clock to break the silence.
I switched on the living room light. I was about to draw the curtains when I thought I saw a pair of dark eyes reflected in the windowpane, looking over my shoulder. I spun round sharply, but found myself alone. I looked back at the glass, which now reflected only my own troubled eyes. A chill went down my spine.
I convinced myself that the tablets were playing havoc with my judgement, and that – coupled with Mr Parry’s tale – had sent my imagination into overdrive. I decided to try to call Sarah before turning in for the night, not having been able to get a signal on my phone earlier. No. The stupid thing still wasn’t functioning. It would have to wait until morning.
Not wishing to be flailing around in the darkness, I decided to leave the vestibule light on in case I wanted to come downstairs during the night. The medication had disrupted my sleeping pattern and it had become habitual for me to wake in the early hours. Try as I might to drift off again, sleep would then evade me, often until daybreak.
I climbed the stairs and felt overcome by a sudden tiredness. In spite of the window being left open, the room had retained the heat of the day and was stiflingly warm. I lay on top of the bed and was asleep almost instantly.
*
‘Anni wyf i.’
I sat bolt upright, a chill running through my very core. I was wide awake now, at first unsure whether the words had been whispered loudly into my ear, or if I were on the brink of stirring from a dream of which I had no memory. I had no idea how long I’d been sleeping but the room was pitch-dark, with only a tiny chink of light shining under the door from the vestibule below.
Whilst I was trying desperately to remain rational, I could not deny that the whole area, which had previously felt warm and welcoming, had taken on a hostile, menacing air. The shroud of darkness had transformed the atmosphere. I had become an uninvited outsider in unfamiliar surroundings. Every corner seemed to harbour unseen threat; every shadow a potential crouching assassin.
‘Anni wyf i!’
Again the same line, yet louder and more persistent. It seemed to reverberate round the walls. I was in no doubt now that the words had been uttered with venom; that someone – or something – meant me harm. My breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. I was filled with a feeling of unreserved dread.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I could discern a silhouette, apparently seated at the foot of my bed. I opened my mouth to scream but the power of speech seemed to have deserted me. I could do no more than watch in sheer terror, as the mattress rose slightly and a nebulous figure drew to its full height, releasing a rush of icy air. I could not – dared not– conceive of what might ensue. I was petrified.
I stared helplessly at the apparition; through the gloom, its body resembled the shimmering negative of an old photograph; but the eyes receded deep into their sockets, as black and fathomless as a calm lake. My stomach lurched as the spectre brushed past me, only to vanish into the wall. I sat, rigid with fear, hardly daring to breathe. My heart pounded so loudly in my chest that it seemed to fill my whole head.
Close to tears and with trembling hand, I reached for the bedside lamp. The room appeared just as it had earlier, but now a distinct and unpleasant chill filled the air. A faint, disagreeably musky fragrance seemed to linger briefly but gradually dispersed.
Once able to move, I rose to reach for the jacket that I had thrown over the opposite bed and, with quivering fingers, drew it around myself. I sat, perched on the edge of the bed and took several deep, calming breaths. A lifelong cynic, I was forced to admit to myself that what I had seen had been real; that it could not be attributed either to my imagination or medication.
I dared not close my eyes again that seemingly interminable night, but sat in bed, propped against my pillows, anxiously awaiting the imminent dawn of the following day. I hugged the swell of my stomach for comfort. How I would have welcomed the background noise and passive company of some banal TV programme now!
The rest of the night passed without event. By daylight, the room felt once again homely and inviting. I resolved to try to rest later in the afternoon, but thought I had better join the Parrys for breakfast. I ran a bath and immersed myself, washing as quickly as I could. Cursing, I grabbed for the side of the basin to steady myself as I climbed out, almost slipping on the wet cork floor.
I felt an urgency to leave the cottage for the moment, and dried and dressed myself hurriedly, so that I might have the opportunity to speak to Peter about my unsettling experience before his departure.
Clutching my mobile phone, I almost ran down the shingle path towards the farmhouse, my mind still trying to make sense of what I had seen and heard. The morning was bright and clear, and already the sun’s warmth was making its presence felt.
Peter was just loading his overnight bag into the car as I approached. He looked up and greeted me with a grin.
‘Somebody’s