The Tourist Pt. II

Joshua Insole

by Joshua Insole

Story

Gillian liked the cottage she’d rented.

Only one storey, but — then again — only she would be staying. One of the small perks of your fiancee dying, she reasoned. There weren’t many. You had to take them when they came. God knew there were enough cons to the whole deal. Otherwise, they might have needed to rent somewhere bigger. Of course, if Russ never filled his lungs with lake water, they’d have no need for Litwich in the first place.

Gillian imagined Victoria Corner — the name for the place — would have looked a hell of a lot nicer in the sunshine. Had it ever felt the warm rays of the Sun? Had it ever basked in golden shafts, as motes of dust danced in the beam? She had no idea. For now, though, it existed under a rather bleak raincloud. The bruised sky rolled overhead, grey and black. The pictures from the brochure had also been dark and gloomy. Bless those poor real estate agents whom fate cursed with such a blighted lot.

To view Litwich via pictures, you’d have never guessed it had the label of The Most Haunted Town in the Country. But now she’d arrived, Gill had to admit the place had a certain je ne sais quoi. Like those special glasses lenses that cut out certain wavelengths of light. A blue-greyness tinted everything as if stained by ink. She stood at the window of Victoria Corner and watched the drowned world through the lace blinds.

Few people came and went, through the streets of Litwich. And those who trudged their way through the inundation looked bloody miserable. And all had the appearance of shadows. Featureless silhouettes, against a monochrome backdrop. Like painted figures on a dreary watercolour scene. Ants in a puddle.

And never did the ants walk in pairs.

All marched on alone, hair plastered to their faces, collars turned up to the downpour.

Well, possible they walked alone in the physical world only. Who knew what ghosts clung to their shoulders and whispered secrets into their ears? Like right now. The cottage blinds stirred, but she’d not stroked them. A breath — ice cold and rotten — tickled her neck. No words snaked down the halls of her inner ear, but a sandpaper-gasp grated across the floors. The bubble of air pockets in a blackwater lake, first many, then fewer, then none at all. And then the silence screamed. The high-pitched ring of tinnitus in post-explosion eardrums.

“Russ, are you there?” She cleared her throat. “It’s me. Gill. Are you there, my love?”

A cold, clammy hand closed on her shoulder.

© Joshua Insole 2021-05-26

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