Читать книгу Mystery Lady - Paul Magrs - Страница 9

I have the most frightening dream.

It doesn’t last very long, but it’s extremely vivid.

It concerns Helen Spedding. I seem to be following her in my mind as she returns to Yorkshire on the train.

I feel like I’m floating along on the astral plane.

The old lady is looking haunted and fearful. She sits up sleepless all night aboard the sleeper train. Her eyes dart about, as if she fears she might be attacked at any moment.

Outside there’s a blizzard raging over the endless dark moors. Snow flurries past and the train slows now and then and she starts to worry it might stop altogether. Are there even any other passengers on this train she caught at York? What if she was the only one? What if she alone was here: easy pickings for the elements and unseen assailants?

Even though she doesn’t have the manuscript with her anymore she feels no different. It’s as if the paper had a strange smell that won’t leave her shopping bag. A stink of grave mould or mildew, perhaps? It’s all over her fingers from her working on every line and writing notes everywhere…

The stories are inside my head now, she thinks, because I read them. The Horrible Book of Terror Volume 27 is inside of me…

She shudders and tries to get a grip of herself. Don’t be silly, old girl. You’re tougher than this.

And, eventually, the train pulls into her station. Ramificashun: a tiny halt before it peters off to Scarborough and the coast.

Just a couple of miles of snowy lanes to traverse and then she’ll be at the safety of her sister’s cottage.

It’s too early to call for a taxi. She can walk it, even though dawn’s not yet come over the hill.

She sets off firmly, determined not to scare herself any further with her wild imaginings.

But it’s dark and terrifying. The overhead branches try to snag her. Brambles seem to whip out from the hedgerow to snare her back. The frozen snow creaks treacherously underfoot.

And then… there’s some disturbance in the air. Something swooping down out of the dark masses of cloud. Is it… a huge bat? An owl?

Helen Spedding gives an involuntary cry. She covers her mouth to stop herself screaming. She drops her overnight bag.

She glimpses bright, faceted eyes glaring at her from the jagged branches above. She catches slights of wide, voluptuous wings. They are indigo and silken. The silent wings and furry antennae of a gigantic moth woman…

As the creature swoops softly once more towards her, the copy editor screams at the top of her voice… and the shrieks ring out over the Yorkshire Moors…

And that’s when I wake up with a jolt.

I’m in Chelsea.

It was all in my head.

But somehow I know it was absolutely real.