A forgotten story...(Part Deux)

[Continued]

Out into great London, all cloudy and gray.  Sounds: the churning of the gay Thames and the ferry's whistle, the forlorn sigh of a train fed up with always being late, the clopping of hooves and the mew of livestock clashing with the noises of man & machine; equal parts cacophony and symphony.

Such was the unawareness of my steps that it felt as though the crowd was passing me by.   My brain bothered only to notice some dozens among the throng--its filtration process unknown to me.  None of them were as important as they liked to think, not so different--just as bourgeoisie as they all pretended not to be. 

Something spindly snuck its way across my shoulder.  An appendage reached out--I could feel the caress of its point along the line of my jaw.  I laughed.  This was my fault--I had goaded the darkness and it had responded.  

I was never as alone as I thought I was.

The laughter was more violent than I intended having emerged from some unknown place inside me.  It had not been in Montgomery's training but it had sufficed to dispel the vision perched upon my back.  A father going by with his family pulled his children close.  He had seen my face the moment after, when the realization had come to me: I was mad.

Then, as I was beginning to understand the current state of my own mind, I realized where I was.  "Shit." I felt the word slip out of my mouth.  The awakening I had just had seemed insignificant compared to this--or perhaps it was the end goal of the sickness that had over come me; I having been it's puppet since I woke.  

There is nothing here for you, I told myself, though the words did nothing to loosen my suddenly rooted feet.  I had not been to back to Montgomery's house in over half-a-year.  

At this point my brain had gone into preservation mode.  Old habits came back--anything to avoid the roiling thoughts that had been ignited inside my mind.  The latch on the gate lifted comfortably, its weight familiar.  I cleaned the path and walkway.  Tossed the flowers in the window boxes which had long gone untended.  It was my fault they were dead; it had only taken me a month to give up on the place.  Then, as easy as it had come, guilt was replaced by humor: they were just flowers.  

Oh, the places our mind takes us when clinging to the last strands of sanity.  

Mail had long since been held but I pulled out what was stuffed into the letter slot.  A brief flash of hope came over me as I searched for anything extra-ordinary; any clue that might speak to what had become of Montgomery.  This was followed by another pang of guilt as I wondered how long it may have been waiting here for me to find.  

The mundane reality of the contents: bills and notes from the bank, letters from a few local organizations, and some other pieces that looked too boring for me to bother with.   

I found one of the porch chairs and settled in, the mail forgotten up on my lap.  Exhaustion overcame me, a mental affliction more than physical--I had been stealing only a few hours of sleep each night and it had left me constantly tired.  I fought off the sloth, finding my tobacco pipe and after some searching, filling it.  The last thing I remembered was fumbling for a match...

I saw Bene's face, half-hidden in ocean shadows, his features all bloated and swollen.  Fat, gnawed-upon fingers grabbed a book tightly.  The book was untouched by the water.

A growl grew.  At first I thought it was only the call of the ocean.  But it became acute--threatening, mixed with barks.  A girl's scream pierced through my core.  Inga? I wondered, even as I remembered who it was.

A voice: "Trinkets, Mr. Pender.  The Pale Spider does not fear such things."

 Author's note: I do have the hook for the story but it may be coming too late.  We'll see where it takes me once we get there.