P R E V I O U S L Y I N
S P I D E R F I N G E R S
She found familiar red fish there, the supposed Red Herring species, bobbing silent gill-crested watchers batting wide bulbous eyeballs. A faint blue light seemed to be shining through the murky depths and Steph momentarily fancied the sun far up had been replaced by a huge sapphire. Why not, she thought, if she awoke in a house underwater then laws of physics would surely become askew. The timelessness of this quiet place was at once eerie yet somehow secure - a lonely place, to think, a sub-reality far-removed from the reproach of anything or anyone else.
Her fuzzy attention returned to the school of fish spying into the living-room, an area that ought to be dark were it not for some sizzling fire…fire fizzling somewhere near? A lantern above?
Fearful of the sticky contamination of the floor, Steph shot back up onto her backside acclimatising, slowly, badly. She began wiping her hands free of body fluid and dead flesh as her eyes took in specifics of the horrific scene. Only grizzly garish sights for Steph: an overturned dinner table, snapped in half. Three of its legs torn off...was that a crushed carcass underneath one of the halves? Yes, she decided, but unidentifiable. Posters and pictures and books cluttering up the wooden floor boards, and there, under the window by the furthest wall, a broken flat-screen television. It was running with the red wine plasma of slain pulped furry bodies, warrior Dilf’s from village Po. Steph noticed a severed body part. She shuffled over, staring anxiously at the limb – she couldn’t help herself. She inspected the torn off forearm, its gross occupancy at the base of a hacked and blood-smeared armchair. Steph prodded the density of blue-tinged Caucasian skin that had Vicky’s name barbed into it. That was precisely when the old familiar and dithering voice loomed from behind her.
'Oh dear,' announced the Blue man, 'It appears you have a canine inflection. Or perhaps an infection? You ought to have that looked at.' He looked down past his shoulders, staring where blue arms used to be, ‘And you must be starving.’ he said.
The notion that trespassed her lips was foolish, for Steph knew exactly where she was given the orgy of surreal and abstract evidence and yet, out rolled the redundant question,
‘Wh-where is this place?’
Steph looked into the blue man's eyes.
'Ah, the uncontrollable vehicle that rolls, between our ears, the swerving beguiling transit is never quite the constant. Unlike the storyteller, unlike a play’s set-design, the subconscious requires no piloting and is in fact an unruly ever unpredictable bastard.'
'Woof! For fuck sake, what's wrong with me?'
The man with blue skin politely grinned.
‘The tales you spin, they are haunted Priestess. Can you believe that?’