Page 5 of The Spiral

Life is safe in this unending hole I’ve created. In stasis maybe, but predictable in its regularity at least. Dark and foreboding is comfortable. There is solace in its arms around me. I am in control in that house, delivering revenge and justice. Out here I’m lost and alone again.

I slam on the brakes and haul the car to the side of the road, disordered about whether to go forward or travel home to the fuckers. What does it matter if they’re half dead already? I could do it this time. Finish it all.

Cars scream past me, blaring their horns at my untimely halt mid-swerve. I hardly hear them, couldn’t fucking care less. Her name is out there now, loud and clear in the air. I can hear it still.

My forehead rubs into the wheel, trying to see her more clearly, but nothing materializes. Only blood and disgraced skin.

I sigh and lift my head again, resting it back and considering turning the car around, but something catches my eye outside, something consuming to the point of irrationality. Her smile and hands seem to be beckoning me outside the car for some reason. She’s there, hovering in sight, almost real in the headlights and trying to suggest something as a mist rolls in from nowhere.

“Selma?” I whisper the name into the car and watch her mouth broaden in the lights.

The ghostly apparition just continues smiling, her clean, white dress floating around her feet as she slowly begins to disappear again. “No, Selma, don’t…”

My hand reaches forward, my fingers knocking against the windscreen as I try to touch her, but it’s too late. She’s gone. Lost into whatever cloud of light she came from as it disperses back into the trees. Only a slight fog remains to confuse me further. I stare at it then open the door and walk towards it. There’s nothing but the bright shine of my main beam against the forest lying ahead, nothing but the black of night, more screeching tyres running by, and dense thickets of hedgerows.

I turn within the space, searching for anything to show me I’ve actually seen a ghost of my dead wife, but still nothing highlights anything odd. All I have is memory of the vision I’ve seen, and an unusually frigid chill in the air for the time of year.

“Selma?” I call out again, louder this time, perhaps hoping she will reappear. She doesn’t, but the faintest sound of laughter comes from somewhere, causing me to spin on my heel and move forward into the undergrowth. “Selma?” I call again, even louder.

There isn’t a response, but I can hear the laughter still echoing. It’s her laugh, full and bold, happy, gregarious. It initiates a smile, the first real one in months to break out on my face, as memories of happy times come flooding back. And I chase it. I chase deeper and deeper into the woods, desperately searching for her image and not caring for the fact it’s ghostly. Any image of her not sprayed with blood is better than the only one I have left. I want this new one, want it like my life depends on it.

Trees blur as I dodge the branches and follow the sound of her voice, owls calling out a night chorus as I hurry further on. The dense floor beneath me crunches and clatters, cracking twigs and knocking stones out of my way as I run on and finally arrive in a clearing.

I eventually stop and brace my hands on my knees, sucking in rapid breaths for oxygen as I hunt for her voice again. Nothing comes back. No sound at all other than the groan of trees in the breeze. I peer into the dark depths, examining it for any sign of light or fog, but still only shadows reflect back at me, shadows and gloomy offerings of ancient parkland trees casting their branches under the moonlight. My eyes narrow, my lips chuckling at my own futility. Ghosts? What am I thinking? But she was so clear in those lights. And her voice was crystalline. It was hers; I know it so well, still. I hear it daily, calling me, shouting at me, her moans, her screams of pain or pleasure.

“Selma?”

Nothing again. No white lights. No fog. No guidance to what the fuck just happened.

I glare into the night again with one last hope that she will materialise and explain, or just hover again so I can look at her for hours and remember the way she moves, the way her cheeks glow. The way her body sways even, and the effortless way her eyes sparkle and make everything dull in comparison. I just want five more minutes, an hour, twenty fucking seconds, anything more than this empty oblivion again. But nothing happens as I keep looking around.

Not one thing.

Eventually, I huff and turn from the clearing, heading back towards the dense tree filled forest and wondering how the hell to get back to the road. Where did I come from? I can’t remember. I track as best I can, following the uneven surface and checking for footprints within the damp ground. It’s good enough, because some time later I see the headlights of my car glinting in the distance, enough that I fight my way back through the undergrowth to get to them.

I pull my coat tighter around me as I get to the Merc, sensing the frigid chill in the air again and turning back to face the forest. The fog’s behind me again now, drifting through the undergrowth and offering some resemblance of the image I saw earlier. Is she still there?

“Selma? Please, if you’re there…”

The mist disperses instantly, evaporating back into the woodland and tumbling away from me through the brambles and thickets. Gone again.

I frown at the thought, chastising myself for my folly and shaking my head back into order. It’s time to get going, to continue on with whatever I was fucking doing before this interruption took hold. I get into the car with one final glance back at the woods, hoping she appears, but she doesn’t, so I slam the door and buckle up.

Pulling out onto the highway slowly, I stare into the oncoming lights and shake my head again. Irrationality and foolishness. Ghost stories? Perhaps I’m going mad. My brow rises as I let the thought wash over me. Madness isn’t an unfathomable thought. I could be. I hardly socialise anymore, taking little interest in normal activities. I chuckle, amused by the image of myselfgoing mad.

Jack.

I slam on the brakes again at the sound of her voice, not bothering to pull to the side this time. It’s so clear, so profound that I nearly get out of the car before it stops, wrenching at my belt for escape as I open the door again.

“WHAT?” I call out into the air, tripping over my own feet and trying to avoid the oncoming car as it swerves around me. “JESUS, WHAT? SELMA? Please…” I fling my head around, wildly searching for the source of her voice, but there isn’t anything, only more cars blaring and screeching around me. “Please, Selma,” I mutter, chasing my own feet to get me off the road and onto the path. “What do you want?”

And more nothing. Nothing but the sound of cars hurtling by, narrowly missing the Merc every single time as I shake at the side and wonder what the fuck is happening to me. Madness. This is fucking madness. I scrub my face, scratching at my hairline to wake myself up. I’m damn well dreaming. I must be.

I kick out at the car, furious with my own lack of understanding and irritated by the loss of her voice again, then rip my coat off and fling it to the ground in rage.

More fucking mist rolls in from somewhere. I back away from it and stumble into a ditch, falling down the slope until I bottom out on my backside. “What the fuck is happening?” I shout into the fog, anger and confusion wracking my every thought. “What do you want?”

Home, Jack.