Interpretations

III

Early in the morning, a man knocks on a woman’s door. She opens, and invites him in for tea. He brusquely scoffs at the offer. She invites him in anyways.

One hour later, a man and a woman are on their way to the more rural areas of their state, with as only motivation finding a reason for the man’s visions. 


Miss Waters wasn’t the most talkative companion, to be sure. Not to say she was impolite, of course. She simply didn’t seem to be very interested in conversation. That is, until we pulled up to our destination.

“Hey, isn’t this Mensbury Hills? I used to come here a lot as a kid.”

“It might be. Rest assured, what we’ll be doing here today is nothing a kid should witness.”

“That… does not reassure me.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

“Why would you even sa- Forget it. I assume this is where you tell me about your vision, and more importantly, about my grandfather’s diary?”

“No. Up the hill.”

To be entirely honest, part of me was liking this whole ‘Mysterious Person With More Knowledge Than You’ thing. I suppose this is why The Lady kept doing it. That, or she just appreciated any chance to screw with people she got.

We climbed the grassy hills, walking until we arrived at the right spot. A large patch of grass had been scorched ages ago by unknown means, and nothing had been able to grow ever since. Locals would often mutter about druids or mormons or whoever the cult of the day was at the moment you’d ask them, but I knew better by this point.

My journey here wasn’t one of self discovery, of coming of age, or any other such nonsense.  I was here out of a desire to see what would happen next. The being in my visions had whispered instructions to me that were etched in the soft, malleable tissues of my mind. Were I to fulfill them…

No idea what would happen, to be honest. I was getting excited just thinking about it, and my fellow pilgrim noticed.

“You’re awfully giddy for a mysterious keepsake collector. Could you at least tell me where we are going?”
“Here.”

“Wh- Huh. Alright.”

We came to a stop at the patch I had mentioned. If you were to run your fingers through the soil, you would find that it was mixed with still-smoldering ashes. Now what starts a fire that simply can’t be put out? My head felt like it was bursting with ideas as to what this all meant.

“Huh. Hey, weird guy. Look at that.”

She pointed towards a stone slab, marked by rough scratches on the surface that seemed to indicate it being man-made in terms of shape. Someone out there wanted a slab, and so they made one. Unlike before though, I didn’t have to theorize about a possible purpose. It was clear to me, ever since that afternoon in The Lady’s home.

“I’m gonna go lie down.”

“Uh, sure.”

The stone was remarkably cold to the touch, seeing how the sun had been beating down on it ever since it rose. The ground around it had been marred by small chips of rock, and as my eyes ventured upwards and stared into the clear blue sky, I felt at peace for the first time in my short, meaningless life.

“The diary.”

“Your grandfather was… an interesting fellow. He kept a ledger of sorts, of all the people he had met during his travels.”

“What kind of travels were they?”

I waved my hands in the air, not looking away from the endless blue void.

“Big ones. He went places.”

“Thanks. What did he say about the folks that visited him?”

“They were scared. Neighbouring countries weren’t doing too hot. Anytime you’d look around you, you’d see nothing but negativity. They were attempting to find their luck elsewhere, and he would wish them well on their journeys. Then, he’d meticulously note down every single detail about their appearance, right down to the greasiness of their pores or the smell of their breath.”

“Ew.”

“Your grandfather was a very interesting man.”
Lydia took a seat on the edge of the slab, looking slightly annoyed.

“So it meant nothing?”

“No. There’s more to it than that.”

“What would that be?”

“I could explain it to you, if you desired.”

“That’s what I am asking you to do, you faux-eloquent dipshit.”

“Very soon, all shall become clear. One only has to gaze towards the sky, a-”

“Look, bud. If you don’t start telling me what the fuck is going on real goddamn soon, we are going to have a problem.”

Miss Waters stood up, her face betraying a hint of mild anger.

“It shall be so. What I am about to tell you is a most dreadful myth.”

“Go on.”

“The folk your grandfather met were all terrified of the same thing, only they did not know it themselves. They whispered to your grandfather, Lydia. They whispered about a presence in their towns.”

Miss Waters sat on the slab once more, listening intently.

“They spoke of roads that led to nowhere, boarded up houses, schools closing. They spoke of something they couldn’t possibly begin to comprehend. People from neighbouring villages would suddenly hurry through, not bothering to stay or browse local merchants out of fear of whatever it was that took hold of their village being brought along with them if they lingered too long. Now, isn’t it interesting to note that the same story was being told by different folks from different backgrounds? Dockworker, lawyer,  merchant… It didn’t matter.”

“Yes, very interesting. Keep going.”

“Now you see.”

“See what?”

“That will be for you to decide.”

Miss Waters stood up, her face the picture of serenity, which stood in strong contrast against her strong hands finding their way to my throat.
“You’re going to give me some answers, and you’re going to give them NOW, you sick fuck.”

I coughed out my reply, using the last bit of strength I had in my lungs.

“I’ve given you the answers.”

Her fingers squeezed even stronger.

“It’s up to you to interpret them.”


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On a sunny thursday afternoon in June, a woman arrives at the home of a reclusive local woman, known to most as The Lady of the Bog, despite not even living anywhere near a bog. After coming over the initial potpourri-scented shock of her remarkably clean surroundings, she knocks on the door, hoping to find any information that might be of value. 

She had, after all, been busy. Scouring newspapers and secondhand marketplace websites was no easy task for the chronically impatient, but she managed to find someone selling a box of old detritus. She remembers laughing at the foolishness of just selling your old keepsakes to the first bidder, simply because you couldn’t understand their meaning. 

After all, who knows what kind of information a keen eye could find amidst the newspaper clippings and diary entries.