Tomorrow's Ghosts Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Charles Christian
into my leg. It’s the crucifix. At some point during our love-making the chain must have come undone. I retrieve the crucifix from the bed and show it to Ursula. “Looks like the clasp has broken. There’s a jobbing jeweller in Southwold though if you’re not in a mad rush, I can fix it for you?”
“Will you? That would be sweet. The next few days are manic so I’m not sure when I can get it into a town. Besides, I’ve a plain wooden cross I can wear. Probably more appropriate around here anyway, as I think a silver crucifix is a little too
High Church
for some of my congregation.”
She pauses. I notice a faraway look in her eyes, as if she is thinking of something else. “That’s broken my dream,” she says.
“What,” I ask, “the sex?”
“No, silly. The chain snapping on my crucifix. In my dream I reached up for the cross but it was missing.” She goes silent for a few moments before continuing. “Tell me Lex, what do you dream about? Do nightmares about ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the dark keep you awake in the lonely hours before dawn?”
“The complete opposite,” I reply. “Totally mundane stuff about colour-coded stationery, rushing to catch trains, remembering to put out the correct wheelie bin on a Thursday evening. Maybe it’s because I encounter all my nightmares doing the day-job, so my psyche feels it needs to unwind at night with dreams of a bland and unimaginative nature. Would I be right in guessing, by the way you phrased your question, that you are currently having disturbed nights. Not been sleeping at the Old Vicarage at Hopton again have you?”
“One night there was enough and that was before you warned me of its dubious reputation. I’ve since put in a recommendation to Archdeacon Jaffa that the place be declared redundant and sold off for redevelopment. It’ll upset the church wardens but it will pay for roof and chancel repairs elsewhere in the diocese.”
She pauses again, clearly remembering an incident. “Before I moved here, I think my dreams were also pretty much meat-and-potatoes stuff but over the last few weeks they’ve been taking on a less pleasant, surreal, if not downright apocalyptical tone. There’s one that keeps recurring, one that only started after I met you, well it would have to have been since I met you because you are in it, and each time a little more of the detail unfolds. I’d had it the night before we visited John Patmos, which is one of the reasons why his Punch and Judy revelations so freaked me out. And I had it again last night, right down to the detail of the missing crucifix.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“Are you sure? It’s very long and could be a bit of a downer on this afternoon?”
“Just tell me about it.”
“It starts with the two of us cresting a hill in the Beetle. We’re definitely in East Anglia and I think we’ve been driving along the Waveney Valley. Then we descend down a narrow winding lane into a little valley. To our right, perched on top of a small hill in the middle of the valley, is a church. It’s the usual flint and stone construction you get around here, except it also has a square tower in red brick. But the most memorable feature of the church in my dream is that the clock on the church tower is 20 minutes slow.”
“How do you know it’s running slow?” I ask.
“Because in my dream I glance at my wristwatch when I see the church and notice the time difference. Then I make a catty comment ‘What sort of place is this? The Land that Time Forgot?’ or something like that.”
“Anything else you can tell me about the location, as I’ve a feeling I know the place you are talking about.”
“Yes, there’s a big, cream-painted rectory close by the church, almost French-looking with shutters on the outside of the windows. But in my dream this building is no longer a rectory but belongs to a famous writer-friend of yours. He’s letting us stay in the place as
“Will you? That would be sweet. The next few days are manic so I’m not sure when I can get it into a town. Besides, I’ve a plain wooden cross I can wear. Probably more appropriate around here anyway, as I think a silver crucifix is a little too
High Church
for some of my congregation.”
She pauses. I notice a faraway look in her eyes, as if she is thinking of something else. “That’s broken my dream,” she says.
“What,” I ask, “the sex?”
“No, silly. The chain snapping on my crucifix. In my dream I reached up for the cross but it was missing.” She goes silent for a few moments before continuing. “Tell me Lex, what do you dream about? Do nightmares about ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the dark keep you awake in the lonely hours before dawn?”
“The complete opposite,” I reply. “Totally mundane stuff about colour-coded stationery, rushing to catch trains, remembering to put out the correct wheelie bin on a Thursday evening. Maybe it’s because I encounter all my nightmares doing the day-job, so my psyche feels it needs to unwind at night with dreams of a bland and unimaginative nature. Would I be right in guessing, by the way you phrased your question, that you are currently having disturbed nights. Not been sleeping at the Old Vicarage at Hopton again have you?”
“One night there was enough and that was before you warned me of its dubious reputation. I’ve since put in a recommendation to Archdeacon Jaffa that the place be declared redundant and sold off for redevelopment. It’ll upset the church wardens but it will pay for roof and chancel repairs elsewhere in the diocese.”
She pauses again, clearly remembering an incident. “Before I moved here, I think my dreams were also pretty much meat-and-potatoes stuff but over the last few weeks they’ve been taking on a less pleasant, surreal, if not downright apocalyptical tone. There’s one that keeps recurring, one that only started after I met you, well it would have to have been since I met you because you are in it, and each time a little more of the detail unfolds. I’d had it the night before we visited John Patmos, which is one of the reasons why his Punch and Judy revelations so freaked me out. And I had it again last night, right down to the detail of the missing crucifix.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“Are you sure? It’s very long and could be a bit of a downer on this afternoon?”
“Just tell me about it.”
“It starts with the two of us cresting a hill in the Beetle. We’re definitely in East Anglia and I think we’ve been driving along the Waveney Valley. Then we descend down a narrow winding lane into a little valley. To our right, perched on top of a small hill in the middle of the valley, is a church. It’s the usual flint and stone construction you get around here, except it also has a square tower in red brick. But the most memorable feature of the church in my dream is that the clock on the church tower is 20 minutes slow.”
“How do you know it’s running slow?” I ask.
“Because in my dream I glance at my wristwatch when I see the church and notice the time difference. Then I make a catty comment ‘What sort of place is this? The Land that Time Forgot?’ or something like that.”
“Anything else you can tell me about the location, as I’ve a feeling I know the place you are talking about.”
“Yes, there’s a big, cream-painted rectory close by the church, almost French-looking with shutters on the outside of the windows. But in my dream this building is no longer a rectory but belongs to a famous writer-friend of yours. He’s letting us stay in the place as