Read Dark Muse: An Indie Paranormal Sampler Page 28
One year ago...
Darkness shrouded the Blackall Range. From the secluded hinterland lookout I watched the dusk creep over the last mountain ridge, relentlessly devouring it until only a smattering of winking lights were left in its wake.
I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that I must now return home – then cursed my errant use of the term. The truth was that home was a distant place now. A memory. A dream.
On the horizon, I sensed it – the foreboding feeling that had haunted me for the past two years since my parents’ untimely death. It was a familiar foe, and I drew my hands protectively across my face, bracing myself for its attack – until it was abruptly thwarted by my deliverance.
It came as it had before. A prompting that was as whisper soft and comforting as a warm summer’s day.
Restoration abides.
Slowly the darkness began to fade, and I found myself drawn to the stunning transformation as amber dawned, facet-by-facet, to reveal the glinting whitecaps of Bass Strait.
“Home,” I whispered reverently, turning my smiling face toward the golden warmth.
Though I discerned my state of reverie – for certainly this was nothing short of the most fantastic dream – I relished every imagined detail. From the feel of my coconut-scented hair whipping in the ocean breeze, to the faces of friends who beckoned me to join them in a set of beach volleyball, it was almost perfect.
Almost.
I frowned as a sudden rush of pleasure washed over me. It was foreign and unjustified in the context of my reflections for I had just determined that although these imagined surrounds were delightful, they would never measure up to my past: a reality filled with family and home.
It was a thought that had roused acute nostalgia within me.
Not pleasure.
Instinctively, I got to my feet and began to stalk the sandy realm to find the cause of this anomaly. Ignoring the contrived curiosity of old friends, I focused instead on the erroneous crescent shape of the coastline, making a note to restore it to its true form if I had the opportunity.
After all, this was my dream – wasn’t it?
It was then, that I saw him. The lone figure stood beside a brightly painted boatshed that was so iconic of the Mornington Peninsula. I stopped, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the glare, but it was to no avail. An entirely separate brilliance barraged me – and it emanated directly from the stranger.
It was the most beautiful image that I’d ever beheld, but in the scant time that it took for me to focus my vision he had vanished.
And in his place was the familiar ache of abandonment.
Steadfastly, I made my way to the vacant spot where he had stood, willing my reverie to return him to me; but all the while I couldn’t help wondering how the absence of someone imagined – a fictitious stranger – could possibly make me feel so alone.