A Brief Excerpt from Lie Down in Green Pastures
“From ghosties and ghoulies, and long-leggedy beasties,
And things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us!”
- an old Scottish prayer
And things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us!”
- an old Scottish prayer
Chapter One
Old Primrose Lane, Toronto, Early October: 11:30 p.m.
It begins the way all the best dreams do. On a stretch of sun-drenched, virgin-white sand, gulls wheeling in the azure blue overhead. Soft summer breeze ruffling the dune grass, cooling fevered skin. Sighs of mutual pleasure barely audible over the rhythmic pounding of the surf.
The sun-drenched shoreline shifts and blurs, fading into a peaceful, shade-dappled glade, the air alive with birdsong. She’s lying with Peter on a feather-soft bed of velvet moss, naked limbs tangled together, feeling his breath warm against her shoulder. She tilts her head back, gazing up at the sky. As the leaves rustle and flutter overhead, the sun blazes whitely between them. She closes her eyes momentarily against its dazzle.
And the dream shifts again, blending seamlessly from one reality to the next.
She’s standing on a hilltop. Her loose, white cotton shift brushes against her legs, stirred by the light breeze. Summer-green grass around her bare feet, ankle-deep, soft, inviting. No flowers or trees, only lush, rolling emerald as far as she can see. No sound. No movement but the rippling of the grass. Then she hears Peter’s voice, his laughter, in the distance. Wait for me, Peter! He’s walking away, towards home. Wait for me!
She’s alone. The sun is gone. A sense of dread fills her, nameless and dark.
The wind lifts her up. She rises above the darkness, exhilarated, in spite of the growing dread, soaring effortlessly. She sees the lights of the city spread out below, twinkling and gleaming from office towers stretched so high they seem to touch the stars. Glowing neon lines; the unending streams of traffic criss-crossing the city’s concrete heart. And Peter, in the distance, moving away from her with his long, easy stride. Wait for me!
She tries to go faster, to catch up with him, banking around tall buildings, stone spires, coasting on the swirling air currents. She isn’t rising any more. She’s slowly descending towards the cold, grey towers. Fear sinks icy fingers deep into her bones. The harder she tries to catch up to Peter, the faster she drops. Wait for me! She’s heading straight for a tiny ledge on the side of the tallest building. She’s so close now, she can count each brick around the decoratively arched, sealed windows. Her fear of heights, non-existent while she soared, comes rushing back with a familiar lurch of vertigo. She knows, in the way one does in a dream, with sickening certainty in the pit of her stomach, that’s where she will land, and that will be the end of her flight. No, not there! I’ll fall!
The dream changes again. The city is gone. She’s alone in the darkness. She sees a flare of light and moves towards it. Or it moves towards her. She has no sensation of walking, but she and the light draw inexorably closer together. No, not this light! Go away, please, go away! Go the other way!
She knows where she is, now. She’s cold; so cold she’s shaking. She feels her bones turning to ice. She’s been here before. Not again, please, not again! Terrified, she struggles to go back, to turn away from what she knows must come.
Frozen, unable to move as the distant light rushes towards her, she sees the car at the bottom of the embankment. A crumpled mass of twisted metal. Peter trapped inside. She can see him struggling to pull his broken body free of the wreckage, flames licking hungrily at his hands and feet.
She reaches for him. She’s too far away. She tries to cry out.
Then, she’s running towards him. Gasping with the effort. Screaming his name. Faster, go faster!
The gas tank explodes, flames leaping up with a hungry roar, engulfing the car, enveloping his body. He turns to her, clothes on fire, hair a burning torch – his flesh consumed by the raging inferno. His handsome face melting, running in the savage heat. His strong, beautiful hands that held her, caressed her, charred into horrific claws reaching for her.
She runs towards him. Straining, every muscle taut with effort. Calling his name over and over. Running to him through the fire, to pull him free. She feels the heat, the flames hungry for her. Her hands stretch towards Peter.
Liz Chambers jerked awake, panting, lungs screaming for air, arms out-stretched, eyes staring into the blackness.
She sat up in bed, mouth dry, her groping fingers fumbled over familiar shapes on the bedside table. Clock, reading glasses, dog-eared novel, the earrings she'd been too tired to put away the night before, pen, cellphone, notepad, pill bottle, water glass... her mind ticked off the items one by one as her fingers scrabbled frantically across the table, finally brushing against the lamp. One quick pull of its chain flooded the room with blessed light.
A quick inventory reassured her that she was indeed still in her own bedroom. Her dressing table with its collection of china trinket boxes was still in need of dusting. The overstuffed, chintz-covered armchair sat, foursquare, on the colorful, braided rug.
Chastely swathed in a ruffled print that echoed the armchair's fabric, the third-story, bay window of her town-house condo was still firmly shut against the chill autumn breeze, a cozy afghan draped across the thickly padded seat of the built-in reading bench.
If she opened the curtains, her house would still be on the same, tree-lined street, pressed cheek-by-jowl between its neighbours. Safe, ordinary, reassuring, turn-of-the-century, red brick rows down both sides of the quiet residential street. Flower-filled window boxes; decorative, wrought-iron railings curving gracefully up the painted concrete stairs to every porch.
And, only two blocks over, the little bistro where she and Peter used to grab a latte on their way to work. Peter!
Her mind shied away. Shaking, she began mentally cataloguing each familiar object in the room, as if that act of recognition would anchor her in reality, would stave off the blackness threatening to engulf her and pull her back into its undertow. Grannie's rag rug, Alison's afghan, the fire – Peter! ...oh, God, the flames! I can't reach him! She could feel the heat of the flames licking hungrily towards her.
“No! Don't give in! Concentrate,” she told herself, firmly. Grannie's rag rug, Alison's afghan, the butterfly box from Auntie Claire, Dodie's rose bowl... the litany continued. As she identified each familiar item, Liz could feel the nightmare fading, and her mind growing calmer.
Her panting slowed. She pulled the covers round her shoulders, shivering slightly. “You've got to get a grip, girl,” she said wryly to her white-faced reflection in the mirror of the antique dressing table that stood opposite her four-poster. “You keep on like this and you’ll end up in a padded room. If you’re going to put this place up for sale and make a move, you’d better do it while you still have your sanity, or whatever passes for that, right now.”
A light scratching at the bedroom door, followed by a plaintive “meow” reminded her that someone else needed her attention. “Sorry, Hank. I must have shut you out last night. Poor kitty.” As Liz pulled open the door, her cat ran past her, tail high. He leapt up, inspecting the window sill, then stalked across the dressing table before jumping onto the foot of her bed. Once there, he curled up, purring, watching Liz through slitted eyes.
She climbed back under the duvet and shakily reached for the prescription bottle on the bedside table, reading the instructions for the umpteenth time.
“Take one or two at bedtime as needed. Do not exceed recommended dosage. Do not operate heavy equipment for at least eight hours after ingesting.” Liz smiled at the mental image of herself in steel-toed work boots and safety helmet, operating a road-grader. “You win tonight, Doctor Sleep-Aid,” she murmured.
She popped two pills into her mouth and grimaced at the bitter after-taste the glass of water never completely washed away. Carefully placing the glass on the bedside table, she lay down, and resolutely turned her face to the wall, listening to her cat purring contentedly at the foot of the bed, waiting for sleep.
Old Primrose Lane, Toronto, Early October: 11:30 p.m.
It begins the way all the best dreams do. On a stretch of sun-drenched, virgin-white sand, gulls wheeling in the azure blue overhead. Soft summer breeze ruffling the dune grass, cooling fevered skin. Sighs of mutual pleasure barely audible over the rhythmic pounding of the surf.
The sun-drenched shoreline shifts and blurs, fading into a peaceful, shade-dappled glade, the air alive with birdsong. She’s lying with Peter on a feather-soft bed of velvet moss, naked limbs tangled together, feeling his breath warm against her shoulder. She tilts her head back, gazing up at the sky. As the leaves rustle and flutter overhead, the sun blazes whitely between them. She closes her eyes momentarily against its dazzle.
And the dream shifts again, blending seamlessly from one reality to the next.
She’s standing on a hilltop. Her loose, white cotton shift brushes against her legs, stirred by the light breeze. Summer-green grass around her bare feet, ankle-deep, soft, inviting. No flowers or trees, only lush, rolling emerald as far as she can see. No sound. No movement but the rippling of the grass. Then she hears Peter’s voice, his laughter, in the distance. Wait for me, Peter! He’s walking away, towards home. Wait for me!
She’s alone. The sun is gone. A sense of dread fills her, nameless and dark.
The wind lifts her up. She rises above the darkness, exhilarated, in spite of the growing dread, soaring effortlessly. She sees the lights of the city spread out below, twinkling and gleaming from office towers stretched so high they seem to touch the stars. Glowing neon lines; the unending streams of traffic criss-crossing the city’s concrete heart. And Peter, in the distance, moving away from her with his long, easy stride. Wait for me!
She tries to go faster, to catch up with him, banking around tall buildings, stone spires, coasting on the swirling air currents. She isn’t rising any more. She’s slowly descending towards the cold, grey towers. Fear sinks icy fingers deep into her bones. The harder she tries to catch up to Peter, the faster she drops. Wait for me! She’s heading straight for a tiny ledge on the side of the tallest building. She’s so close now, she can count each brick around the decoratively arched, sealed windows. Her fear of heights, non-existent while she soared, comes rushing back with a familiar lurch of vertigo. She knows, in the way one does in a dream, with sickening certainty in the pit of her stomach, that’s where she will land, and that will be the end of her flight. No, not there! I’ll fall!
The dream changes again. The city is gone. She’s alone in the darkness. She sees a flare of light and moves towards it. Or it moves towards her. She has no sensation of walking, but she and the light draw inexorably closer together. No, not this light! Go away, please, go away! Go the other way!
She knows where she is, now. She’s cold; so cold she’s shaking. She feels her bones turning to ice. She’s been here before. Not again, please, not again! Terrified, she struggles to go back, to turn away from what she knows must come.
Frozen, unable to move as the distant light rushes towards her, she sees the car at the bottom of the embankment. A crumpled mass of twisted metal. Peter trapped inside. She can see him struggling to pull his broken body free of the wreckage, flames licking hungrily at his hands and feet.
She reaches for him. She’s too far away. She tries to cry out.
Then, she’s running towards him. Gasping with the effort. Screaming his name. Faster, go faster!
The gas tank explodes, flames leaping up with a hungry roar, engulfing the car, enveloping his body. He turns to her, clothes on fire, hair a burning torch – his flesh consumed by the raging inferno. His handsome face melting, running in the savage heat. His strong, beautiful hands that held her, caressed her, charred into horrific claws reaching for her.
She runs towards him. Straining, every muscle taut with effort. Calling his name over and over. Running to him through the fire, to pull him free. She feels the heat, the flames hungry for her. Her hands stretch towards Peter.
Liz Chambers jerked awake, panting, lungs screaming for air, arms out-stretched, eyes staring into the blackness.
She sat up in bed, mouth dry, her groping fingers fumbled over familiar shapes on the bedside table. Clock, reading glasses, dog-eared novel, the earrings she'd been too tired to put away the night before, pen, cellphone, notepad, pill bottle, water glass... her mind ticked off the items one by one as her fingers scrabbled frantically across the table, finally brushing against the lamp. One quick pull of its chain flooded the room with blessed light.
A quick inventory reassured her that she was indeed still in her own bedroom. Her dressing table with its collection of china trinket boxes was still in need of dusting. The overstuffed, chintz-covered armchair sat, foursquare, on the colorful, braided rug.
Chastely swathed in a ruffled print that echoed the armchair's fabric, the third-story, bay window of her town-house condo was still firmly shut against the chill autumn breeze, a cozy afghan draped across the thickly padded seat of the built-in reading bench.
If she opened the curtains, her house would still be on the same, tree-lined street, pressed cheek-by-jowl between its neighbours. Safe, ordinary, reassuring, turn-of-the-century, red brick rows down both sides of the quiet residential street. Flower-filled window boxes; decorative, wrought-iron railings curving gracefully up the painted concrete stairs to every porch.
And, only two blocks over, the little bistro where she and Peter used to grab a latte on their way to work. Peter!
Her mind shied away. Shaking, she began mentally cataloguing each familiar object in the room, as if that act of recognition would anchor her in reality, would stave off the blackness threatening to engulf her and pull her back into its undertow. Grannie's rag rug, Alison's afghan, the fire – Peter! ...oh, God, the flames! I can't reach him! She could feel the heat of the flames licking hungrily towards her.
“No! Don't give in! Concentrate,” she told herself, firmly. Grannie's rag rug, Alison's afghan, the butterfly box from Auntie Claire, Dodie's rose bowl... the litany continued. As she identified each familiar item, Liz could feel the nightmare fading, and her mind growing calmer.
Her panting slowed. She pulled the covers round her shoulders, shivering slightly. “You've got to get a grip, girl,” she said wryly to her white-faced reflection in the mirror of the antique dressing table that stood opposite her four-poster. “You keep on like this and you’ll end up in a padded room. If you’re going to put this place up for sale and make a move, you’d better do it while you still have your sanity, or whatever passes for that, right now.”
A light scratching at the bedroom door, followed by a plaintive “meow” reminded her that someone else needed her attention. “Sorry, Hank. I must have shut you out last night. Poor kitty.” As Liz pulled open the door, her cat ran past her, tail high. He leapt up, inspecting the window sill, then stalked across the dressing table before jumping onto the foot of her bed. Once there, he curled up, purring, watching Liz through slitted eyes.
She climbed back under the duvet and shakily reached for the prescription bottle on the bedside table, reading the instructions for the umpteenth time.
“Take one or two at bedtime as needed. Do not exceed recommended dosage. Do not operate heavy equipment for at least eight hours after ingesting.” Liz smiled at the mental image of herself in steel-toed work boots and safety helmet, operating a road-grader. “You win tonight, Doctor Sleep-Aid,” she murmured.
She popped two pills into her mouth and grimaced at the bitter after-taste the glass of water never completely washed away. Carefully placing the glass on the bedside table, she lay down, and resolutely turned her face to the wall, listening to her cat purring contentedly at the foot of the bed, waiting for sleep.
