Twelve

It is the middle of what should be the night, when Eric suddenly wakes up, dreaming he is drowning.

He throws himself upright and out of bed, and cannot understand why there is actually liquid in his mouth. He falls onto the floor, choking, spluttering, retching some water that he has sucked into his windpipe.

The bedroom door is ajar. Does he hear, or does he imagine footsteps on the wooden staircase? He stumbles downstairs and finds the front door wide open, but there is no one there. He scans up and down the lane, and across the meadows. But there is no one there.

Warily, and still spluttering, he shuts the door, and makes his way back to bed.

His blinds are drawn, and as he switches on the light in the bedroom, he sees a piece of paper on the floor, right in the middle of the rug by his bed.

It is a little damp from his choking, but the words on the paper are clear enough.

Wake up and remember. You were right. The answer lies beyond the hill.

He looks at it blankly, and shakes his head.

“Well, so it is,” he says.

He stares at the note for a long time, trying to think what to do, trying to think. He’s so tired, though, so tired, and another wave of lethargy sweeps into him.

He gets back into bed, deciding the only thing is to forget all about it and, switching off the light, he shuts his eyes.

About five seconds later, the liquid that has made its way into his stomach gets to work, and then he’s out of bed again.

He doesn’t have time to get to the bathroom before he is violently and repeatedly sick on the floor.

His body heaves and shudders, aches and wails, and when it is over, he crawls back into bed, where he spends a grim night, half awake, half dreaming.

Is it this living nightmare, or is it whatever he was forced to drink in his sleep, that triggers a flood of memories, memories from long ago, of other nightmares?

Nightmares that terrified not just him, but his devout and strict parents, too. Blood-soaked dreams that came night after night as a teenager, dreams that upon waking seem more real than the drab surroundings of his mundane room, his gray house, his ever more distant mother and father. His life.

Blood-soaked nightmares. Of another time. Of another place. Another life.