The Disappearing Woman
By Milo O’Neill
Photo by Paul Basel from Pexels
The lights flickered. The floorboards creaked. Thunder rattled the grimy windows of the warehouse, as I stared at the grotesque, lifeless body of my would-be wife. Why oh why did I seek to find her? Why did I court her in the first place? How would I get out alive?
Love is such a precarious and dangerous thing. I had sworn to myself that I shan’t love another soul, and that I shan’t fall into the clutches of my lust for other beings. However, Mary Fitzgerald was exemplary.
Being of a poor background myself, I met Mary outside a run-down grooming salon, hidden away behind row upon row of opium dens. Immediately she caught my attention, she with the gorgeous long red hair and dark, warmth-filled eyes. Fighting down my moral confliction, I sought to court her, and to my great surprise she accepted.
Having spent the day with Mary, I learned that she was in fact a vivacious and coquettish woman, and I decided there and then that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
“William Baker,” said she, “I love all of you, your blonde hair, shiny blue eyes and your masculine frame. How I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Please, let us escape the thick smog of London and reside in the countryside, together.”
Being of an apprehensive disposition, I was especially puzzled by her peculiar request.
“Why must we leave?” asked I.
“I fear,” she whispered, “I fear that I am in great danger, and I must flee the city immediately.”
Shocked by the sudden news, I promised her that we would leave at twilight in a week’s time, and I sought to prepare myself for the change.
A week later, I found myself inside a small, rickety house, in which Mary resided. A bolt of lightning illuminated the damp, wet corridor, walls failing to contain the storm that raged outside. Perturbed by the lack of sound from within her chamber, I tested the handle of her chamber door, and found to my surprise that it was unlocked.
Walking into her chamber, I noticed immediately that something was amiss. The bed looked like it had not been slept in, and the suitcase was wide open, clothes sprawled across the cockroach-infested floorboards. I was beginning to rue the promise that I had made, when I noticed a note lying on her empty bedside table.
‘Reader of the note, be warned, the woman you seek may not be here much longer,’ it read in a messy, scrawled way, ‘If you wish to find her, visit the old warehouse near the Blackfriars pier. But be vigilant - do not underestimate the dangers within.’
Overcome with fear of the ominous threat, I felt an overwhelming desire to forget about everything and leave the note-writer alone. But hark, no! I mustn’t be scared of a single note, and I must find Mary, to save her from the terror within.
So off I went.
Braving the rain, I set off through the smog-filled streets on the bank of the river Thames, ignoring the hackles of the drunk vagabonds that liked to roam the poorer areas. I daren’t hail a cab, I thought to myself; I decided to heed the words of the anonymous note, and be extra vigilant, making sure to not take any chances.
The warehouse had an extremely sinister feel. Splatters of blood marked the open entrance, and there was a distinct smell of rotten flesh - as if a lot of death had taken place within its walls. Again I sought to escape, but it was as if there was a strong grasp on me that was controlling my movements, making sure that I did not sway from the desire to save Mary.
‘Be a man!’ shouted the voice in my head. I tried to shut it down but it got louder, and louder. I mustn't be scared of a single note!
Taking a deep breath, I gulped and walked through the wooden entrance.
Immediately I was swallowed by the darkness. There was no source of light, and I stumbled my way into the centre of the warehouse.
The lights turned on, flickering.
Sitting on a solitary steel chair were the remnants of my would-be wife, oddly distorted in such a way that it looked as if she was brutally hacked at. I stared at her monstrous appearance, and I screamed in despair. There was a voice, echoing around the vast remnants of what was once a large storage space, now turned into a chamber of murder and torture. The voice was rambunctious, penetrating my eardrums, infecting my brain; what is it? Where is the voice coming from? What in god’s name is causing this torment?
I tried shouting into the smoke (make it stop!) but no sound came out. I thrashed at the hands coming out of the darkness (stop it, please!) but they continued to grasp at me, to try and pull me into the thick, blinding smoke. I sprinted (dear god, make it stop) towards the back of the warehouse, aimlessly running, until I crashed through the wooden planks (pain) and found myself at a small ferry pier. I looked around (dear god the pain) and saw nothing but the vast, choppy waters of the river Thames, welcoming me with open arms.
The river. A shelter for those creatures below, living a life like us humans above. The warm, comforting water, wrapping around the creatures like a motherly embrace, protecting them from harm. The rocks, providing the creatures place for sleep and recuperation. A life down below, thought I, would be the life that I have always wanted.
There was a thump, then a splash.
Ignoring the burning sensation in my chest, taking over my lungs, I sank like a stone, not caring that I couldn’t breathe, not caring that my brain was screaming for me to swim up, because I knew that in the murky depths of the river, I would be safe at last.