A Cry From Beyond

A CRY FROM BEYOND

W R ARMSTRONG

Smashwords Edition

Copyright
2013 W R Armstrong

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

The last
thing I recall before waking up in hospital is staggering into the
bathroom and staring drunkenly into the mirror. What I saw
reflected back at me was a man not yet thirty years old who looked
like his own father. The tell tale specks of blood and white powder
smudges around the nostrils only added to the bleak
picture.

Over done
it kid, a familiar voice whispered to me from inside my head.
You’ve really over cooked the goose this time, but you already know
that don’t you, because you can feel the lights slowly dimming.
It’ll soon be time to leave the party and head off into the sunset.
Only there won’t be any sunset, only darkness: forever and ever,
Amen. The voice was the voice of reason, and I’d ignored it once
too often. Now was the time of reckoning: payback time. I started
to sink, going down now, going down...

The used
up face in the mirror, once described as boyishly handsome; slowly
slipped from view as I slid ever so gently down onto my knees and
keeled over, hitting the ceramic tiled floor with a surprisingly
painless thud. It was a knock down and I was well and truly out for
the count.

In
hospital, where I remained in a comatose state for the best part of
two weeks, I suffered what is commonly referred to as a “near
death” experience. I left my physical body, was declared clinically
dead, and floated around staring down at myself. I even glimpsed
the white light at the end of the tunnel, the whole package, before
I managed to drag myself back into the land of the living. And
during that brief, troubled time, I also dreamt about a brochure
advertising what amounted to be my dream cottage.

And when
I did finally regain consciousness, I was of the firm opinion that
the vision or dream or whatever it was, had been instrumental in
pulling me through. But that’s all it was, I thought, as I
convalesced prior to being discharged; a dreamscape created by my
subconscious mind during a period of extreme stress.

Upon my
return home, where the doctors insisted I should remain to
recuperate and get myself back to full health, my long suffering
mother was waiting for me, (having cleaned and dusted and stock
piled enough food to feed the five thousand), but so too was
something else.

And that
something else was the brochure advertising the very cottage I had
dreamed up in my comatose mind, while I was in hospital following
my overdose.

I was
shocked. But why wouldn’t I be? It was like an omen. That I’d
received property details wasn’t exactly a surprise. I’d been
looking around for alternative accommodation for some time prior to
my ignominious collapse. It was the fact that the brochure had
first originated from my subconscious that was so unsettling. I
didn’t think of the dream as a premonition: not then. I thought of
it as a coincidence. A great big fat one, admittedly, but nothing I
couldn’t handle. After all, life is full of strange little
surprises, is it not: knowing the phone will ring a split second
before it happens: getting the feeling you’ve visited a place
previously when you know it isn’t the case. Like a lot of people,
I’d experienced my fair share of those kinds of feelings, but not
for one moment did I consider myself to be psychic. Hell no, as far
as I was concerned I was just an “ordinary Joe”, who happened to
write and perform pop and rock music for a living. “Bubble gum
music” was how one unkindly critic had described my material, the
inference being that it’s pleasant enough but won’t last. So how, I
wondered, did this particular “ordinary Joe” manage to foretell the
arrival of a property brochure advertising his dream
home?

I hadn’t
the faintest idea, of course. All I knew was; the timing of the
brochure’s arrival was nothing short of miraculous. Having stupidly
squandered the fruits of my musical success on the good life, I’d
ended up stony broke. I was also the proud owner of a swollen liver
and perforated nose cavity. I was keen to wipe the slate (and my
nose) clean, and get on with the rest of my life soberly, if my
addictive personality would only allow it.

The day
before my collapse and subsequent admission to hospital, I’d
received the devastating news that the luxury docklands apartment
I’d ill advisedly purchased at the height of my success, had just
fallen into the hands of the mortgagee and was up for grabs, soon
to be auctioned. As I said, I’d been looking around for alternative
accommodation previously, but hadn’t found anything suitable. The
brochure, or more particularly the cottage it advertised, seemed to
offer me that, even if its sudden arrival on the scene was somewhat
questionable.

The sales
blurb on the front cover said simply, “High Bank Cottage, a
delightful residence set in its own grounds, exclusively located in
the heart of the Welsh countryside”. Judging by the colour spread
of interior and exterior photographs High Bank was an affordable
dream. I was instantly hooked. Fully furnished and offered on a
short or long-term lease, it had immediate availability. I got
straight on the blower to the letting agent to say I was
interested, and would have no problems finalising the deal straight
away, if of course it was as good as it looked in the details. The
agent assured me it was, and described its location, which sounded
about as remote as you could get, but that was fine by me. I wasn’t
out to party. At least that’s what I told myself. Moreover, I had
work to do and didn’t need distractions. It would just be my golden
retriever, Lennon and me.

We agreed
the deal over the phone, subject to the usual paperwork and credit
checks, all of which was done quickly, with no hitches and with
minimal fuss. Everyone was happy; no one more so than me. I viewed
moving to High Bank as a brand new beginning. The first thing I did
was phone my mother with the good news. Once she’d got over the
initial shock, (“Oh my God, John,” were her first words, followed
by, “How on earth did you find the place?” to which I replied, “It
sort of found me,”) she tried to change my mind. I got the
impression she really didn’t want me to go, (“I don’t like the
idea,” she said, “please John, come and stay here with me,”), but I
was having none of it. My mind was made up.

On the
day of the move it was sunny and the birds were singing; I was fond
of birds back then. All of a sudden life seemed pretty damn
good.

Just
before I left the apartment the phone rang. I debated whether or
not to answer it; afraid it was yet another debt collector. I
needn’t have worried. The caller turned out to be Mike Neiderman,
my business manager. He wanted to talk deals. I didn’t. I’m a muso
after all, preferring to leave that side of things to others. We
were in negotiations with another record company on the sly, having
heard whisper that my present one intended dropping me after my
next album. The process was reaching a critical point. As always,
Mike gave me a hard time. He thought I was a talented jerk, and
never missed an opportunity to tell me so. I informed him of my
plans to head out to the sticks. He immediately questioned the
wisdom of such a venture. “You’re gregarious,” he said. “You’ll go
nuts living up there on your own. You’ll turn into Howard fucking
Hughes!”

I
disagreed. I hoped it might provide to be my salvation. I reminded
him that I’d have plenty to do to occupy my time, like writing
material for the new album, plus a heap of fresh stuff for my new
sponsor, if the deal we were working on came off. Mike relented,
grudgingly, and told me to take care of myself, which was another
way of saying, don’t fall off the wagon. The conversation ended,
and I made ready to start my new life.

The late
October sun that had earlier helped raise my spirits was obscured
by cloud as I climbed behind the wheel of the estate car. Lennon,
sitting on the back seat, looked bored and miserable.

“Cheer
up, it might never happen,” I told him.

He
responded with a grunt and then lay down.

Behind
him, lying in an untidy pile were my personal effects, and enough
musical equipment to allow me to work. The rest of my possessions
would either be sold up, or go into storage. I turned the ignition
key, set the automatic in drive: put my foot to the accelerator and
pulled away from the curb.

Four
hours later I was passing through a quaint little village called
Ashley on the Hill. I spotted the local pub called The Ship Inn,
set between Victorian terraced houses. And then, just outside the
village, I saw the Romany woman I was destined to meet, who would
scare the hell out of me with her oddball predictions. At that
point however, she was simply an anonymous old lady who happened to
be out walking her little dog. Then I was travelling a narrow
country road that would lead me to High Bank and a little peace and
quiet.

Or so I
imagined.

Now,
hadn’t the agent said it was set back from the road high up on a
bank, hence its name, High Bank? And hadn’t he also mentioned I
should be on the lookout for a decommissioned chapel standing
nearby that would provide a landmark?

Minutes
later the chapel in question came into view, signalling the final
leg of my journey. It stood in the middle of a sprawling field: a
tall rectangular building with a four-hipped slate roof, squared
stone walls with rusticated quoins, and narrow arched windows of
plain stone. Opposite the field, on the other side of the road was
a crofter’s cottage, now an abandoned derelict shell set in overrun
gardens.

I
returned my full attention to the road ahead. Suddenly I found
myself jamming on the breaks, and yanking the steering wheel hard
to the left, in an attempt to avoid the monstrous tipper truck
hurtling towards me on the wrong side of the road!

I
remember shrieking the immortal words, “Oh my God, no!” whilst
feeling sick to the stomach with fear.

The car
swerved dangerously and mounted a bank before coming to a violent
stop a long a bumpy grass verge. Up ahead of me the truck braked
violently. A black cloud of burning rubber assailed the air, but
braking failed to halt its suicidal progress.

This is
it, I thought as it drew ever nearer, this is where it all ends;
this is what my whole miserable life has been leading up to. I
could see the driver behind the windscreen as he struggled to
regain control whilst failing dismally. I also saw the stark look
of terror etched on his face.

Then I
saw the child, the real reason he’d slammed on the breaks. The kid
had come from the direction of where I guessed High Bank Cottage
was located, and run blindly out into the middle of the road, right
into the truck’s path. Needless to say, the poor little mite didn’t
stand a chance, and was effectively steamrollered.

Meanwhile, the truck continued on its erratic journey towards
me. All I could do was sit there like an idiot, resigned to the
fact I was as good as dead. Then a miracle occurred. The vehicle
swung sharply back onto the other side of the road, missing me by a
whisker thereby sparing my life. It carried on a little further,
before finally crashing head on into a towering great
oak.

On impact
it exploded in a spectacular ball of flame. I sat and watched
feeling lucky to be alive, while from the back seat Lennon let out
a long agonised howl. And as he did that, I looked over to the spot
where the child’s body lay; only it wasn’t there. I twisted round
in my seat, expecting to see the truck engulfed in flames, but it
too had vanished into thin air, as had the tree it crashed into. It
was like the incident had never happened.