Chapter 5

It all happened so strange

I was on my back.

A fog came close, all over my body, so it came so close around me that it felt more like a blanket than a fog.

The fog was the color of white and the movement was without a breath of breeze ,it moved as if it had a will.

The fog revolved around slowly, sensuously, and then I felt it tough me. I don't mean that it was merely near to me,I mean that it touched me. The fog felt on my face like a blind person might.

I felt it moving up the sleeves of my clothes and then it went down the neckline .It felt like a liquid ,Fingerless, it touched me. Eyeless, it looked/steady at me.

It could feel my heart beating and then it swept in and out of my mouth with each quick and shallow breath.

The fog spoke to me, wordless, soundless, and yet so that I understood, and it said, Shiver.

I shivered, and goose bumps rose on the insides of my arms and on my belly, and the fog laughed as silently as it had commanded me.

I called out, "DAD?"

The fog took my word , stopped it ,flattened it,made a mockery of it, and echoed it back to me.

I felt something touching the side of my face and turned my head to see that I was lying in the grass of such a color that it could never have known spring. It was the gray-green of bread mold, the color of decayed life. I could see only the nearest stalks, those pressed closest to my face. Then I thought, how did I come to be here? And where was here?

I thought for a long time. But it was just old pictures printed on age-curled paper. Here I saw a face. Then a place. Not quite real, too faded, too fractured, too far away to be real. Pictures, parts of a conversation, disarranged sounds, and sensory.

echoes—it sounded like paper pages turned by an unknown hand that I could recognize, the was something like a substance or liquid poured from a bottle, the strike of a match, the smell of sulfur,

the—

I had the thought then that I was dead.

It was not a certainty to me but an uneasy possibility, a doubt, a guess whose truth I was not willing to test.

Why were my memories so far out of reach?Then I questioned myself; I had a life, didn't I? I was a person. I was a girl. I had a name. Of course I had a name.

Joyce.

Even still I was not too sure about it ,a fact, perhaps, but a shaky fact. The word Joyce did not come with emotion. It was a flat thing without depth or shape, just a word.

Joyce.

Was that me? Let it be me. Let it be me because I needed a name, I needed something definite to hold on to.

I raised a hand to my face. I watched the fingers appear, swirling through that unnatural fog. I touched my face and felt tears. I touched my face and felt. Both fingers and cheek felt and therefore I lived. I lived.

Then, the fog started to reduce. It withdrew from me, sliding away from my flesh like a wave going back into the sea.

I felt like standing up. I did not want to lie there any longer in the dead, gray grass. I wanted to stand and see, and then run, run far from these unsettling nightmares.

Then I thought running would awaken me, and all of it, all my memory, all that I was would come flooding back.i said to myself it must.

I was shaking so badly that the simple act of standing erect became a challenge. My limbs did not want to cooperate with each other, and I made a mess of it, rising first onto hands and knees and then stumbling, nJames falling, before finally rising to my full unimposing height.

I was in an open place. It was dark, darker than it had been in the fog, and no starlight, still less moonlight, shone down from above. But it was not complete darkness. Patterns of gray on black, and black on blacker still, emerged as I looked around me.

There was a building. Had it been there the last time I looked? No light escaped that building. Nothing about that building called to me to approach except for the fact that it was the only object in sight.

I moved one foot and another.

That fact, the fact that I could put one foot in front of another, let me take a deeper breath, a less agitated breath. To move was to live, wasn't it? To move was to choose a path, and that meant I still had some control. I felt and I moved.

Hadn't there been some lesson in class about the definition of life and hadn't it been that . . . sensation, movement, something else . . .

Has there been a class? A school?

Of course, no doubt. So why couldn't I see it in my mind? Why, when I asked myself that question, was the only image like a stock photo, filled with unfamiliar, too-bright, too-pretty faces?

Was I dead?

Never mind, Joyce, I told myself, trying to accept that name as the truth. Never mind, Joyce, you can feel and you can move. You can choose.

Joyce.

I could go in a different direction. I could choose not to walk to that building, that outline of black against black, that shadow within shadow. My feet made sounds like sandpaper as they brushed the brittle grass.

The structure was taller than a house, narrow and long. There was a suggestion of high windows ending in pointed arches. And a suggestion, too, of a strong, heavily timbered door, and above that door, atop the building, a sort of tower.

A steeple.

It was a church. That knowledge should have reassured me, but instead it made me cold and horrified, for I knew one thing: this church was no place of comfort, joy and peace.

There was a darkness, silent hostility from this structure. It was not calling me into God's presence; it was like it was telling me to go away and live.

Yet at the same time I could now feel the door drawing me to it. It felt like a strange force, a force perhaps unknown to science that pulled me toward it not by magnetism but by acting on my fear, turning my fear into a whirlpool.

My soul kept telling me that I had to know what was inside that church. I had to know, though I feared the knowing.

You fear me,

come to me,

the church seemed to whisper to my heart. Your terror demands an answer. Come.

Come.

And flee.

As I tried to reach the door nub. There was a brass doorknob, it was strangely shaped, as though it was a carved figure.

A head, perhaps. I touched it and my curious fingers could make nothing of the curves and ridges, then I thought it might almost make an outline of a man's face.

As I turned the knob it moved easily and freely. I pushed open the door. An answer was close now, I felt some piece of knowledge that I both dreaded and desired.

I stepped across the threshold and glanced up, sensing something overhead, and where I thought I would see rafters, there was the sickly fog again, a shapeless carrion feeder greedily awaiting my death.

I moved down the haven, like a bride slow-walking between rows of family and admirers. There was no altar or cross or a symbol. There was only an box set upon a low stone so that the top of the box would be just lower than my breast if I were to stand close.

It was a coffin I said.

I had a feeling that it was not empty as I came closer,

I was sure that I would see a familiar face in that coffin.

I was sure I would see myself. But why would I be lying in a church that was no church?

Cold fingers of horror squeezed my heart, twisted the blood from it, and left me gasping for air.

Each inhalation was a sniffle, each exhalation a shudder. My fingernails pressed into my palms, and the pain of it was proof that I was alive, or something like alive, and yet I knew, I knew what I

would see in that coffin.

I took another step.

And then another.

And I looked down to see a face. I stared in confusion. This was not me. Could not be me. I could not bring the image of my own face to mind, yet I knew this was not me.