Post by Daniel on Aug 23, 2020 17:14:05 GMT 1
It was raining again.
Daniel Molloy liked the sound. Rain lashed against the window and rattled the old collection of tin pans that hung up on the stone wall. Water dripped from a small hole in the unkempt thatch. He’d had worse. His mortal guest wasn’t so keen.
“You never said what you were doing out here,” said Griffith Thomas, taking another card from the deck. It was a jack. He glanced up at Daniel who appeared to be smelling his own hand of cards. Strange man, he thought. But decent enough, he supposed. At least he wasn’t English.
“Out where?” said Daniel. He’d lost interest in the card game. The deck smelled new. Griff had said that he’d had the cards for ages and never got to play, but it was obvious that it had been an excuse to visit. Griff lived alone at a small farmhouse over the ridge. There was a small stack of games in the corner that he’d brought over. Buckeroo. Operation. Monopoly. A train set. His grand-children’s games. Odd that a grown man would want them, but the youngster’s eyes had lit up.
“Out here.” Griff might have meant Wales but he waved a hand at the gloomy interior. The fire was cosy enough, but he’d seen the little kitchen and there was no sign that Daniel ever used it. The stove was an ancient hearth covered in cobwebs, there was no central heating and he prayed he’d never need to use the toilet.
A drop of rain splashed into the empty glass that sat beside him.
“I like the quiet,” Daniel said. “And the sheep are great.”
“But what do you do here?”
“Hide,” said Daniel with a rapacious grin.
Griff threw his cards down on the table. His young friend’s manner could be unsettling. He got slowly to his feet and stretched his aching back.
“Why don’t you give it a lick of paint? Fix the roof at least man. It’s playing havoc with my rheumatism.”
Daniel poured the old man a fresh whisky. He held the bottle a moment too long, inhaling the familiar golden scent.
“It reminds me of that bloody Asylum,” said Griffith in his soft, lilting voice. “It was never warm in there either. Those poor patients.”
“Asylum?” Daniel watched as Griff took a gulp from his glass.
“I don’t know what kind of place it was. Very strange. Great big building, it was. Massive. I did maintenance there for a few years. Odd jobs, you know.” He glanced up accusingly at the leaky ceiling. “Plumbing too. I saw some very peculiar things, I can tell you.” He resumed his seat, leaving across the table. “I saw a man who could move things with his mind! He was pure white with great, luminous eyes.”
He stopped. Now he came to think of it, Daniel’s skin was very pale.
“Did you..?” Daniel caught a glimpse of a face in Griff’s mind. It was almost a human face, but it exuded menace. The eyes were too large and the mouth too small. He saw a room with the sterile air of a hospital. A narrow corridor that seemed never-ending.
“I could tell you stories that would give you nightmares,” said Griff, massaging his swollen knuckles. “It must have been some sort of hospital. There were doctors and I suppose they were curing people of something, but I never saw people like that.”
“Where was it?” Daniel asked.
“London.” Griff finished his whisky. The shrieks and cries of the Asylum rose up around him. He shivered. “Stands to reason. Strange lot, the English.”
Daniel shrugged. “Russians are worse.”
Daniel Molloy liked the sound. Rain lashed against the window and rattled the old collection of tin pans that hung up on the stone wall. Water dripped from a small hole in the unkempt thatch. He’d had worse. His mortal guest wasn’t so keen.
“You never said what you were doing out here,” said Griffith Thomas, taking another card from the deck. It was a jack. He glanced up at Daniel who appeared to be smelling his own hand of cards. Strange man, he thought. But decent enough, he supposed. At least he wasn’t English.
“Out where?” said Daniel. He’d lost interest in the card game. The deck smelled new. Griff had said that he’d had the cards for ages and never got to play, but it was obvious that it had been an excuse to visit. Griff lived alone at a small farmhouse over the ridge. There was a small stack of games in the corner that he’d brought over. Buckeroo. Operation. Monopoly. A train set. His grand-children’s games. Odd that a grown man would want them, but the youngster’s eyes had lit up.
“Out here.” Griff might have meant Wales but he waved a hand at the gloomy interior. The fire was cosy enough, but he’d seen the little kitchen and there was no sign that Daniel ever used it. The stove was an ancient hearth covered in cobwebs, there was no central heating and he prayed he’d never need to use the toilet.
A drop of rain splashed into the empty glass that sat beside him.
“I like the quiet,” Daniel said. “And the sheep are great.”
“But what do you do here?”
“Hide,” said Daniel with a rapacious grin.
Griff threw his cards down on the table. His young friend’s manner could be unsettling. He got slowly to his feet and stretched his aching back.
“Why don’t you give it a lick of paint? Fix the roof at least man. It’s playing havoc with my rheumatism.”
Daniel poured the old man a fresh whisky. He held the bottle a moment too long, inhaling the familiar golden scent.
“It reminds me of that bloody Asylum,” said Griffith in his soft, lilting voice. “It was never warm in there either. Those poor patients.”
“Asylum?” Daniel watched as Griff took a gulp from his glass.
“I don’t know what kind of place it was. Very strange. Great big building, it was. Massive. I did maintenance there for a few years. Odd jobs, you know.” He glanced up accusingly at the leaky ceiling. “Plumbing too. I saw some very peculiar things, I can tell you.” He resumed his seat, leaving across the table. “I saw a man who could move things with his mind! He was pure white with great, luminous eyes.”
He stopped. Now he came to think of it, Daniel’s skin was very pale.
“Did you..?” Daniel caught a glimpse of a face in Griff’s mind. It was almost a human face, but it exuded menace. The eyes were too large and the mouth too small. He saw a room with the sterile air of a hospital. A narrow corridor that seemed never-ending.
“I could tell you stories that would give you nightmares,” said Griff, massaging his swollen knuckles. “It must have been some sort of hospital. There were doctors and I suppose they were curing people of something, but I never saw people like that.”
“Where was it?” Daniel asked.
“London.” Griff finished his whisky. The shrieks and cries of the Asylum rose up around him. He shivered. “Stands to reason. Strange lot, the English.”
Daniel shrugged. “Russians are worse.”