Empathy is hard to come by when veracity has to be cloaked in madness to survive. Evelyn watches the visitor walk away into the sea breeze from her window and wonders if she will see him again.

Xylophones, the sound of hailstones hitting them in a competition of accelerating crescendos is what she hears when an episode grips her. They give her Xanax here whenever they notice her cupping her hands over her ears. She saw her visitor’s eyes darting over to the packet on the coffee table, taking in the evidence that at least that part of her story is true. What can be seen must be true. Does he smell the airborne stench of rotting matter, too, she wanted to know. He shook his head at this. No, he doesn’t.

Of course, he thinks she is crazy. On the surface of her existence in this place for crazy people she wears the crazy outfit like a triangular road sign, giving off a warning to navigate the dangerous bends ahead with caution. Loose rocks might tumble and crush you regardless, even if you avoid speeding off a cliff and plunging into the sea to join all the lost ones in it.

Reality is so much more than people want to acknowledge. They stick to the visible mostly and let themselves be fooled by it. She knows it is the invisible we must strain to see if the evil force is to be stopped. He asked her to explain what she knows of the evil force. There is a watery depth in this man’s eyes which made her think that here is someone who has taken deep dives into the invisible inside himself and that inside others.

Dust settles on everything so quickly she told him then, and he watched in silence while she dusted the framed portraits above the bed on the far side of her room, waiting for her to continue. He must have noticed how tidy the room is, but didn’t comment on it. She is sure his alert investigative mind retained all he saw and heard during his visit in minute detail. It calms her when there is order to the visible around her. In these parts, so close to the sea, dust combines with the fine sand the sea breeze sends and enters through the smallest cracks in the walls. Keeping the window closed at all times doesn’t manage to keep it out.

Ink drawings of her younger self cannot suffer to come in contact with sand for long, much like her present self. She washed her hands and face after dusting them, then sealed the dust cloth in a plastic sandwich bag before throwing it into the small bin under the sink. What is worse than the dust is when you wake up on the beach, your legs buried in sand that is still moist from the tide that must have swept over you while you were out cold, dried blood mixed with sand caked to your naked skin. You turn your head to cough the salt water out of your lungs and stare right into the face of a dead woman. You turn the other way and there are rows and rows of skulls. Skulls and bones as far as you can see. At that point, her visitor asked her if that was a recent dream she had.

Not the first time it happened. The first time she was there and made it out alive like a resurrected corpse dragging herself away from the beach on all fours, but she didn’t tell him it was real the first time. If he goes there and sees for himself and comes back to visit, she might reveal to him that the first time was many years ago and real.

Every episode brings that same dream is all she has told him for now. Only recently, the face of the dead woman is a new one each time. The last one looked like the missing woman the detective is trying to find.

Clouds formed from sea foam and darkened by sand sucked in from the beach are carried toward her now by the strengthening breeze. The unbearable putrid stench it delivers makes Evelyn gag. She closes the window in what she knows is a futile attempt at shielding herself from its evil power.

Holy wells are what her mother and aunts would have prescribed for her, were they still alive. Deep inside her they are still alive for as long as she remembers them, she reminds herself. She had left Ireland a long time ago, and as far as she knows there aren’t any holy wells around here. If there are any, the detective might know of them. She will try to remember to ask him about it next time he visits, if there is a next time that is.

A protective shield can be fashioned in many ways she muses, but to choose the most effective one is difficult when you’re not sure who or what has tried to drown you and might come after you to eliminate the risk of you telling. The detective promised that any information she had shared would be followed up discreetly and treated as confidential. Will that be enough to protect her?

Old age has crept up on her, giving license to no longer worry as much about the consequences of telling. She has been the crazy lady for so long now that there are more times when she believes herself to be crazy than not. Is that a sign of sanity or madness?

Screams and shouting in the corridor outside interrupt her thoughts. The door comes crashing into her room and flattens the coffee table on impact. She should have told the detective it was real the very first time.

The-art-of-drowning-logo-1

The Art of Drowning

By Phil Huston, Ash N Finn and Jac Forsyth

3 writers
1 story
No rules
No destination
What could possibly go wrong?

This series was inspired by a creepy piece of artwork created by Ash. To catch up with more episodes, click on the sub menu.

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