Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9)

by Michael Christopher Carter

  “Has she hit her head at all?” the man asked.

  Glenda told them about her slip in the stream.

  “She seemed fine. I don’t think she lost consciousness then.” Emyr shrugged, his memory blocked by his current distress.

  “It may be a slow haemorrhage. She may have had a stroke,” the burly paramedic warned, the wincing grimace at the thought remained on his face as he continued with his procedures.

  Glenda and Emyr gasped.

  “We won’t know until we get her to hospital,” the woman warned. After a brief check of the monitoring machine, she reported with a look of surprise, that both were normal. Her blood pressure was taken. Her eyelids were forced open, and a torch shone into her eyes.

  “Just checking her neuro-responses,” the hefty man said. They too were apparently normal. “Is your daughter on any medication?” he asked.

  “Only some painkillers for glandular fever. She was on various anti-biotics, too. But she finished those before Christmas.”

  “Do you still have the packets? I’d like to see them,” asked the woman.

  Emyr bustled off to find them.

  “Are there any other… er, substances she may have taken?”

  It took a moment for the question’s meaning to seep into Glenda’s consciousness. “No! Of course not. She’s barely left the house in weeks. And besides, she’s not that sort of girl.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. But we have to investigate all possibilities. It’s not making much sense at the moment.”

  The woman wrote something in a notebook whilst the large man bustled with thermometers and such.

  “Could anyone else have brought drugs into the house? Are there any siblings? Friends who might have visited?”

  “She hasn’t taken drugs. I’m telling you,” objected Glenda. The paramedic nodded in sympathetic but sceptical understanding.

  “I know, I know. But if you could think of anything?”

  “I’ll have to phone her sister. She’s a student at Bristol University. She only went back yesterday,” Glenda said brightly, momentarily caught up in the conversation. Reality hit hard as her focus returned to the room. Eyes brimming with tears, she croaked instruction for Emyr to call Alis.

  He tottered back downstairs in a daze, having taken Elin’s medicine bottles to show the ambulance crew. It was one occasion when he wished they owned walk-about phones like everybody else, or that his bloody mobile had signal in the house.

  He dialled with a pseudo-calm. It was his job to take charge in a crisis. Alis’s bright tone, oblivious to her sister’s plight, broke Emyr’s heart when he heard it.

  “Hi Dad. Missing me already?” After an unnerving silence where Emyr was unable to speak, Alis’s tone changed. “What is it, Dad? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s your sister. The ambulance is here…”

  “Ambulance?”

  “Yes,” he rasped. “We can’t wake her up, you see.” A pause of eternity passed as Emyr’s mind fought to speak the very purpose of his call. Clenching his fist and his jaw, he forced out the words. “Have you brought any drugs here, Alis, bach?”

  A brief but poignant silence followed from the other end. “Just a bit of weed. Sorry, Dad. Elin has never had any though, and I’m sure I didn’t leave any there. Sorry, Dad,” she said again. “You don’t think that’s what’s caused it, do you?”

  His jaw still stiff, he answered reigning in the urge to spit blame at his youngest. He knew it wasn’t fair. “I don’t know.” Alis’s distress was palpable through the phones earpiece. He didn’t want both his girl’s suffering. “Try not to worry, cariad. I’ll keep you posted,” he said, replacing the handset with numb fingers.

  When he re-entered Elin’s room, the paramedics were just completing an examination of her skin. After he reported Alis’s admission, they considered marijuana an unlikely culprit for Elin’s unconsciousness.

  Happy with her vital signs, the crew stretchered her to the ambulance and set up monitors for the journey. Glenda joined the lady paramedic and Elin in the back. Emyr followed in their car.

  When they arrived at Morriston Hospital, Swansea Accident and Emergency Department, Emyr couldn’t follow into the ambulance-only parking area, and the visitor parking was unfeasibly busy. He eventually parked outside the denoted bays and slightly on the curb. He anticipated a ticket, or maybe even a wheel-clamp, but his priority was to get to his daughter.

  He arrived in the department to a long queue at the desk. He noticed his breathing becoming faster and forced himself to calm down. He’d be no use if he fainted.

  The queue moved forward slowly. A boy whose finger dripped with blood (Emyr heard when it was his turn that he’d caught it in a car door) waited behind a middle-aged woman in a onesie, who complained of a sore throat and cough.

  At last he reached the desk. “My daughter was just brought in by ambulance—Elin Treharne?” Emyr blurted at last.

  “Oh, yes. The doctors are with her now. If you could wait over there, please.” She point towards a few tatty looking chairs next to a silent television which must have been donated around 1987.

  “I need to go to my daughter,” he argued. Then faced with the immobile features of the receptionist, numb to the agony of a distraught parent after decades in a job where empathy is a luxury she’d been forced to forego, he changed tack. “My wife. She came in with Elin. She’ll need me.”

  “Your daughter’s in the best hands. It’s not possible to be with her yet, but a doctor will let you know soon, okay?” she managed a smile.

  “But my wife…?”

  “I’ll try and find out where she is. If you could take a seat for now?” Pointing back to the tatty seating area, she added, “sorry,” before turning to the next patient in the queue.

  The mild distraction of a mindless early evening chat-show, all the more pointless with the lack of sound, took Emyr’s attention. He couldn’t stand to think what could be wrong with his beautiful daughter. He hoped he would have answers soon.

  The talk-show gave way to some soap-opera or other when a doctor, who appeared to be about twelve years old, stood beside him. “Mr Treharne?” he asked. Emyr was surprised his voice had broken.

  “Yes. How is Elin?”

  There was a pause while the young man considered what to say.

  “I’ve explained to your wife. We’re not really sure of a cause for your daughter’s unconsciousness at the moment. We think a head injury—from the fall she had a couple of days ago—is most likely. It could be a relapse of the glandular fever, but from her notes, I can see that we were happy it was clearing up nicely.

  Tests have been done for glucose levels. They are quite low, as is her blood pressure, but it doesn’t necessarily indicate diabetes, although we can’t rule it out.

  “She’ll be on fluids, and we’ll help her with her breathing, just as a precaution. She seems able to support her own at the moment, but she’s showing no neurological signs and is unresponsive to all stimulate: verbal, and painful. Her eyes aren’t responding normally to our tests either. We’ll take bloods and test for the presence of drugs or underlying infection. Meningitis is a possibility. Although she’s showing no signs of a rash.”

  Emyr nodded, pretending he’d taken it all in, but his brain stopped receiving at the mention of ‘unresponsive’. The doctor was still talking. Emyr looked searchingly when Elin being moved was mentioned.

  “…to ICU.” Then, in response to Emyr’s quizzical expression, “Intensive Care.”

  It sounded so serious.

  “Where is that, exactly?” he asked, frowning, already sure the instructions wouldn’t reach his brain. With the junior doctor gesticulating directions, he staggered away, along corridors, peering at signs along the way. Confronted by glass doors, the other side of which seemed a world away.

  Nurses busied silently, machines flashed lights and pulsed with urgent information, all unheard through the glass. Somewhere in there, his little Elin was despera
tely ill.

  Pressing the buzzer, he waited to be allowed access. When he explained who he was, a sympathetic looking young nurse took his arm and guided him to a side room where Glenda stood staring at their daughter.

  Elin already looked unrecognisable. An oxygen mask covered most of her face. Two different bags, one large and one small, hung from a drip stand beside the bed; pipes from which attached to her elegant wrist.

  A regular beep coincided with a graph plotting her heart rate. Other numbers changed apparently randomly. Emyr worked out one showed her oxygen saturation level, but didn’t know about the others.

  A nurse in a different colour scrubs to the blue ones the others wore, came into the room.

  “Hello. I’m here to take some bloods,” she announced, inappropriately cheerful. Opening her mouth as though to chat, she thought better of it. Having little trouble finding a vein on Elin’s slender forearm, she took bottle after bottle of blood, placing them in a receptacle designed for the job. Standing to leave, she flashed a breezy smile and disappeared in a mauve haze.

  Another nurse arrived, this time in green, and proceeded to fill in what she called an admission form, requiring enough information to author Elin’s biography. She updated the anxious pair that a scan of Elin’s head was being arranged and that she’d been started on a course of strong antibiotics just in case.

  “Don’t worry. Elin’s doing fine. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I’m sure.”

  Emyr smiled wanly, but Glenda didn’t react. She sat, motionless, clutching her little girl’s hand willing her life into her daughter. Her eyes blinked slowly, squeezing a cascade of tears down her cheeks. She made no move to dry them, nor the drip of snot steadily forming at the end of her nose.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Shaking all over, her mind struggled to function. On pure instinct, she knew she must hide. The rasping of her breathing seemed sure to give her away. As the sound grated in her ears, her thumping chest seemed set in joining it alerting her attacker.

  She had to compose herself. Forcing deep breaths in and out, she counted to ten over and over until calmness enveloped her. Whatever the danger was, she believed she had outrun it for now.

  Attempts at hiding thus far appeared limited to squinting her eyes tightly shut. As she relaxed her eyelids, she realised they were closed for protection from a bright light. Go into the light, the priest had ordered. And now here she was.

  She squinted her lids open a crack. It was bright, but not searing as she might expect. And yellow, which surprised her. Heaven in movies was always white. Why was her dream faint yellow? Flame. Flames are yellow. She was heading to Hell. A dream of peace and quiet, away from the awkward atmosphere of Erw Lon had mutated into a nightmare of wretchedness. Great.

  Why? She was a good person. Not a church goer, but she’d never believed it necessary. It must have been important after all. Still is important, she corrected. She wasn’t dead. This was just a dream. She hoped she’d remember it when she woke up and would make a belated New Year’s resolution to start.

  Recollecting the priest in the house, she frowned. She’d never dreamt of a priest before. Maybe the glandular fever had made her realise her own mortality. There had been times she could easily have believed she’d die from it.

  Her attention fell back to the amber hue with a sudden thought. There was no heat from the flames. And the light was above her, which didn’t fit in with the netherworld she was imagining. Screwing her eyes, she forced herself to stare directly at the source of the light but couldn’t make it out. Something familiar sent her mind spinning.

  Recalling those quizzes in magazines: photos of familiar objects taken from unusual angles, she squinted more, straining to identify it.

  “Thank you, Father,” a voice resonated behind her. The direction of the sound immediately reoriented her, and she knew where she was: under the streetlamp outside the house in Swansea. It had looked so peculiar because she’d never seen it from this angle. Floating inches away, circling around seven or eight feet from the pavement. What a weird dream.

  She turned to look towards the sound of voices from the open front door.

  “I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble,” the priest’s deep timbre filled the cold night air.

  “It already feels different,” the girl she knew from previous dreams declared. There were murmurs of agreement from the others. Elin watched as the stumpy little priest waved goodbye and walked down the path.

  He paused as he got to the streetlamp. A frown flecked his face, his hand rubbed his stubbly chin. His face pointed toward her, she tried to meet his eye, but his gaze chilled her. Looking right through her, he didn’t seem to see her at all. He shook his head and turned away.

  “Bye then, Father,” the older man called out, the rest joining in, well-wishing a safe journey and thanks for coming. The front door closed firmly shut, and the cleric disappeared along the street.

  Elin longed to wake from this peculiar circumstance. A familiar fear of being outside the house bubbled within her. “Come on. Wake up,” she ordered, slapping her own face. She couldn’t stay here, it wasn’t safe.

  “It does feel different, Bronnie,” Aeron agreed.

  “So, are you happy to stay here again?” Collin addressed his son then looked at the rest in turn.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Neil began, and soon the others mumbled in agreement.

  “Right. I’ll treat us all to a takeaway, and then Carole, Sylvie and I will get on our way and leave you guys in peace. Okay?”

  A moment of apprehensive silence passed, but then, with nods and nervous smiles they acquiesced.

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine, Dad. Thanks. What do you think, Auntie Sylvie?”

  Sylvie pursed her lips and looked about the room. Fiddling with the hem of her nylon cardigan. A smile broke on her face as confidence returned.

  “Yes. She’s gone. You’ll be fine now.”

  They decided on Chinese food as there was a takeaway at the end of the street. Bronwyn dug out a menu from a drawer full of miscellaneous crap and they took turns perusing the selection.

  Fifteen minutes after phoning through their order, Collin left to collect it. Josh agreed to go to the off-license for beers. The rest bustled finding enough plates, cups and cutlery for everyone to eat.

  With the relief of resolving the poltergeist problem, appetites were vast. Collin stood in the shop picking dead skin from around the edges of his fingernails, salivating at the delicious smells from woks, battered from beyond the takeaway’s counter. When temptation got too much, he ordered some extras.

  Despite the additional food there was no wastage. Josh had to fight for the last spare rib, surprisingly not with Matthew, who having piled his plate high, seemed to be struggling with eyes bigger than his belly! Even the obligatory prawn crackers were devoured to the last crumb. Everyone, except driver Collin, drank copious amounts of beer. As the last can clattered from a failed basketball-litter bin attempt, dregs of Jack Daniel’s and Tia Maria were dragged from the cupboard.

  Mugs were rinsed and the vestiges shared.

  “To Elin. May she rest in peace,” Neil tipsily toasted.

  “To Elin,” the group joined in.

  When it was time to go, hearty goodbyes were hailed. And because of the raucous party mood and excess alcohol, Sylvie’s psychic abilities deserted her. She, along with everyone else, failed to notice the presence at the end of the path. The presence noticed them.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The calm she’d strived for was lost to panic. She didn’t know why, but she was desperate to be inside. Bracing herself, she rushed headlong toward the house. Moving closer was like wading through treacle. Before she even touched the door, she sprung back to the lamppost as if attached to a bungee cord.

  “No!” Squealing her torment, she sprinted for the door again, propelling back harder for her trouble. She had to get away. Being here, at the end of this path was the worst place. Wh
atever was coming would find her here for sure.

  She ran, not towards the house this time, but away. Away from here, the path, and the threat. As she reached the margins of the streetlight’s beam, the bungee thrust her back again, landing her with a shock beneath the lamp post.

  Go into the light, Elin. You must go into the light!

  Slumped, stunned on the floor, she considered her situation, the priest’s words ringing in her head. Banished to the light. Not Heaven. The light at the end of the street! That can’t be what the little clergyman had meant. Frustrated, she bit down on her clenched fist to expel her rage.

  The exertion of her failed escape at least left her fully alert. She still had no idea what might come for her, but now she’d be ready for it. Her heart began to race. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and calmed again. Ready might be an overstatement. She was trapped here to face her fears.

  Yelling at the top of her voice, she vowed not to put up with it. Expelled from her own house. Her own dream! She floated as far as she could to where the light faded. Standing defiantly glowering at the house, she pictured them all. Her exorcists.

  “Let me in,” she wailed. Brandishing her fists, she bellowed again. “Let me in, now.” But she knew she was wasting her time. No-one answered. No-one heard. Falling to the floor, she wept. Gabbling to herself, over and over, “Let me in. Please. I’m not safe out here. Please let me in.”

  At the hundredth inaudible whimper, the front door burst open. “Bye-bye then, guys. Bye.” Elin, grasping the opportunity, jumped up grabbing at anything she could. But everyone was just beyond her reach.

  “Let me IN!” Jumping up and down, flailing her arms, shouting and screaming was all lost in the cheery farewells as the older three sauntered to where they had parked. As their car disappeared from view, and the door to number twenty-four slammed shut again, Elin stood open-mouthed, torn looking one way then the other, alone again in stark disbelief. What else could she do? She gave in.