Through A Forest Dark

by Dean M. Drinkel

  Through a Forest Dark

  Dean M. Drinkel

  Published January 2012 by

  Dark Continents Publishing

  www.darkcontinents.com

  Copyright ©2012 Drinkel

  Front cover artwork by Giovanni Gelati

  Layout and design by Stephanie Schmitz

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book contains a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s creation or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The Nook 'lend' feature is authorized by the publisher, and the Kindle 'share' feature is also authorized by the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved

  Through A Forest Dark

  By

  Dean M Drinkel

  (c) 2011

  For

  Vincent and Andy

  Midway upon the journey of our life,

  I found myself within a forest dark,

  For the straight forward pathway had been lost...

  Canto I, Dante’s Inferno

  Contents

  Bradley Lost

  Suffer Well

  A Field Full Of Melancholy

  Bradley & Emmanuelle At The Gates Of Hell

  Acknowledgements

  Biography

  Bradley Lost

  Saturday 3rd September 2011 7.30am Place d’Enfer, Paris

  They prefer silence.

  It was the red-headed boy that spoke to him first. In French and said too quickly, Bradley could only make out a couple of words.

  They prefer silence.

  Bradley had been repeating that phrase for some time, yet he had no idea what it meant.

  He also couldn’t be certain how long he’d been sitting on the wooden bench, right by the entrance to the Denfert-Rochereau Metro Station; he guessed it was a long time.

  He was freezing, but only now was it that he started to feel the elements. He looked up at the sky; it was snowing, the flakes burnt when they landed on his naked skin, they were that cold. He was only wearing a T-shirt and thin pair of trousers. He was lucky he hadn’t died of pneumonia.

  The boy was still talking.

  Bradley beat his chest. “Anglais. Moi Anglais.”

  “I speak English.” The boy nodded, with an almost perfect accent.

  There was something strange about him, that was for sure. He appeared so young, early to mid-teens Bradley suspected, but if you studied him deeper, into those big bright blue eyes, he took on the appearance of someone older. Much older.

  “Is everything okay, sir?” the boy enquired. “I walked past an hour or so ago and I saw you sitting there. I was running errands for my father and then I saw through my window a little while ago, you hadn’t moved.”

  Bradley shrugged, gave the boy’s enquiry some serious consideration and then answered. “I don’t know...my brain...I can’t seem to think straight...I’m a little confused.” All of which were true.

  The boy pointed. “Your face, are you injured?”

  Instinctively, Bradley touched his faced and winced in agony. It appeared the boy was right; he could feel bruises, cuts and even a large swelling under his right eye. He had no recollection of how they had been caused. Scratches on his hands. What was going on here? He started to panic.

  “I think you have been attacked. Perhaps on the Metro? I suspect you hit your head, you probably have concussion, does that make sense?”

  There was something about the boy’s explanation that sounded plausible. He nodded. “You could be right.”

  Bradley turned and watched a crowd of people heading into the station. He looked around, tried to get his bearings. “I do remember....” His thoughts drifted off for a moment but he forced himself to come back into focus. “...but then I seem to forget again. I was there and now...now, I’m here.”

  The boy laughed. “But you just don’t know were here is?”

  Bradley smiled. “No fucking idea.” He rested his head in his hands, stared down at the pavement.

  The boy put a hand on Bradley’s shoulder. “I can help you. My family, we own a small cafe not far from here, maybe ten minutes walk? We can go there, you can eat something, drink something, get you something warm to wear. Perhaps then we can solve your little mystery. What do you think?”

  “Why are you being so kind?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Why not? What have you got to lose?”

  Which seemed to make perfect sense.

  *

  “Haven’t we been this way?” Bradley asked; he was totally bewildered. They had been walking for fifteen minutes at least, they had been going left, right, right, left, he had absolutely no idea where he was.

  “I don’t think so,” the boy replied.

  Maybe he was right because they came across a carousel that Bradley knew he hadn’t seen before. Even at that early hour, children were being entertained by the flashing lights, the shrill music.

  Bradley paused; there was something familiar about it – he was positive there was, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Though with such a unique name as “Diablo’s” he was convinced he would have remembered! He gave up; it really did make his brain ache just to think.

  The boy grabbed his arm. “Come, we need to get you inside, you’ll catch your death out here.”

  Which was also was probably true. The snow was falling heavily now and had settled on the ground, making walking on the pavement treacherous. A chill in the air was seeping deep into his core, making his bones hurt.

  “It really isn’t that far now,” the boy added.

  Bradley nodded, just let the boy take the lead.

  They continued along the street, took a right and the boy pointed to a dilapidated building across the street.

  “It isn’t much, but its home.”

  Never was a truer word spoken. It had definitely seen better days but what the hell, he didn’t have anywhere else to go or if he did, he didn’t remember.

  It was a black building amongst a row of black buildings. He wondered whether it had been damaged in a fire. It looked a very old building, a run-down building in a run-down section of the city, but that was all.

  There was one small window (broken, naturally) and above the door a sign painted in red Gothic script, which read “LaVey’s”. Bradley surmised that they must have had a large local following as he doubted there would be much passing trade. Inviting, it certainly wasn’t.

  As the boy went to cross the road, Bradley paused and frowned. Something there on the tip of his tongue, his heart was racing and though it was bitterly cold he was sweating.

  “Are you okay?” the boy asked. “Have you remembered something?”

  Bradley offered a return smile. “I don’t think so, come on, let’s go.”

  “Of course, this way.” He led Bradley to the door and they went inside.

  *

  Rustic.

  Was the best word Bradley could come up with to describe the place. He had friends (he suspected) that would call it a shithole or a dive (at best), but he knew he should be grateful because after all, this boy was trying to help him.

  Inside was very much like outside. It was dark except for the ocean of candles that seemed to be littered about the place, in every nook and cranny. There was a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling which was also covered in candles, all dar
k red in colour. The hot melted wax dripped onto the black (of course) painted floor, creating a very strange effect: a pool of blood, a scene of total carnage.

  Over in the far wall, a large fire burned.

  There were also a number of strange aromas that attacked Bradley’s nostrils: incense, cigarette smoke, sweat, sex...the list went on.

  “There was a party last night, it finished only a couple of hours ago. It got pretty wild,” the boy explained, observing Bradley’s discomfort. “Sit here, I’ll be back shortly.”

  At a nearby table, the boy pulled out a chair. Bradley sat down; he could sense that the other customers were watching his every move, but he couldn’t be certain as they were tucked away in the shadows, the areas where the candlelight couldn’t reach.

  Though if he took the boy at his word he wondered whether any of them were still awake or even in a fit state to be watching him. He had no idea what sort of party it was and probably didn’t want to know. One thing was definite, it was a very, very weird place. A heady mix of blood, sweat and tears without a doubt.

  But whatever Bradley’s reservations, one thing the boy had promised was true; this was definitely a place to get warm. The fire was raging and its reach, far. He could feel the lick of the flames on his face caressing him. He was ready to be seduced.

  A waitress appeared (dressed as a Nazi-gothic punk). There was a dead look in her eyes which unnerved Bradley even further until he realised that she was wearing black contact lenses.

  She didn’t say anything, just wiped the table and put down a small goblet of what appeared to very dark red wine and a bowl which contained some kind of meaty broth.

  “Eat,” she said. Bradley wasn’t sure whether it was a command or just the fact that she didn’t speak English, but he knew better than to argue so picked up the spoon and believing he hadn’t eaten for some time, he attacked the food.

  “Thanks,” he muttered as he tucked into another spoonful, blowing the steam from the broth.

  He couldn’t be entirely sure what it was, but it tasted bloody good and within minutes the bowl was empty.

  “That really hit the spot,” Bradley stated, rubbing his belly so that she understood. The waitress, who hadn’t moved away from the table the entire time, grabbed the empty bowl.

  “Drink.” She pointed to the goblet.

  Bradley smiled. “It’s a little too early for me. Do you have any water?”

  The waitress continued to stare, that same impassive look on her face.

  “Drink,” Bradley slightly mocked and picked up the goblet. The liquid was very thick. Perhaps he had been wrong, it wasn’t wine but some kind of fruit juice? He put it to his lips and took a deep gulp.

  The mood in the cafe appeared to lighten; some of the customers even started talking amongst themselves. He couldn’t work out exactly what they were saying as none of it seemed to be in English and they spoke so damn quietly, but at least it was a start.

  Bradley coughed and put the goblet down on the table. It was definitely alcoholic! It was having an immediate effect on his brain; he felt a bit merry and he was no longer concerned about his earlier confusion. It was as if with every passing second, his synapses were awakening, and little by little he was getting there. He picked up the goblet and took another sip. He was ready to take on the world again, he was sure of it.

  The waitress returned, refilled the wine.

  “You like?” she asked.

  Bradley nodded. “Sure.” He took another sip and stared over at the fire.

  He felt the swelling under his eye. He wondered how he had come by his cuts and bruises. Perhaps he had been mugged. He searched his pockets; he didn’t have his phone, his wallet, any keys. He knew his name, so that was okay, and there were some hint of things he appeared to remember but not everything. He guessed just by relaxing, over time, everything would come flooding back.

  There was movement by the fire.

  Someone was sitting there, in a high-backed chair, probably had been all the time but it was only then that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the low light.

  Whoever it was, they got up and came towards him. It was difficult to tell who (or what) it was; they wore a long cloak and hood which covered most of their features. The boy was right; it must have been a wild party.

  It was only when the hood was pulled back that Bradley saw that it was a woman.

  And what a woman!

  Well, probably more of a girl; she was in her late teens, early twenties.

  Whatever, she was beautiful: long, red hair, a perfect complexion, bright green eyes.

  “Hi,” Bradley said.

  The girl frowned but that only added to her beauty. She looked very much like the boy. He wondered whether she was his older sister.

  Whoever she was, she held out a hand to him. “Come, sit with me,” she commanded. “You look frozen to the bone, we can’t have that.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. Taking her hand and following her towards the large hearth, he grabbed the goblet; he wasn’t going to let that go in a hurry.

  She pulled up a chair, he sat down. She grabbed her own and slowly slipped into it.

  For a moment or two neither of them spoke. If he was honest, Bradley was content just to stare into the flames and listen to the crackle of the wood as it burned.

  “It’s very hot,” he said after a while, to break the silence, if nothing else.

  “I’ve known hotter,” she replied. When he turned to look at her, there was such intensity on her face that he had no reason to disbelieve her. He didn’t bother to press for a further explanation; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more.

  “Are you feeling better? Did you like the food? It was prepared especially for you.”

  “It was great.” He wasn’t sure what she meant, but continued the conversation. “It was lucky the boy found me when he did, otherwise I don’t know what would have happened.”

  “You were lost?” she asked.

  Bradley paused before answering. “I think I was.”

  She nodded, picked up an iron rod, stoked the fire. They both watched as one of the larger logs was displaced, fell deeper into the flames. “He’s like that. He often finds lost souls.”

  Bradley sipped more of his wine.

  “What exactly is this?” he asked.

  The girl smiled. “Something to calm your nerves, to make you understand more clearly.”

  Bradley wasn’t entirely sure what that meant but did it matter? He was entranced by what he saw in the flames. He knew it was his imagination but that didn’t stop him staring. He could have sworn he saw faces screaming, bodies moving strangely, dancing enticingly, souls in perpetual torment, reaching out for him, could feel their hot hands on his flesh pulling him in.

  “What the fuck?” he cried. He tried to look away but he couldn’t, completely captivated.

  He was conscious that the girl was talking to him, telling him to take it easy, not to be scared, to breathe in, welcome whatever the flames showed him, but her voice seemed distant; he wasn’t sure that she was still sitting next to him, her words echoed around him.

  The only constant he had were the flames and their visions of horror.

  Though he was frightened, he sat forward. An odd feeling in the centre of his head. A warm feeling that began to flow throughout his body. Not unwelcome, but he was aware that there was also an undercurrent of dread, as try as he might he wasn’t able to block it out.

  Something was being played out before him, there in the flames. The story of his life, especially since he’d been in Paris. The last few days.

  (“You’re starting to remember.” He believed he heard her say it, but then again, that could have been his imagination too, it was difficult to tell.)

  He had no choice, just had to go with it.

  Bradley was also conscious of other people around him now, that they’d left the shadows, stepped into the light.

  What the girl had said was right; he was beginnin
g to remember and the memories were flooding back, attacking him with ferocity.

  Emmanuelle.

  His fiancée. How had he forgotten her? He saw her naked on their bed (in a hotel room?), one hand on her breast, the other between her legs, exploring, stroking the folds of skin within, dreaming of him. Dreaming of them.

  He remembered museums. Lots of them. Places of interest they had seen during a hectic day.

  He remembered the carousel. Emmanuelle climbing aboard one of Diablo’s Demons and laughing with the children as they spun round and round. The flashing lights and the shrill music.

  He remembered the red-headed boy.

  Bradley closed his eyes. There was something here he didn’t want to drag up. “I think I’ve been here before...something about that boy...”

  The girl was at his ear, stroked his face with her long fingers. Her touch was electric. He groaned in pleasure.

  “Don’t fight it,” she whispered. “Breathe in the flames, go with them, let them caress you.”

  Her words seduced him. He nodded; of course she was right. There was nothing to be frightened of, these were just his memories and what was there to scare him?

  Nothing.

  Bradley opened his eyes and stared into the fire.

  It was all coming back to him. He was at the Rodin museum. Emmanuelle speaking to someone – an old man, a priest – who seemed nice at first but then it turned nasty. An argument – the Priest on the floor, blood pouring from his mouth.

  Then they were back at the hotel. They began to make love. It was amazing.

  Bradley coughed. His thoughts interrupted.

  The goblet back at his lips. “Drink this,” a voice commanded.

  The wine trickled down his throat, the flames parted, seemed to dance around him.

  He was back in the hotel, on the bed with Emmanuelle. The intensity of the vision was so powerful that he could have sworn he felt a hand (no, many hands) at his flies, undoing his button, the zip. Slowly guiding his trousers down from his hips, over his thighs, his knees, his calves, off him completely.