The Questionable Tales: A Steampunk Quintet
Page 3
* * * * *
"It isn't him!" screamed Douglas, jerking awake in bed, his sweat pooling along the small of his back.
He glanced around the shrouded cabin as another crash and flash of lightning shook the window panes and illuminated the interior of his spacious quarters. The lightning reflected along cavalry sabers and the retired regimental colors that graced the wall - forgotten antiques of a time long passed over.
Douglas sat up, his mind racing. He stood and paced, his feet slipping along the cool floorboards as he traversed the room. "He's dead. It won't be him. It can't be him." An observer might delegate this man to an asylum. He clenched his hands as he moved, writhing them about like snakes before he turned and retraced his steps. He stumbled along the cabin's floor at random and cried out in momentary gasps of terror whenever the lightning illuminated the room.
The man moved towards the door several times, his hands slithering all the while. He made to throw open the cabin door and steal into the ship at large, but he held himself in check. "He's there; he... he can't find me here," he whispered to himself, a hint of madness creeping into the voice like ivy.
"It... it isn't true. He's dead." He had paused now in the middle of the room, and his whisper floated through the space, memories of deeds rising like shades to dance about his eyelids.
Another flash of lightning flitted across the cabin. In the corner, Douglas glimpsed a face; the eyes stared back, firing orbs glistening in the momentary, blinding light. He screamed and rushed forward as if to meet the doom the face represented.
The corner was empty. He was alone.
A rattle escaped his throat and he collapsed to the floor, his legs buckling under him. The rain fell against the window, mirroring the tears of shame, of horror that coursed down Douglas' face. Countless breaths later, the husk of a man drew himself up and collapsed back into bed, the rainy night washing over him in a deluge.