Chapter 87: A Terrifying World in My Eyes
I had been silent because I had seen something wrong, something deeply unsettling that I couldn't explain. The vagrants who had disappeared… their bedrolls, their cracked bowls, their makeshift braziers, were all still there. The bedding even retained the faint impression of their bodies, the blankets half-thrown back as if they had just woken up. But the bedding was wet. Soaked through, as if it had just been dragged from the canal. It was a dark, sodden mess, still dripping onto the stone platform. That was impossible. A waterlogged blanket wouldn't hold the shape of a sleeping person. Had someone poured water on them? Why would anyone do something so pointless? A long, wet trail led from the bedding back to the edge of the canal, as if something sodden had been dragged from the water. And yet, faced with this bizarre, inexplicable scene, Jared, Bartholomew, and all the others had said nothing. It was this silence, this collective blindness, that I found most strange. It was why I had to speak up.
“The wet marks,” Bartholomew said, looking at the ground with a confused frown. “What wet marks?” The others looked at me with the same blank incomprehension.
“Wait, you can’t see them?” I asked, a new, colder kind of fear gripping me. And then I saw the look on Jared’s face—the same confusion, the same lack of recognition. I understood. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, my voice a whisper. “It’s nothing. I was mistaken.”
“Don’t be playing games with me, girl,” Bartholomew grumbled, his mood already foul from the disappearance of his men.
I felt a profound, sickening sense of alienation. I remembered the argument with Jared over the writhing maggots on my arm. I remembered the red mist that only I had seen. It wasn’t them. It was me. I was the one who was wrong. I was the one who was seeing things. I immediately fell silent. If they couldn't see what I saw, then telling them would be useless. It would only raise suspicion or cause trouble.
Jared, sensing my distress, pulled me away. “Was it another of those things only you can see?” he whispered, his voice filled with a worried concern. “Did you really see wet marks on the ground?”
“Yes,” I nodded, my voice small. “I think… I think I’m sick. I’m seeing things.”
“Perhaps it is not a hallucination,” he suggested, trying to comfort me. “Perhaps… you are the only one who can see the truth.”
“How is that possible?” I shook my head, unconvinced. The whole world was mad, and I was the only sane one? I didn't have that kind of confidence.
“But the red mist,” he insisted. “You saw it, and you saved me. The others, the ones who didn’t see it… they died. So what you saw was real, wasn’t it?” His words hit me with the force of a physical blow. He was right. If the red mist had been a hallucination, the people wouldn't have died. But that brought no comfort. It only meant that the writhing things in my arm were real too.
And then, as we climbed the steps from the waterway and entered the workers’ district, the world changed. The first thing I saw was the fog. It wasn't the usual grey smog of the city, but a pale, shimmering blue mist that clung to the streets and glowed with a faint, ethereal light. It was not natural. Then I saw him. A man, a worker, sitting with his comrades, laughing and talking. But he was not alone. A translucent woman, her form wavering like a heat haze, was draped over his shoulders, her arms wrapped around his neck. He was completely unaware of her presence, as were his friends, who continued their cheerful banter, oblivious to the ghostly apparition in their midst. The man with the spectral passenger looked unwell. His face was gaunt, his eyes ringed with dark circles, and he barely participated in the conversation. As I stared, the ghostly woman’s head turned towards me. She had no face. Her features were a shattered, fragmented mess, held together with what looked like black thread and rusty nails. A wave of pure, primal terror washed over me. Though she had no eyes, I felt her gaze upon me, a cold, analytical scrutiny. I knew, with a certainty that defied all reason, that if I did not look away, she would come for me. I quickly averted my eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs, and prayed she hadn't noticed me. Thankfully, she did not pursue. When I dared to look back, she was still draped over the unfortunate worker, her faceless head resting on his shoulder. The poor man, I knew, did not have long to live.
“Parula, what’s wrong?” Jared asked, his voice filled with concern. “You’re as white as a sheet. Is it the nightmare again?”
“Shh,” I whispered. “Let’s just get through here.” Seeing the look on my face, he didn't ask any more questions.
We walked on. When I finally dared to glance back, I saw that the ghostly thing was not following, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. But I hesitated to tell Jared. I knew from his blank expression earlier that he hadn't seen it. What was the point in telling him about the horrors that only I could see? It would be useless.
But the journey through the slum was a descent into a new kind of hell. I saw giant footprints, half a meter long, pressed into the muddy ground, the earth around them cracked and splintered. The other residents walked over them without a second glance. The heavy footsteps I had heard in the first night I was here… this was their source. And it wasn't just my sight. My other senses were now cursed as well. From one of the factories, I could hear a chorus of screams and wails, a sound of pure, unending agony. And from its chimneys, a strange, sweetish, cloying smell, mingled with the stench of sulfur, drifted on the air.
“Brother Jared, what is that factory?” I asked, my voice trembling. He looked at it, then shook his head. “I don’t know. But I can ask around.” He couldn't hear the screams. He couldn't smell the strange, sweet stench. I looked at the great smokestacks, belching their white smoke into the sky, and I wondered, with a cold, sickening certainty, if they were burning people in there.
It didn't get any better when we left the workers’ district. On the street, I saw a well-dressed gentleman, a man of wealth and taste. But he was wreathed in a thick, bloody mist, and a palpable cold radiated from him. And walking behind him, carrying his parcels, was his "maid." She was a giant insect. An upright, walking insect, her two thick, chitinous legs clicking on the cobblestones. Four more insectoid arms, emerging from the sleeves of her maid's uniform, carried his shopping baskets. Two great, multifaceted compound eyes sat atop her head, and a long, needle-like proboscis, like that of a mosquito or a flea, twitched and tasted the air. And the other people on the street… they saw nothing strange. In fact, a few of them even turned to look at her with expressions of admiration, as if she were a great beauty. The sight of it made me want to vomit.
As we passed the alley where the girl had been murdered, I saw her. A ghost, her eyes two black, empty sockets, staring at me, her silent scream echoing in my mind. And even the water tower, my one symbol of hope and civilization, was now a source of terror. It was spewing forth swarms of small, white, misty creatures, their forms indistinct and ever-changing, that flew and danced in the hazy air. My world had become a living hell, a place of horrors that only I could see.
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