I had no plans for New Years Eve and was frankly content to spend a quiet night alone with my books and my laptop. The invitation I’d found, after returning from the grocery store for the weekends pantry supplies, thrust underneath my door had me thoroughly intrigued though.
The note was short and to the point;
“Join us and prove your theory. You will not be disappointed.”
The script was large and flowing, the kind of writing technique you saw on ancient documents that seemed almost like a painting applied with a quill.
Glancing at the clock my tiny living room wall, I noted that due to my procrastinated trip to the store I was likely to be running late. After a quick shower I donned the only clean suit left in my wardrobe, filled my pockets with odds and ends I may or may not need, swung my camera around my neck and stepped out into the balmy summer night.
Hailing a taxi would’ve been an exercise in futility as throngs of revellers – all rowdy and most under the apparent influence of one substance or another – crowded the streets surrounding my inner city apartment block.
Glad that I’d chosen comfort over style in footwear, I briefly consulted the hand drawn map and set off along the path indicated.
‘Looking for a good time, Mister?’ a young woman drawled as she grabbed my arm.
‘Sure,’ I snapped, removing her vice-like grip from my arm and pulling away from the sour stench of her drunken body, ‘but I doubt I’ll get it from you.’
She flipped me the bird and sauntered off on unsteady legs and I continued on my way steadfastly ignoring the raucous voices offering me every pleasure humanity could think of. New Years Eve; the modern day equivalent of Bacchanalia where inhibitions and common sense were left behind with the outgoing year.
After a walk that seemed to take hours I finally arrived at the point of contact indicated on the invitation. The destination was in an area I’d seldom had reason to visit. It was avoided by most for the last twenty years, an area filled with mostly abandoned warehouses lining the old disused river docks and frequented only by squatters and junkies.
Meaningless graffiti sprawled across every wall, a bizarre parody of country villa ivy growing in neo-urban form. The address provided to me was somehow different to the other warehouses. Great blocks of sandstone loomed over him like a giant sentinel; barred windows – mirroring the silver of the river – gazed down on him. Much of the former structure was crumbling giving the impression of a terracotta warrior crumbling upon itself. It was a singularly unwelcoming sight.
Graffiti covered even these ancient walls but the swirls and sigils decorating the stone were even more abstract and I did not recognise even one of the city’s common gang tags. The sight of the runic symbols stirred a primal fear that caused me to shiver despite the warmth of the evening.
I knew the address, the history and the stories. It was what had prompted me into coming. It was undoubtedly that knowledge that had made me react in such a way.
One of the huge double doors stood ajar. Shaking aside my fanciful imaginings I stepped inside – straight into an all encompassing darkness. At that moment the shrilling of party whistles, whoops and cheers and the crackling of fireworks reached my ears, carried on a gust of wind that lifted debris from the stone flagged floor and swirled it around my legs with a papery rustle.
Lifting my wrist, I saw with some surprise that the illuminated dial of my watch had struck midnight as I’d been entering the building. I jumped as the wind edged the door behind me closed cutting off all noise and light from the city outside. I stood there in total silence for a full minute, uncertain what to do. Just as I’d made the decision to turn on my heels and leave, the darkness was pushed aside in a sudden blaze of light.
‘I’m so glad you made it, Dr Stone,’ a woman’s voice said from close behind him, ‘I was concerned you would not be able to get here in time.
Lowering the arm I’d thrown up instinctively against the sudden glare, I turned to gaze down at the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She was petite with copper coloured skin and thick, glossy black hair tied at the back in a graceful knot. Her flowing white gown trailed all the way to the floor, her shoulders and back bare.
‘Umm. In time for what exactly,’ I asked, trying not to stare like a horny teenager at her curves.
‘The party of course,’ she smiled and indicated the room in one sweeping gesture.
Men in women in formal attire had stepped into the room. Chatter and the clink of glasses filled the space that was once ago silent as if they’d been here all of the time.
Nobody seemed to notice my presence. Across the room I spotted a figure I thought I recognised. But it couldn’t have been.
I tried to focus on the man’s face but the harder I looked the more hazy and indistinct the figures around me became. As I tried to pull my attention away the cavernous room began to waver and change before my eyes. Linen wallpaper appeared; delicate chandeliers and the detritus of abandoned factory life disappeared leaving a smooth marble floor beneath my feet.
Slowly I turned around. My hostess was looking at me, concern in her dark liquid eyes. She was now standing behind a massive oak table, a high backed chair had been pulled out and she gestured to it, ‘Perhaps you need to sit down, Dr Stone?’
I attempted a nod, felt the room swim around me and fell down into unconsciousness.

© Alison Pearce 2011-12-31