Helena’s Nightmare

Helena’s Nightmare




Helena slept heavily, her long blonde tresses dangling over the edge of the bed as she sprawled across the double mattress.

A groan escaped from her lips as she woke uncomfortably, the feeling of a weight pressing down on her stomach and ribs disturbing her.
As her eyes flickered open it seemed, in the gloom of her bed-chamber, that a small creature was perched on her torso, its eyes glinting.

Eyes suddenly wide open, she shot upright. The vision of the creature disappeared. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, groaning yet again.

Outside, the horses whinnied and neighed in their stalls. Concerned, Helena pushed back the linen bedsheet and the heavy twill blankets, then rose from her bed and padded quietly to the window, carefully easing the dark red velvet curtains apart and peering out into the stable yard.

In the moonlight Helena could see nothing, but nevertheless the horses continued to protest, their noises now more insistent. Disturbed, she decided to investigate.

In the darkness she slid her feet into her slippers, picked up a shawl from the back of her the chair by her dressing table, wrapped it around herself and, crossing the bare parquet boards of the cold room, stepped out onto the landing which led to the staircase.
From a shelf beside the door she struck a safety match then lit the candle housed in a small metal and glass lamp hanging below it.

Carefully removing the lamp from its hook she made her way downstairs, the shadows cast by the lamp swinging crazily around the walls of the staircase, and across the hallway to the dresser opposite.

Removing a small key from the chain around her neck Helena opened the lock of the top drawer of the dresser and slid it open.
She lifted out the Beaumont-Adams .44 calibre pistol it contained, and hefted it experimentally up to shoulder height. The gun felt heavy, perhaps five pounds in weight, which she knew meant it was fully-loaded, with all five shots in place.

Helena was relieved by the protection she felt the gun afforded, and was glad James had left it there for her. He had privately purchased one of the newer American Smith And Wesson Model 3 pistols, as he preferred it to the standard British Army officer issue Beaumont, describing it as quicker and more reliable.
He had left it behind for her personal protection whilst he was away – their remote smallholding, nestling at the foot of Buckinghamshire’s Chiltern Hills was picturesque but isolated, and within a day’s ride of London, with the newer, faster steam-trains such as The Flying Scotsman also bringing the occasional footpad, robber or ne’er-do-well into the normally quiet county.

She glanced up at the ferrotype hanging on the wall above the dresser, the picture taken on their wedding day, with James, resplendent in his army Captain’s uniform seated, and Helena in her beautiful dress standing behind him, clutching his arm.

How she wished he was here now, he had been away for most of the year in that frightful war in Natal. The newspapers had all speculated that after the victory in the Battle Of Ulundi, and the subsequent capture of King Cetiswayo the war was won, and that the troops would be home soon.
It seemed otherwise though, in his last letter James had written that they were expecting to remain in the country for some time, to oversee its partition.

Holding the pistol in her right hand she picked up the lamp and made her way to the front door, passing the reproduction of that spooky painting which James liked so much, the scary one with the sleeping woman, the impish devil sitting on her chest and a horse poking its head through the curtains.

A portrait of the Queen hanging at the end of the hall looked solemly down at her, her rotund face and stout body making her appear every inch the matriarchal sovereign and empress.
Helena smiled to herself as she recalled the day she and James had visited London, to see the Queen ride through the city in an open carriage en route to the Royal Horticultural Show at Kensington.

The happy memory quickly faded, and Helena carefully set the lamp down beside the door, turned the doorkey in its lock, and flipped the catch up.
Picking the lamp back up she tugged the door open with her foot, then made her way out into the yard, holding the lamp up in her left hand, whilst her right arm hung by her side, carrying the weight of the pistol.
Behind her the wooden door hung, invitingly half open.

A cool autumnal breeze blew thick strands of an erie mist through the yard, seeming to almost glow in the light of the full moon. The cold from the slabs laid across the yard chilled her feet through her thin slippers, and she shivered as she walked, the rough hem of her cotton nightdress flapping around her ankles.

She looked towards the stable block, bordering the right side of the yard outside the farmhouse, and stepped towards it, her stomach tight with nerves.
Buster, her own horse, stuck his head out of his stall and neighed a greeting to her as he always did, but somehow even he seemed nervous. She paused by his door and scratched him gently on the nose, using her right elbow.

“Easy, boy.” she said softly to the equine, “Nothing to worry about, silly pony.” although she doubted her own words. Something had spooked them and no mistake, she could hear them stamping and shuffling in their individual stalls.
At the sound of her voice a couple more horses poked their heads out and neighed disturbingly.

Helena crossed the yard, towards the open barn opposite. To her left the single storey building which housed the tack room and workshop was in darkness, its doors shut and seemingly undisturbed.

She stepped into the barn, holding the lamp as high as she could to attempt to throw as much light as possible around the stacked bundles of straw and the collection of pitchforks, rakes, brooms and buckets it contained.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves walking slowly in the yard behind her caused Helena to spin round. She gave a gasp of terror as she saw a large black horse, at least eighteen hands high, with a man dressed solely in black upon it.

The horse lifted its head towards her, and Helena’s blood felt as if it would freeze in her veins as she saw that its eyes seemed to glow with an unholy white light.
Her own eyes stretched wide in horror.

The horse halted at the entrance to the barn, then the man dismounted and slowly began to approach her.
As he neared the light Helena could see him more clearly. Tall, handsome, with finely chiselled cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. His fair hair was cropped short at the sides, but left a little longer on top. Although he wore a greatcoat, it was open and his body was obviously muscular, the tight sweater he wore displaying a well-built chest and a flat stomach.

His square jaw was set in determination, and his eyes glinted as he regarded Helena coldly. She took a step backwards, and raised the pistol.

“S-S-STOP!” she shouted, “W-who are you, and w-what are you doing here?” she continued. Hastily she placed the lamp on the ground and cocked the pistol, shaking hands struggling to pull back the hammer, ready for firing.

Wordlessly he continued forward. Helena took another step back and screamed “GET AWAY FROM ME OR I’LL SHOOT!” Her hands continued to shake as she grasped the butt of the pistol with both hands and aimed it towards the man’s torso.

He took another step forward, and she pulled the trigger.

The loud report of the gun echoed almost deafeningly around the barn. The recoil jolted her backwards, her arms flying up.