The recipe for making it until tomorrow is simple. Be busy.

I resume cleaning all my dirty footprints throughout the house; I wash all the dishes I've used and propping one of my sketch pads against the canvas on an easel, I draw the outlines of a vague idea. 

I even wash the maggot clothing still soaking in the tub from yesterday!

There's a dilapidated structure containing clotheslines in a sunny patch just outside the kitchen door. After hanging my laundry up to dry, I decide that I need a break from the house and the obnoxious ticking of the clocks.

One of the images Craig sent me gives me a rough idea of where to find the beach by using a somewhat overgrown path set between the pond and the orchard.

I can see the stone boy in the middle of the pond, much clearer now that I'm outside. There aren't dark holes where his eyes should be; they're just covered with blackened moss. Most of his body is covered with layer upon layer of the stuff. Some layers are still alive and green. 

Just how old is this house?

The path opens up on an unexpected clearing that drops down to a beach below. The drop is high enough for me to break many bones, if not my neck, should I sleep-walk out here and fall over the edge. The idea makes me shiver. 

There might be a path leading down to the pretty little cove, but I cannot find it in the jungle of wild foliage and boulders. The view is lovely, though. Deep blue water, foaming breakers, white sand, dark cliffs. Gorgeous. On the horizon, the sky meets the sea and becomes one with it.

There's a weathered stone bench set near the edge. I plant myself on it. Nothing like a beautiful view and a sea breeze in one's hair to clear the mind and soothe the soul.

What's happened that is so bad? Really? 

So, the clocks are acting up. Did Ron even spend enough time with them to be able to know that they go off at random intervals? No, probably not. It doesn't seem as though he does all that much to maintain the house. He probably only spends a couple of hours here at a time. He might have missed their joyous noise completely.

Yes, I apparently walked in my sleep and discovered the key to the cellar. It might have happened in exactly the same way as it did today. Unconscious Belle, let's call her Luna, might have felt the same desire to reunite the lonely lovers.

My curiosity about the Matryoshka doll, combined with all the strange sounds and smells and happenings, might have prompted me to sleepwalk and to do things I wouldn't normally just do.

Sure, sounds reasonable. Nothing to be alarmed about. No need to be scared. No need to rush home. Just enjoy the tranquillity of the sea view. Breathe in, breathe out...

The wind has picked up and is no longer a pleasant sea breeze, it is trying to blow me off the cliff, and it has a cold bite to it. The sun is no longer hovering in the blue sky; it is gone. The evening has come and gone; dusk is bathing the world in shadows.

Did I fall asleep on the bench?

I look toward where I'd last seen the sun and turn my head to where it would have set. That distance would normally take the sun a couple of hours to cover, wouldn't it? I must have dozed off. I don't remember dozing off. Well, nobody ever remembers the act of dozing off, but I don't remember the act of waking up, either. My feet are icy in my flip-flops.

"You dozed off. That's all."

I do sometimes become lost in thought for hours, but I usually remember thinking about things. Don't think about this. It's as simple as that. Get back into the house, get some food, and have some coffee. Wait out the night.

Don't go to sleep!

☼

I didn't go to sleep, I promise. I just sat down on the bed and browsed around on my phone for a couple of minutes; that's all; I didn't go to sleep. 

I didn't mean to...

I wake up on the beach. From above, the beach seemed to be nestled in the embrace of two rocky outcrops, protecting it from wind and weather. In reality, the stone arms running deep into the ocean do nothing of the kind. 

The wind is howling, trying to wrench my clothes off of me. My feet are bare, and my hair is a tangled mess around my head. It's night, but I can somehow see quite well, even though there is no sign of the moon or stars in the dark sky.

How did I get here? 

I have no broken bones, as far as I can tell, and I don't seem to be scratched up or bruised. I could not have fallen from the lookout point where I sat earlier. My feet are buried in cold, wet sand, and my eyes are burning with sea spray. The air is pungent with the smell of salt. 

Seriously, how did I get here?

I'm cold, I need to get back to the house, but I cannot leave because not far from where I'm standing, a man is struggling to break free from the hold of the sea and the sand.

What?! 

I try to run towards him, certain that I should be running in the other direction, but the man is battling; he keeps on falling to his knees. He seems to be severely injured. Fighting the wind and the sucking sand, I reach him, and I cannot suppress a gasp. 

He is bleeding freely from several wounds. His clothes are in tatters, and his long, wet hair is clinging to his face, blinding him. I try to help him up, but he keeps on slipping from my numb hands.

He is losing so much blood; how is he even alive?

"Sir," the wind grabs the word from my lips and flings it away unheard. I watch, helpless, as he stumbles from the water and finally reaches dry sand. I still cannot quite get hold of him, but we somehow make it over the sand and onto a patch of wet foliage near the cliffs. 

I need to get this man some help, or he'll die.

I cannot see anything or anybody in the raging ocean. It's too dark. If there'd been a boat accident, there might be more wounded people. How do I get to the house?

I've fallen to the wild grass bordering the beach, winded from my efforts to help the man up to here. Gasping for breath, I'm surprised to see him stumble to his feet again. He is nothing if not determined. 

I scramble to my feet in pursuit. I need to tend his wounds, but there's not enough light to see them properly, and all I have on me are my pyjamas.

"Sir, is there anybody else out there?"

He doesn't answer, probably too hurt and in too much shock to respond. I stumble after him and grab him when he almost falls again. I'm not strong enough to carry his weight or to support him properly. I don't have to, the man is strong and resilient, but he is leaving a trail of blood. There is too much of it flowing from him to be safe. Where is he trying to go?

I struggle along with him, trying to support him as much as I can. It takes me a couple of minutes to realise that we're not in the wind anymore; the ground under my feet is hard and wet, covered in sand. We're in some kind of cave. Good. He can rest here while I try to find a way to my phone. 

Why didn't I sleep-walk with my phone in my hand?!

The man is not ready to rest yet, he forges on, and I trail behind him, steadying him when he stumbles. Trying to convince him to rest and wait is having no effect. He is set on going deeper into the cave.

Except that we're not in the cave anymore; we're in a tunnel. It seems to be man-made, and there are no other tunnels branching off from it. It is dark, and yet the wounded man doesn't seem to notice the lack of light as he staggers on and on, deeper into the earth. 

Has he been here before?

"Sir?" he has yet to acknowledge my presence. He has a serious head injury; he must be completely delirious. I am becoming completely winded from travelling up the steep incline of the tunnel, and then it comes to an abrupt stop at the bottom of some stairs leading up to a small landing and a door.

"Uhm..."

He doesn't stop, his movements have become increasingly laboured, his breath rasping in his throat, but he climbs the stairs and pulls a hidden lever at the top to open the door. It moves slowly, and he has to lean into it and push with all his weight until he stumbles into whatever lies beyond the door. I run in after him.

It's the basement.

The door is backed by one of the many shelves I saw earlier. It creaks shut behind me, apparently run by some kind of mechanism. I remember seeing scuff marks on the floor when I cleaned it earlier, but I'd thought nothing of it. The entire floor is marred by scuffs of many years of moving items around. 

The man is stumbling around the room, desperately trying and failing to find his way to the stairs leading to the kitchen. I stumble after him in the dense darkness. Something about this feels too familiar.

We reach the stairs, and I double over with pain. My stomach is being attacked by sharp, merciless knives. The knives are stabbing and cutting me from within; I dig my fingers into the skin of my abdomen, trying to stop the wrenching pain and collapse to the floor, screaming in agony. 

The clocks chime in, joining their screams to my own, as wave after wave of pain seems to ebb and flow along with their deafening toil.

And then I sneeze.

☼☼☼