The Cullinan Houseboat
My life has become stranger and stranger since I moved into this houseboat. I don’t understand what has happened to me. It all started with mere dreams. I remember thinking I had no reason to worry. What’s more normal for a writer than to start dreaming of fantasy life in different places and eras?
But that night was so intense. I was about twenty years old, dressed in a deacon’s ornaments in a 12th century chapel. I was heading towards a secret basement and I joined other cult members. As I was witnessing an occult ritual around an immense well, a hooded priest grabbed my arm and marked me with a red hot iron. The pain was so real and strong that it woke me up.
As I headed toward the kitchen, I couldn’t help but look at my arm. My birthmark, swollen and painful, was exactly where the priest had marked me in my vision. I suddenly became violently dizzy before collapsing in front of the piano. When I regained consciousness, I dragged myself to my bed but I couldn’t sleep.
The next morning I noticed a surprising detail on a painting hanging over the table. This painting represents five members of a cult in full ceremony. One of them looks strangely like me, with only a few more years. I was wondering how I hadn’t noticed that before.
I immediately undertook research on the painting, and discovered that it had been done by a little Parisian artist. He is now one hundred and seven years old, and lives in a quiet retirement home.
The old man was surprised to see me, and yet seemed to recognize me. He told me fairytales and dreams. I would be, according to him, the worthy heiress of a Great Old One, immortal but endowed with a terrible curse. My memory would be wiped at every resurrection. I assailed him with questions but his only answer was to advise me to inquire about the order of Sheenos.
I don’t know what to think about all this. A part of me would like to know more and understand these supernatural mysteries, while the other is frightened.
But that night was so intense. I was about twenty years old, dressed in a deacon’s ornaments in a 12th century chapel. I was heading towards a secret basement and I joined other cult members. As I was witnessing an occult ritual around an immense well, a hooded priest grabbed my arm and marked me with a red hot iron. The pain was so real and strong that it woke me up.
As I headed toward the kitchen, I couldn’t help but look at my arm. My birthmark, swollen and painful, was exactly where the priest had marked me in my vision. I suddenly became violently dizzy before collapsing in front of the piano. When I regained consciousness, I dragged myself to my bed but I couldn’t sleep.
The next morning I noticed a surprising detail on a painting hanging over the table. This painting represents five members of a cult in full ceremony. One of them looks strangely like me, with only a few more years. I was wondering how I hadn’t noticed that before.
I immediately undertook research on the painting, and discovered that it had been done by a little Parisian artist. He is now one hundred and seven years old, and lives in a quiet retirement home.
The old man was surprised to see me, and yet seemed to recognize me. He told me fairytales and dreams. I would be, according to him, the worthy heiress of a Great Old One, immortal but endowed with a terrible curse. My memory would be wiped at every resurrection. I assailed him with questions but his only answer was to advise me to inquire about the order of Sheenos.
I don’t know what to think about all this. A part of me would like to know more and understand these supernatural mysteries, while the other is frightened.
Excerpt from “Dark Revelations” by Sofia Denisson.
The Cullinan is a setting in the love story ‘Softpaw’ by Beryll & Osiris Brackhaus. Link to their site: http://www.brackhaus.com/the-books/softpaw