Awakening: The World Dreamt and Imagined by Otto Mäkilä

46 min

Miss Emerson?

Are you prepared?

I brought this.

Just get it ready. Get it ready.

Life given. Life returned.

Life given. Death lifted.

Take this life force,

consume its flesh.

Open our eyes to what is lost.

Memento mori. Memento mori.

Memento mori. Memento mori.

Memento mori.

Memento mori. Memento mori.

Who? Whose loss?

This woman?

This grieving woman?

- Darling?

- Oh, God!

Don't look away. You mustn't look away.

Rose? Rose, darling.

I can see you.

I can see you.

Life given. Death lifted.

Life given. Death...

Get off me!

Sergeant Evans, the curtains.

The door! The door!

- Stay there, Captain.

- Get off me!

If you're a captain at all.

Sergeant Evans, fetch the others.

You bastard. You'll kill him!

I'll fetch a doctor.

I'll manage.

- Ah! Ow!

- Another miracle.

Miss Cathcart,

you shouldn't do that.

Cathcart. Florence Cathcart.

How dare you come here

under false pretences?

Is your soldier boy even dead?

And this grotesque charade

won't bring him back.

Neither will your blood capsules

which you slipped from your cup

and your handkerchief as we started.

Nor your free hand pulling the wick

from this woman's candle.

As if the dead had

something against naked flames.

You're charlatans.

And poor ones at that.

Get them out of here, Evans.

Get off! You bastard.

- I've got your brooch.

- Oh, thank you, Evans.

Miss Cathcart, when you do these things

you've taken to

ordering me around a little.

I just think with you being...

What, you don't want your colleagues

seeing you bossed by a civilian woman?

Uh, I mean, if anyone was going to

order me around, it'd be...

I mean, if Mrs Evans wasn't Mrs Evans...

But she is.

And she's very lucky, she is.

I won't bully you any more. Promise.

You've never had a child, have you?

No, of course you haven't.

- Allow me, miss.

- Thank you, Katie.

It's all right.

Oh, for heaven's sake. Um...

- Who shall I make it out to?

- I'm sorry?

- Please, Mr...

- Mallory.

Mr Mallory, you'll excuse my brevity,

but this is my home.

- Very glad you enjoyed the book.

- I didn't.

- Excuse me?

- I didn't much like your book.

I found it too certain.

Perhaps that's only fitting

for someone so rude to strangers.

I'm a history master

at a boy's prep school.

Forgive my daughter, Mr Mallory.

She's not taking on any more work.

She's quite exhausted.

Um, let him speak, Harry. Please.

Um, I'm afraid Harry's right.

I'm really not taking on any more work.

But you are a ghost hunter

as well as an author?

Well, you can't hunt

what doesn't exist.

Ah, well, that's just it.

We think we have one that does.

I need to change.

Katie, will you show

Mr Mallory to my study.

- Yes, miss.

- I'll be fine.

You're fine?


We always know

why you throw yourself into this.

And we don't blame you

for thinking that it will help.

But every time now, all we can see

is the pain it causes you.


I know. I'm sorry I keep

doing this to you.

It's not fair.

"May your skin be flayed from your body"

"in the hell you so arrogantly claim

does not exist."

An elderly woman in Dorset,

I seem to remember.

Our school matron

is a devotee of your book

and has told the headmaster

about the work you do.

She assures him you're quite respected

and your book sits alongside the Bible

on many bookshelves.

Miss Cathcart,

rumour is a dangerous thing.

Conversations in this room

are confidential, Mr Mallory.

Especially if I don't take the case.

Our school is called Rookford

in Cumbria.

Some years ago, a child

was said to have been murdered there.

Not a pupil.

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Submitted on August 05, 2018


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