After reading the first entry in the Captain’s Log, Lily was so distraught, and confused, she did not have the heart, nor the mental constitution to continue reading.  There was just too much of ‘incredible’ to absorb, in a single sitting, her mind spun, ached, with endless whiplash over this, and that.

Upon closing the scarlet leather logbook, a folded piece of parchment, fell from its mellowing pages.  To her surprise, it was dated the day before Johnathon’s death, and in Johnathon’s immaculate hand.  It simply read:

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_“Find me down the garden path…”_

Horror-stricken, Lily’s heart almost stopped, “My god, Johnathon!” She cried out, “Are you alive, my darling?”  Her heart raced, pounding with adrenaline as she rushed to rise from the chaise, only to succumb to a temporary loss of consciousness.

Upon awakening, she found herself nestled comfortably in her bed, in her sleeping chamber, with Wiliby sitting quietly in the armchair next to the fire, reading a book.

“Ah, Madam, how are you feeling?” He asked, lifting his eyes, prying them away from printed pages, upon the sound of hearing her stir.

Strolling to her bedside, he gently clasped her wrist, to assess her pulse, in the exact manner of a well-trained doctor of medicine, of which he was.

“Wiliby, I, I, feel so strange… I…”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite sure you do, Madam.  You endured a terrible fall, and a nasty bump to the forehead, all from which I gather was invoked by shock.  Now, shush; don’t try to talk, just stay snug, and warm under the duvet, and I’ll summon Sebastian to prepare a light broth, for you.”

“Thank you, thank…you, W-i-l-i-b-y,” she said, drifting unconscious…

As Lily faded in out throughout the night, she recalled dear Wiliby faithfully at attendance, while sitting diligently quiet next to the fire.

Now and then, she recalled him applying a cold compress to her whipping swollen forehead, as she feverishly tossed more so with grave mental discomfort, versus physical.

Her mind beset by the uncanny and overwhelming chain of events, struggled to make sense of the inexplicable happenings that had swept fiercely into to her grievous world of late.

With the new arrival of Mr. Fibbs letter, the ominous Captain’s Log, and now, this divine utterance from Johnathon, that appeared to move beyond the grave; it undermined, and provoked her sense of reality.

She was indeed stressed, and feeling snared within the grasp of a supernatural unfurling, that was yet to unfold.

As she lay twisting, turning, with delirium; distrustful images haunted endlessly of scenes of her clad in a long flowing gown of sheer white chiffon.

Beneath the pearlescent gossamer, her intimate flesh, her perk breasts and rose tip nipples, blush fully exposed; as she glides under delicate vine garden archways leading beyond a cast stone recirculating fountain; with overflowing sides, streaming infinite into a wide basin filled with bright colorful fish.

And then, almost within reach; a white prominent wooden garden gate, stands boldly erect.  Whether illustrating the end, or beginning; she’s unable to discern, as she’s suddenly assaulted with unbearable chest pain.

Her heart races, and she’s struck with trembling, dizziness, and a sense of impending doom, as she loses control, spiraling into a blackened abyss of the unknown.

Over, and over again, the same dream imagery reveals itself, as she suffers repeatedly the same symptoms of overwhelming panic and fear, while Johnathon’s beckoning voice whispers, haunts, echoing upon perfumed rose scented air:

_“Find me down the garden path …”_

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