Paolo D’Souza awoke with a start, sitting upright in his bed. He had just woken up from a disturbingly vivid dream. It was not unusual for Paolo to have visions in his dreams, but they were mostly ideas for his photography, appearing first as sparks of inspiration that gradually developed into hazy ideas. Paolo was praised for his unique ability to make the real appear surreal, and whenever a vision came to him, he would immediately scramble to capture it in the journal he kept on his bedside table specifically for this purpose.
But tonight, Paolo did not reach for his journal of dreams. Tonight was different. This vision had floated up to him from darker depths, sending a chill up his spine, making his skin break into a clammy sweat.
A haunting image of a porcelain doll so realistic it could have been mistaken for a real child; as it floated closer its delicate, polished white skin gleamed; its eyes were glassy marbles. But what really stood out, the thing that made Paolo’s stomach turn, was the doll’s expression – its little mouth was open, a gaping black hole of fear, its eyes wide, staring blankly at an unseen horror…
Paolo shuddered, willing the image out of his head. He looked back at the soothing beams of moonlight that landed perfectly on his pillow on a clear night, a sight that always calmed him down. Rising from the bed, Paolo walked to the kitchen to fetch a restorative glass of water.
Returning to his bedroom, Paolo reminded himself to take a few deep breaths. He glanced once more towards the comforting moonlight on his pillow – and stopped dead in his tracks.
Something was moving across the sky, creeping over the moon, obscuring its rays. Running to the window, Paolo peered out, watching a horrifying scene unfold before him.
A putrid yellow fog was slowly spreading over the sleeping city, its tendrils reaching into open windows and sliding underneath doors, choking the clear night air, filling the lungs of the people who slept on, unaware. Paolo stood watching, petrified, as the air grew thick with fog that crept closer and closer –
Paolo’s body broke the spell first. His lungs instinctively reacted to the fog that had now reached his window, making him double over with heaving coughs as his body struggled to push the toxic fumes out of his system; his eyes watered uncontrollably and his throat tightened. Every breath was painful, filling his unwilling body with more poison.
Paolo ran. Pausing only to grab his backpack which contained his wallet, phone and camera, he sprinted frantically to the basement where his car was parked. Scrambling into the car, Paolo was grateful to find that the fog had not yet suffocated all the air in the vehicle. He turned on the ignition and sped out into the night.
When he resurfaced above ground, Paolo was met with a devastating sight – the sleeping population had begun to feel the effects of the poison. Coughing and choking on the foul gas, they stumbled blindly outside, trying to find their footing. The car’s headlights illuminated the fear that flashed in all of their eyes. But there was nothing Paolo could do to save them.
Paolo drove and drove, losing track of where he was and with no idea of where he was going – all he felt was a primal fear urging him to flee from danger.
By the time he finally slowed, the sun had risen tentatively over the horizon. Paolo looked around him and was relieved to find that the gas had not reached where he was. He gathered his bearings, checked into a cheap hotel room and immediately turned on the television.
BREAKING NEWS: GAS LEAK KILLS THOUSANDS
Every channel bore the same headline. Anxious news anchors were narrating the events of the previous night: a nearby pesticide plant had leaked tonnes of poisonous gas into the neighbouring city. The factory had been notoriously understaffed, and on the night of the tragedy, none of its supposed fail-safes had worked. The gas had not been contained and as a result, thousands had died, choking on toxic fumes.
It was several days before Paolo could return home. The drive back was even worse than the night he left. Bodies were strewn on the side of the road, piled in heaps, waiting to be collected like trash to be removed and burned. Ambulances rushed to and fro, screeching at the living to make way for the dying. A small gathering in front of a house caught Paolo’s attention. Parking his car, Paolo asked the elderly man standing next to him what was happening.
The man tearfully explained that the group was mourning the death of his grandson, who had just turned five this year. He, along with other relatives, had come from the neighbouring town to share in the grief and help the boy’s heartbroken parents. The man told Paolo that he could see the child, if he wanted. Paolo explained that he was a photographer, and asked if he could take a picture to send to his journalist contacts, to create more awareness about the tragedy that had taken place here.
The man agreed, and Paolo carefully stepped towards the painfully small grave. The child had been almost completely buried, but his grandfather brushed away some of the dirt near his face so that Paolo could take his picture.
Paolo looked down at the child, and felt a chilling shock of recognition. He had seen a doll in his vision and here was a real child, but the similarities were too strong to ignore – the same smooth, milky-white skin, the large, glassy eyes staring unseeingly back at him. The boy’s lips were parted, mouth slightly open, the remnants of surprise, pain and fear perfectly preserved on his face, a face that would haunt all who survived from that day forward.