Frederick Bowmere awoke with a start. The room was pitch dark; a smell of stale sea water hung in the air. Everywhere voices. Loud, giant, deafening voices.
“When did you last see your husband Mrs Bowmere?”
Frederick stumbled out into a long dark, dank corridor. Eyes flitted by. In corners he could hear whispers.
No escape. No point in runnin’
“Last night. I went to bed and he was in here painting his ship. The one on the mantelpiece.”
Up ahead there appeared to be a chink of light. Clambering a slippery staircase Frederick pushed against the hatch. Locked.
“Ah, the HMS Vallaronza. Some say she was a sacrifice, led the enemy astray, went down with 1000 hands. For the greater good they said. I’m sure the 1000 thought different.”
Around him the whispers were getting louder as he staggered desperately from room to room.
No way out. No way out.
At the end of the corridor appeared an open door. A shaft of blue light invited Frederick in. Rushing towards a crack on the far wall he pressed his face against the opening. Through what seemed to be a layer of thick blue glass he could just about recognise his wife talking to a uniformed stranger.
“Don’t you worry Mrs Bowmere. We’ll find your husband. He can’t have gone far now.“
Frederick screamed as he watched his wife and the stranger leave the room.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.