A haunted story, part dreamscape, part travel guide.
YEAR: 2022 RUNTIME: 7:30
Sleeper: Olivier Mercier
Mother: Ali Na
Child: Ebey Na Chalfant
Cinematography, Writing, Editing: Gary Kibbins
Script
Voiceover:
The last reality station on the way to Almsoma is Apophat. For those who start the journey from
the lower plains, it’s advisable to first make your way to the “L” Station. Although it’s 5 kilometres
off the main road, cheaper arrangements can be made for boarding and lodging, as well as for
buses, lorries or cars. Because “L” is also the originating station, pilgrims will be well advised to
entrain there on their return journey.
The Royale and The Forest Office are fairly good guest houses. Those who prefer more
comfort might choose The Dynasty, which is 2 1/2 miles down the Akuna Road, just before the
turnoff to the Hill Crest Sanatorium, which was established in 1936 for tuberculosis patients. The
road to Almsoma begins just where you can see the last of the apple, pear and other fruit
gardens on the lower slopes on the right, just before the road makes a slow but steady ascent
through thickening pine forests. Soon you will see that very little sunlight can filter through the
high trees, and some may find this portion of the road dark and foreboding.
* * *
I was twenty-seven years old when I became afraid of the dark. Before that, I attended church
services irregularly as a form of protection against harmful spirits. But now I don’t believe in
spirits. And because I cannot be afraid of things that I don’t believe in, and because I don’t
believe in spirits, but I do believe in the dark, I accept that it’s only the dark that I’m afraid of.
When I was young, I was not influential, but I did have many notable behaviours. They
were mostly religious in nature, and my stepmother never lost an opportunity to use them
against me. I had never felt the need to develop a theory of darkness. Because of this, my friend
often made fun of me, and was sometimes cruel. One day after punishing me, he said he would
go into the darkest place that we knew of. I begged him not to go; everything I said was haunted
by words and words. But he went anyway, and I never saw him again.
I was twenty-seven years old when I became afraid of the dark. Before that, I attended church
services irregularly as a form of protection against harmful spirits. And now I no longer believe in
spirits. But when I was young I occupied my time with many troubling and undefined activities
that were mostly religious in nature, and my stepmother never lost an opportunity to use them
against me. I had never felt the need to develop a theory of darkness. Because of this, my friend
often made fun of me, and was sometimes cruel. One day after punishing me, he said he would
go into the darkest place that we knew of. I begged him not to go; everything I said was haunted
by words and words. But he went anyway, and I never saw him again.
* * *
About 13 miles further up the road the forest thins out again. On the right is an abandoned
veterinary research institute, above which can be seen for the first time the snow capped peaks
of the Diopter range. Often, during the month of July and August, small groups of Salters gather
here. It is an extraordinary sight. You can find grains of barley as big as swan’s eggs. From
here, the road gently ascends to a treeless pass, at the top of which sits a small, deep, dark
lake. No one drinks water from this lake. On the left, in the shelter of several large boulders,
there is a small but pleasant confectionery, where it is possible to have a modest meal. Many
small streams converge here. Several years ago, the author was unable to proceed further, as
the mud caused by spring runoff had made travel impossible.
* * *
I gathered the courage to try and locate my friend. Upon entering that dark place, I was
ambushed by spirits, who took my map, bound my hands, and carried me to a dimly-lit room
decorated with costly artifacts.
* * *
By this time, you should have encountered Lagoria. Lagoria is situated in a narrow winding
valley, above which you can easily see the entrance to the small bird cave, which is full of
stalagmites and tall columns of pink basalt. A brook flows nearby, forming several small
cataracts. Paginal was once thought to have done penance there while shivering under frigid
waters.
* * *
Once again I relive my earliest memory. I am standing at the top of a short flight of stairs looking
down – or maybe at the bottom looking up – at my mother, who is holding a laundry basket. She
is upset with me. Or maybe it is me who is upset with her. But not, I don’t think, both.
* * *
Five kilometers beyond the salt bridge is a hamlet with only 6 or 7 small buildings. The people
there are known to be very unforthcoming, and disappear whenever passersby approach.
* * *
The spirits surrounded me, beating drums, clapping hands and ringing bells. They are very old-
fashioned, have no new technologies, and have made no effort in recent times to modernize
their skills or habits. They declare themselves enemies of the enemies of the living God. My feet
were placed in pails of boiling water, although I felt nothing.
* * *
Descending from the high pass the trail is steep, although there are several flat rest stops from
which to appreciate the beautiful view. The broad river which dominates the valley below
remains unnamed, as it is not one river, but several. Near the hot springs on the far side one
can see steam rising from the mounds of calcium carbonate and colourful sulphates. These
waters are too hot for bathing, but are superb settings for resting or for doing penance.