Ramsey Aickman |work| 〈360p 2027〉

Between Murkwell and Upper Splatt, the train usually passed a long brick wall, blotched with lichen, that enclosed a disused ropeworks. For three years, Mr. Pargeter had looked at that wall. It was the still point of his journey. Tonight, however, a narrow wooden door stood where no door had been before. It was painted a deep, bruised purple, with a brass handle shaped like a sleeping serpent.

He raised a hand. Just a small, apologetic wave. ramsey aickman

He blinked. The train did not stop.

He found it easily enough. The brickwork was real. The lichen was real. But where the door should have been, there was only a shallow recess, as if something had been carefully removed. And in the recess, pressed into the damp mortar, was a single button. Mother-of-pearl. From a cream-colored dress. Between Murkwell and Upper Splatt, the train usually