It hadn’t surprised anyone that Imogen had extended her stay in Prague indefinitely a few years ago. Afterall, another Australian expat settling down in Europe for a time as they continued to explore the world and make the most of expensive airfare before returning home. Hardly an original story, but then the old world with all its history and myth called to her even before setting foot off the plane. It was like entering another world where the darkest aspects of nature lived alongside the beauty of the romantic poets and the literary world.
Home was different, the land was untamed wild and majestic with a harshness as the warm Australian summer took hold of the bush and raised the constant threat of fire. The beaches became polluted with tourists and crowds desperate to keep cool and experience the wonders of Byron or Manlee. It had turned her off home, the thought of another Australian summer. So, she fled. To a cooler climate and a softer landscape. A decision that Imogen still didn’t regret, regardless of how much she missed her family. She doubted whether she would ever go back.
Despite this though she still viewed herself as a visitor, perhaps as it seemed an excuse to engage in tourist activities that real Prague natives might rarely visit. In this instance in June, it had been the Franz Kafka Museum with its different representations of the author’s work. Yet it had been learning about the man behind the serialist predicaments of his stories that she had grown to appreciate the most. They had stayed almost to closing time as she and Kaitlin carefully read his letters on display, it had clearly started to frustrate Peter, whose patients for abstract or post-modernist ideas had always been limited.
“Finally, it seemed like you must have read the same thing at least five times.” He teased as they left and began walking to the bar.
“Only twice, but that’s what is great about Kafka, the ability to gleam new ideas and the complexity of his writing.” She answered, with a little nudge to Kaitlin as they both knew where this was going.
“Well, you know my thoughts well enough, anyone that can convey their meaning clearly but make things overly obtuse on purpose are engaging in a bit of a vanity trip”.
“Except Kafka asked for his work to be destroyed.”
“Really it was only Brod’s vanity that may have been served”. Kailin added as they entered the bar.
“You two seem to give little credence to the genus of Kafka then. A literary figure with an ambiguous style that chooses an executor that was never going to destroy anything” he scoffed, as he paid for the first round. “Either you give him the credit to have manipulated things to achieve his own purpose of prompting his legacy or he can’t be that much of a writer if he couldn’t give a clear instruction.”
“So, on that basis if we agree he manipulated the situation you’ll recognise his genus”.
“A vein genus, but hardly worthy of the standing that so many critiques seem to hold.”
“Well, that’s a start, we might just need to buy you a few more beers to convince you of the rest.”
Still, Imogen had to admit that despite their best efforts and too much to drink, Peter stuck to his guns. It was one of the things she liked about him, that determination and conviction. Even if it were partially in jest, he chose his position and would stay strong until presented with an argument that he couldn’t refute. This time they managed to gain a few concessions but quite often he carried the point. Either way the banter was fun and was livened up by a few choice beers, at prices that always amazed Imogen compared to the average cost of a stubbie back home, meant it was always fun.
Leaving the bar, they had gone their separate ways and Imogen began the usual trek back towards Old Town over the Charles Bridge. It wasn’t the most well-lit path back home, but Imogen always liked to flirt with danger and there was something alluring about walking the old paths in the dark. The water of the Vltava River ran softly on a still night as she etched closer to the tower looming over the end of the bridge. It had magic about it.
However, as she climbed the steps up to the bridge, she noticed that it was different tonight. Something seemed odd. She brushed off the feeling, warping her jacket tight and started walking a little faster. It did little to ward off the chill that seemed uncharacteristic for this time of year. That wasn’t the only thing that fell off she realised as she passed the first pair of statues, which seemed swallowed up in the darkness despite the lamplight. The bridge was deserted.
Imogen paused, hesitating for a moment. Unsure whether she should turn back. It seemed ridiculous but she couldn’t shake this feeling. It was the museum, Kafka’s work with all its surreal images emphasised by a few too many drinks. That made sense. It was just in her head. She’d keep her head down, get home and sleep it off.
She had only taken a few more steps when the fog seemed to wrap around her. Taking all sense of orientation. Leaving her lost in the darkness. She saw them. A procession of figures. Moving in a disjointed and halted stem of step of chained prisoners. It gave their movement a haunting aspect like walking corpses. It sent a shiver through her spine.
She watched frozen as they passed in eerie silence. Each second, each step, an agonising eternity. Thankfully, her presence went unnoticed by each shade as she studied their appearance. Each were distinct to a man. Yet all of them had a similar scar across their neck. In that moment she had bizarre idea that they could swap heads and continue their steady march across the bridge without missing a step.
The odd moment was almost suspended in time, until at last the procession reached the end of the line. Imogen watched the last spectra pause and turn in her direction. His head twisting on the spot. Not through any visible contraction of muscle but as by some unseen hand. Its eyes, cold and lifeless, held her gaze. Before a slight inclining of the head beckoned her to follow.
Read more of my Gothic short stories “Cursed” and “The Immortal”
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