WORDS BY michelle roylance
dimweather
The small town of Dimweather was as gloomy and damp as its name. During the day, it felt like the sun was filtered through a lens that made everything pale; colourless. At night, the moon and stars shied away, leaving the streets in a wallowing darkness. On one such night, a car drove into Dimweather and parked left of the town hall. The car itself was not particularly strange; it was an old model, with chipped red paint and a small dent in the passenger door. It was its presence, period, that was strange. Nobody simply “passed through” Dimweather. The townspeople kept to themselves and liked the outside world to stay outside. Unexplainable things tended to happen that were best left within their tight-knit community, like the time it snowed in the middle of summer, or when Ms Luis’ cat “flew” up to her second-story window. A pair of pink heels climbed out of the passenger door and walked with empty, echoed steps along the footpath to a small alleyway, stopped, and turned. The owner held a brown, worn suitcase, too small to be her own, but perhaps the possession of the small boy who slowly slid from the backseat of the car. “Hurry up, Charlie,” the lady whispered. Something about the town unsettled her, as if anything louder than a whisper could wake the dead. The little boy’s short legs started running, until they reached his mother. “Take my hand, Charlie,” she instructed, gathering his fingers in a leathery glove. She led him down the dimly lit alley, her thin heels quivering on the rough pavers. The alley opened to a street with one lonely building overgrown with shrubbery. The red brick facade stood taller than the weeping trees forced to cower in its shadow. Tucked away, the Institute was a mystery, even to the locals. No one had written a history about the place, and the only person ever seen going in and out was Mrs White, who, once a month was seen meeting with two gentlemen at Bev’s coffee shop. The locals believed it to be a school of some sort, though they could never be sure, and never had cause to investigate. Charlie’s mother forced open the gate which exhaled noisily from years of neglect. She stared up at the building, mouth agape, nervously tugging one of the perfect blonde curls that hung by her shoulder. She’d heard about the Institute from her beautician; it was where her boyfriend’s sister’s friend’s cousin had apparently
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