A Worrying Darkness.

First-draft, half-remembered fragments of the stories I'll never write.

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Dreamer (iii)

Jimmy's check-in was done.

The patient was still sleeping, oblivious to the rhythmic hiss, whir and beep of the myriad machines surrounding the bed. Lights, buttons, switches. Some of the boxes were connected to the unconscious man through thick tubes, some were connected to other machines. The overall effect was one of an experiment rather than a treatment. The unconscious man's chest fell and rose in a state of steady fitfulness; shallow breaths threatening to spill over into coughing at any second. But the readouts, gauges and monitors gave no cause for concern, so there was work to be done elsewhere.

Moving to leave, Jimmy reached for the door handle without breaking his stride but then everything slowed. His brain only took a second to register what was happening. That second seemed to last minutes. As he pushed downward, the smooth, L-shaped, aluminium door handle squirmed in his grasp. His wrist still moved downward in the correct direction, but there was no audible 'click' from the latch. A slimy wetness brushed over the back of Jimmy's hand, while the rod he gripped grew thicker, slithering through his grip.

Looking down now, the orderly could see his hand around a pulsating tentacle, expanding as it thrust through a hole where the door handle should be attached, extruding itself into the room as it coiled noiselessly onto the carpet. Aware that he'd been holding his breath, Jimmy inhaled sharply and turned to look at the patient. He half expected to see some crouched, gloating mass of teeth and feelers perched atop the bed, but no - Mr Belmont lay exactly as he had moments earlier; breathing restlessly but in no state of harm or distress. The light mounted above the machine in the far corner of the room was illuminated, though. It was red.

The patient was dreaming.

Jimmy started to panic. A bell began ringing out in the corridor. He'd been warned about this, he'd been trained in the drill. The alarm meant others had been automatically alerted to the situation, so were probably on their way here now. All Jimmy had to do was administer a sedative to keep the patient stable and bring him back below the REM-state. But the tentacle snaking up his leg wouldn't allow him to cross back to the bed.

He felt a sharp scratching at his stomach, even though the probing feeler hadn't reached his torso yet. Jimmy lifted his shirt, and widened his eyes as he knew this would soon be over. In the centre of his body was a round, angry, gaping hole, lined with rings of small sharp teeth, spiralling back through a gnashing, undulating throat that receded into himself far as he could see from this angle. While the skin around the… the mouth? …itched and burned, Jimmy couldn't feel any sensation from inside of it. This mouth might be in him but it wasn't his. He didn't dare touch it.

But the hole was already getting larger, rippling as if unfolding outwards. Flesh was simultaneously torn and somehow absorbed inward. God knows what was coming. Mr Belmont continued dreaming. The spinal column severed, Jimmy collapsed as he was eaten from the inside out…

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Dreamer (ii)

"Doct… Doctor Fairmile, I presume?"

"Indeed. How can I help you?"

Despite being almost certain to whom she was talking, this threw Megan. The man in front of her didn't look like a doctor. It was perhaps a cliché to expect a white coat and stethoscope, but even she was surprised by the threadbare unbleached linen shirt, hanging over faded grey slacks that looked two sizes too large. He wasn't even wearing a name badge. He didn't look like a doctor, no matter how polite and accommodating he appeared to be. If not for the twisted lanyard slung about the man's neck bearing a single unmarked security fob, Fairmile could easily have been mistaken for one of the patients here. And this was a thought that Megan's brain refused to discount.

"I'm… I'm Peter Belmont's daughter, I--"

"Ah Megan! Your father speaks very highly of you, it's so nice to be able to put a face to a name."

"My father's mentioned me? I didn't think he'd be in any condition to…"

"Oh in his er, calmer moments, yes. He's quite responsive some of the time."

"Well, that's why I'm here. Would you say my father is showing any signs of… of improvement?"

"Ah. I must be honest with you Megan. Overall, he is not…" The man in the linen shirt looked suddenly deflated, as if resigning himself to a conversation he'd hoped to avoid. His hands twitched in the air between them while he grappled for the right words, as if absent-mindedly conducting an orchestra of schoolchildren.

"You saw your father before he was admitted, in fact you placed the call I believe, so you know how distressed be was?" Megan nodded quickly. "Well, he's still moving between periods of great psychological upheaval and comparative clarity. The onset and the duration of each is impossible for us to predict, so I'm afraid your father has to remain in our care. For his own safety, as much as others'." He seemed to almost be biting his own tongue, now.

"Of course, yes."

"As well as looking after Peter physically, we're still running tests to try and get to the bottom of what's affecting his behaviour this way. But… well, the brain is a labyrinth we've yet to map fully, and the 'mind' is another place entirely." Suddenly aware that he had almost become glib, the man's speech dropped into a confessional tone. "Without wishing to alarm you, your father is in uncharted territory…"

"Is my father in danger?"

"Megan, we may all be in danger. You've seen yourself the things that happen when he dreams. We're worried he may somehow be… actually causing those events. We just have to figure out how, before we can get to the why."

"Hold on… those… are you saying those things were real? Those… those monsters?" Her face, that had been red with anger moments earlier, drained of colour as if a plug had been removed below it.

"Well, yes. Or as real as anything we'd normally choose to believe, day to day. Certainly, the deaths of the two care workers during his last seizure have been considered hard evidence by the police…"

The rational part of Megan's brain might have been amazed at how quickly the entire world could be up-ended, whether it be a sudden sound of screaming coming through a wall, the deafening click of the front door lock when returning to an empty house, or just a rapidly escalating conversation in a stark, whitewashed corridor. But that rational part of Megan's brain was drowned out by the noise echoing around those walls. Her noise.

"The WHAT? Deaths? When did this happen?? Are you saying my father's KILLED someone?"

"No, no absolutely not. Well, not as such." Megan said no more but shot an involuntary look which demanded the clarification of such a facile rebuttal. "Look, all our staff are highly trained, but working here can be dangerous as you know. It's part of the job. The patients can be unpredictable and people are injured from time to time. Sometimes things get out of hand, everyone knows this and no one will be pressing charges--"

"Charges? No really, are you telling me my father has killed somebody?"

"No Megan, I'm just telling you two people died. Well, one person died. We can't find the other one. Or, not all of him. It's a little--"

"Okay, that's enough. I have no idea who you are, where's the administrator's office?" Megan was by now white with rage and not a little fear, her own hands shaking by her sides. Those of her verbal opponent were raised flatly in a defensive gesture.

"Miss Belmont, please, if you'll just come with me--"

The rest of the sentence was cut off as an unseen alarm bell burst into life; a sudden unbroken shrieking cacophony of panic which only seemed to escalate as it bounced around the hard corridor. Megan winced, although she noticed even now that her guide seemed to be calculating what this could mean rather than actually being worried by it. Somehow, seeping in through the milliseconds of dying reverberation after the hammer struck the bell, Megan could hear another identical alarm in the corridor beyond the double-doors she had entered. Whatever had triggered this alert, its result was for everybody.

Not attempting to speak over the clamour, the doctor took Megan by the elbow and led her swiftly to the doors at the far end of the corridor. The man's confidence was such that she didn't resist this, despite the feeling that she was being guided deeper into the heart of chaos.

Before they reached the doors, the alarms ceased. The echoing quickly faded even though the tinnitic after-effect persisted, and the sound of their shoes scuffing the polished floor returned.

"Okay, well that's something…" Fairmile chimed positively, his left hand already outstretched to push the swing-door open without breaking their stride. The door resisted his presumption as he crashed into it, however. Locked. As was its adjoining twin on the right. Mumbling apologetically to himself, the doctor reached for his security fob, leaned forward and swiped it across the black plastic panel by the door frame. The small red bulb above it showed no acknowledgement of this action and both doors remained immovable.

Suddenly aware of the thundering silence only punctuated by their accelerated breathing, Megan looked unashamedly lost now and studied the man's face for any sign that this was a normal situation. She didn't find one. Instead, Doctor Fairmile grew increasingly more agitated as he restrained himself from trying his security fob again, but also from beating the doors which wouldn't let them through.

Then the lights went out…

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Dreamer (i).

"Doctor, is my father crazy?" "Oh, I assure you that your father is not insane. But the things he summons while he's sleeping? They're a different matter. Untapped forces of madness and pure will and untraceable energy. Your father appears to be not only the conduit, but also the one shepherding them through, the beacon in their darkness. Imagine that, though! Imagine the power not only to dream lucidly and without fear or restraint, but to inflict those visions on those around you in the waking world! Imagine being able to bring these fantastical creatures through the very wall of sleep... imagine if imagination was your only limit!! Think what you could change, what you could achieve. Just think what you could destroy..."

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Krakus

The moon hung in the sky, a day yet from its full-state and already tired in its orbit. The sickly yellow luminosity seeped through a blanket of mottled, undulating cloud with an oily halo, proclaiming the body to be the lone sentinel of the heavens. No stars could be seen through the uneven backdrop; none would dare be bold enough to try. No breeze stirred and the air was heavy. Were it not for the muted glittering of the waves below, looking upon this scene would be akin to staring at a backlit painting, slowly feeling imprisoned in its absolute stillness where even breathing feels like giving away one's position. The shoreline a distant memory, fates coalesced and now was the time. Such was the apprehensive tranquillity of the night that the gradual breaking of the waves was almost unnoticeable to the eye, unless one were already trained upon that spot. Groping tentacles first slid flatly onto the surface, themselves wetly reflecting the pallid glare from above. Silently, more appeared around them. And more. Too many to be a single creature surely, but too intertwined to count and impossible to tell apart. The activity spread outward like an ink blot on black paper until all that could be seen to each horizon was a writhing mass of uncanny, sub-aquatic intelligence. As thick tendrils began to reach upward, almost in supplication to their lunar sovereign, eyes began to open between them. A great many eyes; malevolent, turquoise orbs bulging in the wan light and roving wildly as their owners bobbed upon the sea. They appeared to blink as their vision was blocked momentarily by the swaying, outstretched feelers of others. Slowly, they gained their bearing as if coming to unspoken agreement, and focused on the reason they had been called from their slimy bed. The ocean itself seemed to sag when, as one, they swarmed into the ship...

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Guestbook

It has been three days since I read aloud from the book I found in the locked closet and Bersheba will not stop visiting me. For this I can only blame myself, since I summoned her and must therefore take at least some responsibility for my actions. For clarity, what I call 'the locked closet' was in fact freely openable when I stumbled upon it while exploring my newly rented holiday apartment. Having unpacked for a week's stay of recuperation following the incident, I required somewhere to stow my empty valise, that I may feel more at home during my time here. The gap between the bed and the floorboards was, alas, too slim for this task, and so I sought storage elsewhere. The back corner of the bathroom at the rear of the apartment featured a full-length closet which appeared ideal for my needs. A padlock hung closed around half of a clasp under the handle, the corresponding half folded back against the frame, leaving the chamber accessible to prying eyes such as my own. Ordinarily one would assume this space was for the arrangement of cleaning products to be employed between clients' stays, and indeed those were present. But there was also, on the head-height shelf, a weighty hide-bound book of indeterminate age, clammy to the touch and filled with intricate illustrations and indecipherable glyphs on thick, mottled pages that smelled of a disused cellar. Because naturally, I looked through it. To say the heavy, oddly formed and textured cover had 'a face' would not be fully true, and yet I swear this tome looked at me. Furthermore, while I could not consciously translate the streams of symbols therein, I quickly found myself reading aloud without thinking - and in a language I had never before heard, let alone spoken. I put all of this down to my tiredness and overwrought circumstance, and endeavoured to settle in as best I could. Not an hour later, I first heard the voice.

~ ~ ~

There is a painting above the bed in the front room. A shorescape of the local town. Rough-hewn whitewashed buildings and the sea-wall of the harbour, uninhabited there in its frozen moment of time. The painting is rudimentary in its execution (at least not bearing the fierce movement and detail of its accompanying seascapes), but it nonetheless captures the humble beauty that has drawn mankind to the sea since time immemorial. Including myself now, I suppose. But catching reverse-sight of this painting in the large mirror on the opposing wall, I could see a face. A face in the small darkened upper window of one of the fishing cottages. Lit as if to be some way back from the glass, but there all the same. A face loosely rendered with a great artist's innate ability to have their living subjects transcend all time and medium. A still face, looking - undoubtedly - at me. You have doubtless guessed, dear reader, that when I turned to examine the visage in the actual wall-hung oils behind me, this was nowhere to be seen. Turning again to the looking glass, the miniature figure was indeed still there, stock still as would be expected. Staring - glaring - out of the surrounding frames and directly to me. And so, without movement, it spoke. I cannot directly translate what the face - what she - said. Once more, it was in no language I had ever heard, yet one I understood implicitly. The voice was a low, hollow rasp, but female in its intonation. It promised no distinct personal threat, and yet an ominous tone of foreboding suggested this moment had been long awaited by my interlocutor... that this address was the recommencement of previously unfinished business. I do not recall verbally replying - certainly there was nothing I might realistically ask in this absurd situation, and yet there was a connective interactivity between us. The figure responded - somehow - to my feelings, if not my questions. When the... the 'exchange' ended, it was dark outside. I slept on the couch. My slumber was, as one might imagine, fevered that night. My visitor was once again present, and this time in the dreamed apartment itself. She did not introduce herself but I knew her now to be Bersheba, a healer or sage of some sort as anciently familiar with this town as its sand-blasted harbour and the rolling hills which surround it. She had been waiting for me, for more years than she could describe. Again I felt no actual malice to myself personally, but instead the unspoken knowledge that Bersheba's goal - whatever that may be - would somehow use my very essence as one would use coal to keep warm on the coldest of nights.

~ ~ ~

My dreams, it seemed, had broken the seal. The next day, Bersheba was - at various intermittent points - very much outside of the painting and in the apartment with me; a shape I could not define, a sight I cannot describe, murmuring indefinable words of dark intent that held no distinction. I paced the floor, somehow afraid to leave as morning turned to afternoon turned to dusk. Finally tending to myself with reluctance, food had no flavour and my books no meaning, and so I determined to avail to a local hostelry in the vain hope that company would at least drown out my companion, if not drive her away. Some hope. The Sloop Tavern held little comfort, surrounded as I was by local groups of varying sizes who seemed not to notice me. The crowd did not so much go out of their way to make me feel uncomfortable, more that their collective weekend jollity benignly annulled my sombre presence without embracing it. That is, my presence and that of Bersheba, who hovered around the corner of my sight at the door, judging me and the saloon bar with wordless utterances. I left after two shots of the local liquor and slept on the couch.

~ ~ ~

The next morning I woke alone, by which I mean my spectral companion seemed not to be present. I admit that my first port of call was to look at the painting in the bedroom and then the reflection of that same in the mirror. Nothing. I felt no heaviness in the air, no voice in my ear, no eyes on my back. Could it be that I had imagined my torment of the last thirty six hours? That this had been a surreally concocted dream of some sort? Nonetheless, after a light breakfast I made myself proper and endeavoured to research local lore at the town's library and museum, if anything to hopefully disprove my fancies rather than expound them further. Curators at both institutions were initially reticent at my enquiries, although their interest was piqued somewhat when it became apparent that I was not merely some tasteless tourist with a penchant for the ghoulish. That said, their actual help was minimal, with Bersheba's name appearing but three times in more threadbare volumes of localised mythology than I could count. Her life was alluded to rather than documented, and two of the notes could easily have referred to anyone with her - admittedly unusual - moniker. I retired to my apartment little the wiser, with a sense of dread, and with a darkly brooding visitor once more. Bersheba was in the corner of my vision again, watching me intently and murmuring her inaudible commentary. By this point I was close to my wits' end with the numb acceptance of some ill-defined, pencilled-in fate appearing to be the only palatable option and path of least resistance. It was in this state that I found myself in the nearby St. Barnoon's chapel, overlooking the rugged shoreline where countless ships had run aground over the centuries, and I myself feeling like one more of their number. My presence in the stone building soon attracted the attention of its attendant, Father Inglis, and our ensuing conversation was in equal parts of no help whatsoever and also the closest to comfort I have been able to find. While he has no knowledge of Bersheba herself, the clergyman tells me tales of this sort are not unheard in the town. He is unable to be any more specific, to tell me who or what might be trying to return and from where, or to tell me what later happens to those who reported these events as they occurred. But he is fascinated by my experience, to 'have a live one' so to speak, and is endeavouring to make further researches when he is not with me. He appears quite taken with my case, for which I am grateful. Himself an apparently outspoken local folklorist - if not quite an historian - Father Inglis has been very supportive in his time with me since, although his friendliness soon took on the air of a hospital chaplain visiting a terminally ill patient. After repeated explanations of my time here, he says there are no easy banishments for that which has been openly invited into the world, and I am inclined - reluctantly - to believe him. I do not share the priest's ecclesiastical devotions, and he assures me in the politest possible way that it would make little difference if I did. How odd, that solace can be found in the encircling arms of oblivion.

~ ~ ~

And so I wait. I wait for the return of Bersheba, knowing full fell that I shall not be fully here to see whatever form that may take. I grow weaker by the hour. The bells of St. Barnoon's chime for evensong, breaking the silence of a day where the gulls seem to have completely abandoned their usually plaintive cries. Below, a small, lone trawler putters out of the harbour at the start of its nightly excursion; nets cast, harvesting life indiscriminately so that others may happily gain sustenance. The fate of each individual fish this night is to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, to not even understand its part in the grander scheme, but ultimately just accept a thread unravelled to its end and the grim accident of happenstance. This is the way of things. So tired, now. Bersheba has stopped talking. She sits inches away from me, waiting. Bersheba is smiling.

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

1635.

The thing squirmed restlessly, as much as the packed, clotted and centuried earth above and around it would allow. With flesh in various stages of decomposition, the silver in the chains which bound it bit into what remained of muscle, a perennial fire in the blood just as mercury is to a man. But whereas that metal would lead a human into a swift and fevered demise as it pulsed round the circulatory system, no such respite was available to the creature. Oh, there was a casket of course - or rather a crate; heavy, coarse and nailed shut through coils of more silver chains - its captors hadn't been so naive as to bury the thing in open ground. And most tellingly, the box had been packed with native soil after its captive had been interred, safe in the malicious knowledge that this would keep the creature (un?)alive in perpetual, claustrophobic torment. Yes; the stake, the sword and the cleansing fire might have been a more permanent solution, but the executors of this plan had injected more spite than efficiency into their long-awaited ritual. How long ago had this incarceration begun? In all honesty it was difficult to tell. Time became meaningless when one couldn't tell the difference between waking and sleep, dream and memory, fantasy and regret. The thorough interment with seismic cries of howling justice rang in the thing's own ears for what seemed like years, long after the jailers had ceased making the noise itself. After that, a long sullen silence. An explosive reaction of rage and despair was what the band of villagers had truly wanted, so what point in letting them win any further? Plans of escape and revenge had long vied for attention in the thing's mind, although foremost among these was the assurance that even here in the earth the creature would outlive them all. For if time had taught it anything, it was that no situation lasts forever. Ah, time. And what long, glorious years they had been. The creature itself had no gender, strictly speaking, but instinct had gauged it most practical to inhabit a male host. The man had tastes and gluttonies of his own, of course, and the thing inside him had amplified these to levels which would have finished mere mortals. Uncounted years had passed, filled with wine, women and song. And blood. Always blood. For the blood was the life; and what was life for, if not living? That the creature and its host deprived others of this in the name of sustenance was... well, nature's way. Those who do not flourish are destined to perish, after all. There were those who would argue - and convincingly so - that there was little of 'nature' about the creature and its hemal symbiosis, but it was certainly in the nature of the creature. And that was enough. Besides, there were plenty of things still to be discovered by the humans in this world. Some of these because they lacked the tools, some because they just weren't yet ready for the knowledge. The thing in the ground was partly covered by these classifications; but more that, those who had deduced its methodology were not destined to live long enough to pass on that information. And so, as the decades passed, a secondary game began to be played. That of a nomadic survival. Oh, would-be-assassins arriving trembling at the threshold did not worry the man/beast-thing unduly, but carelessness could be fatal all the same. Through time, the blasphemous symbiosis fabricated differing identities at various locations. It did not do to live too long in the gaze of suspicious men, and this way the thing could be seen to grow ‘old’ in one place before disappearing, presumed dead. At this point of course, it would re-locate to another of its former palaces, a young and distant relative of the one who lived there previously, ready to take up the mantle of benign landowner or noble boyar. After the cycle of feeding and recrimination had run its course - usually within fifty years or so - it would be time to move to another carefully and secretly maintained ruin and begin again. The crimson legends that the creature left in its wake made sure that no one else would inhabit the castles. Well, rarely in any case. Unwelcome tenants could be disposed of before the thing’s official ‘arrival’ as easily as prying villagers afterward, and it was not likely that these hermits would be missed in any case. But occasionally - rarely even, although not as rarely as the beast would have liked - a challenge arose. Whether it was one who heeded the local folklore as well as having the nouse to think around it, or just a particularly charismatic chancer who could whip up a mob large enough to present a logistical problem, life of this longevity did not come without... obstacles. It was one such obstacle which had rapped - iron on oak - one windswept night, in years of which the creature had now lost count. The thing had felt the stranger's approach, of course. An eager, brash inquisitiveness in the psychic aether; a soul seeking to prove itself to others rather than any solemn determination. There would be no point in ignoring the visitor, since vigorous flambeaux advertised the presence of life (of a sort) within the castle walls. With no mesnie in attendance - an indulgence long since spurned in the name of hitherto uninterrupted anonymity - it was left to the creature to see to its own domestic affairs. Roused out of a bored reverie, the host appeared at the door without the scuffing or signs of strain that the visitor expected. The castle's lone inhabitant towered over the fool in the stone doorway. As the figure stood, snapped out of his boisterous adventure, the creature sensed no prying eyes outside the walls and so leapt upon this... opportunity, with brutal efficiency. At once enveloping and flattening its prey, lightning-fast metamorphosis led to large membranous wings acting both as propellant and constrictor, while myriad pincers and fangs erupted at every point of contact with the now-shrieking idiot. Sounds the intruder made were lost to the outside world, cocooned as he now was in the fatal embrace of his attacker. Cries were soon lost as much to disbelief as to the leathery enclosure which gripped every fibre of his being. The visitor's body seemed - to the creature - to deflate in its grasp. Blood, fats, tears, bile and sweat were consumed with equal relish. The symbiote pair were almost lost in their ecstasy; although wasn't it always thus? No pleasures known to mere man could equate with the rapture of taking another in this way - so completely and utterly. The inexorable binding of hunter and prey at this moment was exquisite, far more than any mere spearman or archer could know. No matter how anticipated or unexpected the arrival of it, the outcome was always the same. And it was intoxicating. Exhausting. Overwhelming. The creature was still, now. Almost as still as the shrivelled hunk of meat it surrounded. The remnant would be disposed of easily enough, most likely with fire. The cursed flame was, after all, the greatest hider of misdeeds and absolver of sins. The thing was roused from its disposal planning by the silent gaze of others. Unfurling from its nest of butchery, it raised its head while surreptitiously forming pseudo-eyes about itself for panoramic night-vision. Surrounded now. Like a fool. A trap. An obvious trap. Which it had walked straight into. So eager had it been to feast upon blithe innocence, common sense had been cast to the wind. And what a foul stench now came to bear upon it. The crowd - mob - which surrounded the beast at a cautious distance were armed not only with swords, nets, spears and bows but also... buckets? The circle closed slowly but uniformly. Traditional implements of war seemed only for defensive measures, whereas... as one man gave the signal, the crafted wooden pails were thrust forward and in an instant the creature was soaked. But this was no witch-drowning. Not water, but fire. The oil of the knoblauch, every bit as harmful to the beast's physiology as belladonna and hemlock would be to any of these attackers. With bubbling skin seemingly aflame, the rest was a blur. Netted, bound in silver chains and speared in a casket, then buried un-alive. By the time the thing's biological defences had nullified the plant oil, all activity above ground had long since ceased... And yet it was the recollection of this turmoil which had distracted the thing in the ground from activity above it - here and now. Something - someone - was digging. Not by chance, not through idle exploration. No, there was agency - intent - behind the scurrying above. After all these years - centuries? - what was this now? Treasure hunters come for stories of silver, or myth-hunters come to finish an ancient task? Still unable to defend itself either way, the old dead thing in the ground was at least grateful for the external gloom; that sunlight didn't sear its grey flesh when the lid of the coffin was finally ripped away from its nails after what seemed like an eternity. Although the sight which greeted atrophied eyes was no less heart-stopping. A slobbering beast, much like the creature itself but at least twice the size, caked in mud and in obscenely strong health towered over the open casket, a rudely sharpened stake the size of a small tree trunk poised in its gnarled talons. But worst of all was the simple three-word greeting and eulogy which croaked wetly from its razor-lined jaws...

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

The Statement of Nedbury Hunter.

"He's an arsehole." "And that's why you killed him?" "No, not Albernon. Albernon was alright. It's his boy Terence, Terence is an arsehole." "I'm sorry Mr Hunter, could you clarify? Mr Brockwood's son is an arse hole, and that's why you killed him?" "No, that's not why I killed him. But you need to know that to start off with. Terence Brockwood is an arsehole. Write that down." "I don't need to write it sir, this is being recorded." "Then why do you have a pen and paper there?" "Procedure, I imagine Mr Hunter. You have to understand that it's not every day someone walks into the station admitting to a murder..." "I know that." "So why did you come here, Mr Hunter?" "To save time." "Right. Well. Can you tell me again about your relationship with the deceased?" "He was my landlord." "Did you owe him any money?" "Only the rent." "Were you behind with the rent?" "No." "So what was the argument between you?" "There wasn't one. Just his son." "His son, Terence. Did you owe him money?" "No." "Then what--" "He's an arsehole." "So you've said. Look, can we stick to the matter at hand for now? You claim to have killed Mr Albernon Brockwood, but we haven't located him yet - or his son - why don't you tell us how you killed him? "...poison, I suppose." "You 'suppose'?" "Well it's more complicated than that, but poison's about as close as it comes for your records." "And why... why specifically did you kill Mr Brockwood?" "Because his son was going to kill him." "Right, and-- wait, what?" "Terence... was going to kill Albernon... it's that simple. Are you not going to write this down?" "And why was Terence going to kill his own father, Mr Hunter?" "Because of the cult he's in." "The cul-- look, this isn't a game sunshine!" "It doesn't matter if you take this seriously or not. What's done is done. And I've done it. And I'm not sorry." "So it seems. Okay... okay, what can you tell me about this cult?" "Oh, the usual stuff. Thirteen members, devil worship, black candles, amateur hour..." "...okay, and..?" "And they needed a sacrifice. Well, Terence needed a sacrifice. And that was going to be Albernon." "Terence was going to sacrifice his own father?" "That's right." "And so you killed Terence's father... to what? To save him?" "No, to save you. To save all of you...." "...pardon?" "...from what the sacrifice would bring. Look, that particular sacrifice would have worked. That victim, that killer, that time and place. It's too complicated to explain. It would have worked and Terence would have gained powers that you wouldn't believe if I sat here and drew you a picture. Obviously I couldn't let this happen, so I had to stop him somehow." "By killing Albernon? Your landlord?" "Precisely." "And how do you know Terence wouldn't just sacrifice someone else? In this 'cult' of his?" "It wouldn't have had the same effect. This was his last key task." "So why haven't you just killed Terence, if he's such a danger?" "Because he's protected. I'm sure even you know how these things work." "I'm sure I don't..." "Well, Aden does." "Pardon?" "Never mind." "No, Aden who?" "Aden Jacobs." "Chief Superintendent Jacobs?" "Bing!" "Okay, what... okay. You walk in here claiming to have killed a man we can't find, because of another man we can't find, by methods you're hazy about and for reasons which can't be verified. Is that right? I mean I can certainly do you for wasting police time..." "You missed a bit out." "Oh, I'm sorry?" "You missed a bit out of your timeline, there." "Which was..?" "Chief Superintendent Jacobs. I spoke to him before you." "Okay, and..?" "This is why I came here. To speak to him. Killing Albernon was also the perfect way to get his attention." "...why?" "Because he's Terence's lector in the cult. That's like, his 'supervisor' yes? He needed to be taken out as well." "What are you talking about?" "Christ you're a slow one. Well, at least I know you're not part of it..." "Part of what?" "The cult. Look, it doesn't matter. The cult is finished now." "How is that--" "Because three rooms away, Aden Jacobs is struggling to breathe his last, and when he loses that fight - and with Terence Brockwood gone - the cult of the Black Night's Mask goes with him. The rest of them are too weak for any of us to worry about, so it's done." "What are you--" "You're welcome." "...why are you here, Mr Hunter?" "I'm here to carry out a job, officer, much like yourself. And I did mine half an hour ago, and the rest of this is all window-dressing." "If what you're saying is true, do you have any idea what kind of sentence you'll be looking at?" "That doesn't matter. I've done my job. And in the grand scheme of things it's irrelevant anyway. You should be thanking me. Although I can see why you probably won't." "But you didn't do anything to Chief Superintendent Jacobs. I saw him before I came in here, he was fine." "Was." "Yes, w-- What is it you think you've done?" "Look... it's like a poison. Sort of." "What do you mean?" "It's difficult to explain. The Fifth Sathlata. It looks quick, but it takes a lot of preparation. Summoning is just the last part. It's... it's in the air... like a gas or a cloud, but... alive." "Have you released a chemical weapon?" "Not in the way you'd understand it." "You're trying my patience, Mr Hunter--" "I don't care. I've done my job and that's all that matters." "...okay Mr Hunter. I'm going to make this official and speak to the Chief Superintendent, then I'm going to call the psychiatric team, after which you can explain yourself to someone more qualified to help." "That's fine, George. I didn't come here to explain, I came here to 'do'. And every day you wake up after now and the sky is still blue and up isn't down and the world hasn't imploded into a new dark age of hallucinogenic chaos, you can think about me and mutter your thanks." "Right you are, Mr Hunter." "It's the small, key differences that make the big changes, George. Stopping the pieces from connecting further down the line. It doesn't matter what happens to me, only that I caved Albernon Brockwood's head in at 1:15 this morning, and that I was here at 2:30 to speak to Aden Jacobs. It doesn't even matter than you don't understand that. I don't give a shit, George. My job is above you. You don't matter. Do you understand now?" "I understand you need help, Mr Hunter..." "Then when you're failing to resuscitate Chief Superintendent Jacobs in about a minute, please know that you have helped, officer. I appreciate it." "...Interview terminated, 15:09."

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Shelter.

The best thing about being dead, he decided, was not having to deal with people. There were other benefits too, but they paled into insignificance with the burden of obligatory interaction being lifted from his shoulders. Downsides existed, naturally, and he'd never dealt with boredom well to begin with, but all things being equal - and since he did not exactly have a choice in the matter - being dead probably wasn't as bad as it had been made out to be. That this stance was the result of a long-considered conundrum rather than some revelatory moment of insight felt evident, although he'd be the first to admit he couldn't actually have told anyone how long he'd been not been alive. Worse, for a long time he hadn't actually known that was the case. In a stone-built shelter overlooking the clifftops and the ocean beyond, this was a quiet, contemplative spot. Never the best at keeping track of time, his instinctive memory had been that this was a place he came to think, because of its solitude. So a lack of people was to be expected - indeed, enjoyed. They came by occasionally and for the very most part ignored him. This was fine. He'd caught the interest of a handful of children in the company of distracted or disinterested parents, although he refrained from properly engaging with this young audience. Dogs didn't seem to like him but that had been the case when he was alive, too. Nothing had felt inherently unusual. No, it had been the slowly changing style of people's clothing - those few who passed by his way - and the developmental shift in their manner of speaking which caused him to realise all was not right. Most of the words seemed to make sense individually, but their flow and subject matter became more... abstract. It had gotten to the point where he struggled to understand overheard conversations, when he remembered he could not quite compare their utterances to others he had recently heard elsewhere. For he had recently been nowhere else. At all. Once this perceptual barrier had been broken, more followed as swiftly as his fragmented train of thought would allow. For instance, he could not remember the last time he had been at home. Nor where that home actually was. Hazy images of a town were evoked by these ponderings, but he found he couldn't name that town. That it was within walking distance of these clifftops seemed logical, but who was to say what sway logic held? No, the gradual realisation that he was dead was only alarming in how little alarm it caused. Then again, he'd already noticed that he wasn't conscious all of the time, so any distress it could have engendered was therefore limited in a strictly mathematical sense. This didn't feel like a cycle of waking and sleeping, more phasing in and out of being. As if existence were defined solely by the presence of self. And who was to say that it wasn't? No one, any more. It was after this that the unease started. The restlessness. A nagging voice in the back of his mind reminding him at all times that he was dead and that he should do something about it. But what could be done? He'd argue with himself that he (they?) just had to wait. To wait for what? To wait and see. To just wait. When boredom got too much and he decided to leave the refuge, he'd take no more than a handful of paces beyond its open front before a howling, primal fear forced him to retreat to its safety. A screaming in the soul; not his screaming, but the very voice of creation assuring unending torture to any who dare defy its warning. He felt enough to believe. He'd lost count of the number of times this had happened, always forgot the intensity of the feeling before he set out again and always instantly remembered as he scurried quickly home. Home. Because this was where he lived now. Well, not 'lived', but... But there should be a system. This thought would flash into his mind in fits of agitation, when the gently crashing waves and rolling clouds failed to salve his thoughts; failed to perform the very play for which this box - this amphitheatre - had been constructed. There should be a system where he was told what was going on, what he was supposed to do and how he was supposed to do it. But there wasn't. There wasn't a messenger or an angel or a light or a tablet or a handbook. It was just this. Being trapped - sometimes contentedly so, admittedly - in a small section of a much larger everything. Life was unfair, uneven and confusing. So was death. But getting angry about things changed nothing. Wasn't that what he'd always said? He had no idea. It sounded like a philosophy, and in the absence of anyone to rail against it was certainly proving to be true. No, the plan was just to wait. To think. To grow? To hopefully be here for whatever came next. Some conversation might be nice, although when the people were in here lately with their bright clothes and glowing hand-tiles, so might some peace and quiet. No. He was good at waiting. That would be enough. If he'd ever been able to reach the back of the stone building, the rough-hewn brick wall facing away from the cliff-edge, he'd have seen a double-sized engraved block bearing the legend:

FOR PETER. TAKEN TRAGICALLY FROM US IN A MASONRY COLLAPSE WHILE BUILDING THE SHELTER IN THIS, HIS SPECIAL PLACE. MISSED BY ALL, ESPECIALLY ELIZABETH & ANN 1881

Although if Peter ever managed to read that, it would no doubt spark the memory that it was his own daydreaming and absent-mindedness while he was supposed to be working which caused the wall to come down in the first place. C'est la vie.

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

The Pit Lamp.

| The Pit Village | The Pit Folk | The Pit Log | The Pit Lamp | The Pit | Dust

The sickly light of a gibbous moon shone knowingly through the thin curtains of my lodgings as I lay awake, a courteous feint to privacy just as the grille in a confession booth does little to soften the illicit details of an incriminating tale. Its pale glow caught the dulled brass patina of an ornamental pit lamp on the dressing table, one of the few aesthetic adornments placed in my otherwise utilitarian room. I had assumed this to be decorative, for while it seemed fully sized it was at least clean and bore no obvious signs of repeated use. I had only dimly acknowledged the item at the time of my arrival of course, but it had this evening been the first thing my eye set upon after thankfully closing the door on this troublesome day. The lamp - a piece of equipment used in necessarily significant quantities during Langdon Dene's early mining heyday - was of the exact type held by the man in the photograph, taken so many years ago. It was also of the exact type I remembered from the mantelpiece of my childhood home. An item of bric-a-brac to which I had given no previous significant thought. Now that dam was burst as I stared through the gloom at its moonlit contours. My mind roared, light bent and time collapsed as the long-case clock thudded loudly with each passing second in the uncarpeted hallway outside, and all the while sleep continued to elude me. The image on that page remained burned into my residual vision in the half-light. Not merely the pair of faces in the group staring into mine whether my eyes were now open or closed, but their names amid the legend beneath. The given names of my parents. Alice. John. Because what else could the descriptor read, showing them so clearly yet in a time and place so distant from my own? I had recognised the faces of my parents as surely as if I were leafing through a family album. The smile of my mother. Dignified, satisfied, but with an air of fatigue borne out of unspoken sacrifice – the self same look upon her face when I had graduated university not two decades ago – was there to see. The way her hands grasped each other tightly below the waist, a long-learned sign of expertly restrained, simmering tension. Although this pose also hid whether she yet wore a wedding ring. Also obscured was the left hand of the tall man behind her, the man holding the lamp theatrically in his right. The man I reflexively knew to be my father. That distinctive nose, so evident in the photograph as it is on my very face, and almost certainly the same connection made by the old librarian. And yet their surname on that page was recorded as Armstrong, not Banner. What could that mean? Surely there must have been a mistake here? Either by the compilers of the Pit Log or by the librarian who cherished it so? But I could no more doubt the veracity of the book in the library than I could my own memory. And therein lay the real quandary. In the storage of an organ as fragile and fallible as the brain, how real and immutable are our memories? And how material is our past? We are each the sole and unreliable author of our own story, told and re-told to ourselves constantly in a manner that only each of us truly understands. Our foibles, biases and opinions collide with fact, often to its detriment, and we convince ourselves that the tale left standing in the dust is one of history, rather than fancy. So we commit our narratives to art and to writing, a trait unique to our species and the key to its cumulative success; the encoding and passing on of information. To build, to grow, to learn. We write our stories for ourselves, for our peers, and for the past to be posteritised in the future. Set in our minds. Set on the page. Set in stone. But in time, these will rot, burn or crumble to dust, and their legends will be gone with them. How many shelves sag under the weight of these tomes? Countless volumes compiled with pride barely to be read, let alone comprehended? For unless a reader already knows the author or their subject firsthand, what real difference is there between a biographical account of an historical figure and that of a fictional one? If anything, a character in a novel is often more deeply and relatably written. And if the name on a page is of someone we cannot meet, then who is to say they ever truly existed? These words will disappear. No matter how earnestly I write them now, who is to say how they will be read in the future, if at all? What proof can even exist to demonstrate that I am real and not just the musings of some fevered author? All names bear the same weight in the leaves of a closed book. For the vast majority of us it is our fate to become a name or picture on a page somewhere, with the hope that this will ignite some spark of familiarity in an eventual reader, a moment to live again in the mind’s eye, to prove that the years of struggle were not all for naught. The chances of this diminish as the years progress, of course. If we are fortunate our actions may live on, but even their authorship will be lost to future generations in the din of their present. What do we truly leave behind other than a name on a page, or chiselled into a slab? The moon was still lowly visible through the gauze of the curtain as the sky lightened in the first faint flush of pre-dawn, and this image was the last thing I remembered before finally claiming a few hours of wretched sleep…

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Trench.

19 July 1918

Dearest Ginny, Thank you for writing. It's good to know that Davy is walking properly now and that your parents are in the best spirits they can be. Do keep sending them my love. Please try not to talk about current affairs in your letters, neither newspapers nor hearsay. Information is limited here for means of security and morale alike, and the censor panel obscured rather a lot of your last letter. I've heard at a certain point they'll just destroy the whole thing, so best to keep any of that business to a minimum or less. It's more comforting in all this confusion to know the little details from you. There's enough to keep me on edge here as it is, your letters are what help me get any sleep at all. Things here are as well as can be expected. In terms of progress I can't tell you any more than you already know (or have been told). The food continues to be dreadful. So hungry. The noise is constant and every sunrise is both a curse and a reminder of how lucky I am to see it. For every yard we take at one point in the front, we seem to lose two elsewhere, but it can't be too bad as we've only had to draw back twice this year. Like I say, every sunrise. I volunteered for Wolf Division last month. More in the hopes of peace and quiet if anything, as they're a fairly new group and it was rumoured they'd be working away from the front lines. That much is true, but it turns out this business is full of noise everywhere. I started on watch so at least got to be in my own company. Uneventful stuff, which in this game is a blessing. Most of my time has been spent monitoring a church on the province border, rumours of something unusual going on there but even I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be looking out for. The boys here say hello. Afraid to say we lost the Johnson brothers, although I'm sure you've heard that already. Can't go into the details but to say it was a damned foolish business. I know it will be of little to help to their mother Audrey, but when you see her - and when the time is right, of course - just let her know it was quick. They're missed awfully here, but we've vowed to do right by them. Tommy's been a bit off these last couple of days. He was away for two nights on recon and very shaken when he returned. Nasty affair from what I can tell you, although this was after the Johnsons. He was a bit scuffed up but still walking and able to aim a rifle. Not quite himself soon after, though. He became sullen the next day (not unusual in this line of work) and outright rude the next. Tommy's never been the most calm of soldiers, but word is he tried to bite the sergeant at one point. Not sure I go for that, but the poor man's got bruises coming out all over him and he's scratching at his arms constantly. Medical looked at him before he came back to us but not since, so I'm sure it'll work itself out. Chap whose name I don't know is said to have come back the same. Thing is, Tommy lashed at my face earlier when I said good morning to him. Had quite the tizzy, but as I say he's been through a lot. And I'm damned but I've never known itching like it. Going to see if I can get a dressing for it later, but they're awfully busy down there and at least it's not my good side. I can feel (hear?) it tingling, although I'm sure that's some infection being worked out. Anyway, it looks like we're going to be moved again soon so I'm hurrying this one out and not sure when I'll get your reply. Brass are around keeping an eye on things so this could be something big. Have to go, though. Apart from anything else I'm so bloody hungry I've got to find something to eat. Can't concentrate, it's getting so bad. XXXFUXXXXXXXX Sorry, please ignore that, just nerves. Sure I'll be right as ninepence in no time. And the most delicious smell has just wafted past outside. If the boys are eating without me I'll bloody kill them, I swear it. Anyway. See you soon, I know it. Love to all, Daniel. X

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

The Pit Log.

| The Pit Village | The Pit Folk | The Pit Log | The Pit Lamp | The Pit | Dust

It was the librarian who halted me in my exploratory tracks. An elderly gentleman yet of indeterminate age, he held an air of casual antiquarianism which seemed exaggerated to the point of caricature. With a baggy open necked shirt, trousers and cardigan in morphing shades of brown and beige that matched his liver-spotted complexion, the man was the very image of patient, age-earned knowledge. As he shuffled across the threadbare carpet of the reading room toward me, I felt an instant aura of attentive comfort, despite the intensity of his gaze. The man's eyes shone brightly between half-moon spectacles and thinning hair as he mentally summarised the handful of books before me; although this enthusiasm could well have been as much in surprise at anyone taking an interest in the contents of his worn but immaculately maintained shelves, in an area of the facility which I suspected saw little footfall. "Well then" he croaked, the brittle words tentatively rippling the air as if they were the first to have been spoken in the room. "Are you back for long?" This efficiently derailed my concentration. His tone was friendly and familiar, and clearly the man believed we had been previously acquainted. Although I also somehow received the impression that this had never been closely so. "Oh no, I er..." I stammered, "I'm visiting. It's my first time here", I asserted. "Lovely village, I thought I'd try and find out a little more about it?" The librarian's eyes narrowed as he studied my features more closely. "Are you Jack's boy? Ash Street?" "Ah no, I'm afraid I don't know a Jack, I'm visiting from--" "You're an Armstrong though? You've got the look..." He did not seem to intend this as an insult. My initial uneasiness at holding a conversation in a library was quickly replaced with a frustration that it was, in fact, barely a conversation. "I'm not, no. I don't know... Jack?", I added, uselessly. "I'm new here. On business, I mean. Just passing through." "Oh, right you are" he replied, with what was by now irritating friendliness. "You look like an Armstrong." "Well I'm--" I upbraided myself. No sense in bickering with a stranger, I thought, even less in garnering enemies in a town so shortly after arriving. The old man was only making conversation and was certainly more amiable than some of the denizens I'd met already. No doubt as custodian of this place his mind was a beacon of order, whilst being somehwat mired in events past. I decided to press my advantage using all of these points. "I'm at something of a loose end this morning and thought I'd read up on the local history. Am I in the right direction with these?" I nodded to the books I'd retrieved so far, three of them already open. "Or perhaps you'd like tell me about it? If you're not too busy?" "Yes, yes, I daresay..." he muttered, affably, "...you've got Teery's Notes On Langdon Dene, and The Pony Boys, good. That one on Mining in Dunham County will be no good for you, we're not in it. Keep it here mostly to illustrate the point. Of course a lot of what we had was hand-written, loose, no real interest in printing that up..." He half-chuckled with that last. "Really? I'd have thought that would form part of the--" "Well more than half of it went in the fire, of course" he interrupted. "A shame, but... that knowledge isn't lost, it's just not written down at the moment. Give it time, you know?" To my shame, I could feel my interest waning already. The problem was not that the librarian was coyly withholding information, rather that he still seem to assume some background knowledge on my part; the kind of cultural history which is usually absorbed by osmosis when growing up in one's home town. The fact that this was not my home seemed not to have fully registered with him. "We still have The Pit Log, though. Not out here, but I can get it for you, if you like?" Before I could answer, the librarian was shuffling off toward a plain brown panel of a door, behind where he had originally came from. Once behind it, the muffled sound of boxes being dragged - over shelves, I supposed - crept around the aperture where he had left it ajar. This suddenly seemed to me like a lot of effort to go to on his part, being so frail, but the old man returned after a couple of minutes. Quietly closing the door behind him, he huffed and puffed back toward me with a large tome under his arm - bound in a soft hide, age-dark and closed with a string hasp to contain what appeared to be a swathe of loose sheets. "Now, Armstrong... Armstrong..." he muttered, some mental configuration of his taking place presumably before beginning a physical search of these new pages. I attempted again to correct him, perhaps intercepting his line of thought and saving us both some time. "My name is Banner, by the way. I'm not from this village. I was born in Sussex and lived there with my parents until I was aged six. Then we moved to Carlisle, for my father's job. That's where I've been ever since, I only arrived here for the first time yesterday." Undeterred, my attendant spoke more to himself than I. "Sussex? Hmmm. Could be, I suppose." In the meanwhile he had closed and cleared my current selection of books to one side, then placed this new volume directly in front of me. The string had been unwound and cover opened before I had been able to decipher its debossed letting properly, but I had made out the legend "PIT LOG" in its centre, larger than the rest of the description. Although far from being an administrative list of colliery records, this did indeed seem to be the real history of Langdon Dene. A veritable scrapbook of sketches, plans, forms, ledgers and photograps chartering the beginnings of the village from an untouched, verdant, sheltered cauldron of land, to the zenith of its success as a small mining community. Building a firm mental picture of all this was difficult since even the pages which were attached to the spine seemed to be in no discernible order of date or aspect; as if the log had been collated from another - partially destroyed? - source, by one who either had no interest or understanding of their task. Once the loose leaves were taken into consideration, well this would make even the most dedicated historian uncomfortable. And I was barely an amateur. The librarian chattered his way through the records, around half the words being lost on me for want of context or familiarity. Again, his was the style of someone providing a reminder rather than issuing information for the first time. But as he progressed, one thing became clear, the 'look' of Langdon Dene - that sallow, darkened physiognomy with vaguely haunted eyes, which I had witnessed myself in some locals and even heard whispers of despite only being here for less than two days - was most certainly of historical provenance. And, again to my shame, I could not help but wonder if its prevalence now when coal mining had long since ceased was due to some manner of in-breeding. Naturally I vowed to voice no such query aloud, certainly not during my stay here, and attempted to concentrate on the pseudo-enigmatic rattle still coming from the librarian. Although in-depth, none of the information in this log seemed to be at all recent, but then this is precisely what I had been seeking, so I endeavoured to bring myself back on-track. I was drawn from my reverie when, around three quarters of his way through the book, my guide's finger stabbed down triumphantly on an image with an accompanying verbal celebration, the most spritely and animated I'd seen him thus far. "There... Armstrong!" And everything stopped. There... on the brittle, yellowed page which sat beneath his hand... an impossible snapshot out of time, purportedly over a century old in this printed form alone... there, in a commemorative photograph of the newly built chapel of Langdon Dene, the pit-wheel looming in the distance beneath undulating clouds... there, the small throng of townsfolk who had begun hewing this new life for themselves, standing before it... there, looking proudly, wearily and stoically into the new camera apparatus... and exactly as I remembered them from less than fifteen years ago... there stood my parents.

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Interview.

The cell leader lowered her head. "When you get out there, it's crucial that you become just like them. That you are one of them. Can you do that?" "I think so" the charge replied, her tone sounding more confident than the words themselves. "Thinking won't be enough", Bryant snapped. "If you give those creatures a sniff, they will take it all..." She turned and looked gravely down through the balcony door. Below, the shambling remains of people who had walked these streets every day of their lives, and continued after death. Moping about, so locked in to their unfathomable, wordless preoccupations that they didn't interact even though they were drawn together. "Plus ça change..." Bryant muttered. Cassie knew some convincing was in order. "I've spent enough time studying them, I understand how they move. How they shift their weight on stiffened joints, but swing loosely on decomposing muscles. The gait of each one is unique to their build, just flat-out 'acting zombie' is the easiest mistake to make. They can see if you move unusually. And they're not aimless. In any area, each one cycles between three or four points. It's like they arrive at a place they remember, then forget why they wanted to be there and move on to the next." "Okay..." Bryant left a pause hanging in the air of her makeshift office, an invitation to complete the answer. But Cassie hadn't finished, she'd only wanted to ensure her expertise wasn’t mistaken for youthful enthusiasm. "So instead of going in a straight line, it makes more sense to wander around in a circuit. So that when I finally reach the target they aren't noticing my behaviour." "But you know it's not just about how you move. They're hungry. Always. Are you ready for that?" "Well, you're going to smear me in The Gunk so that shouldn't be a problem. So long as I don't smell like dinner, I'll be fine." Bryant tilted her head slightly, appraising the applicant. It had to be said, she may have just the right mix of knowledge, duty and gung-ho stupidity to pull this off. She changed tack. "What made you volunteer for this, Cassie?" "We all have different skills here, and we work well together. It's why we've survived so long. I want to be the best. I want to be the only one who can do what I do. Also, I don't see a queue of people throwing their names in for this one?" "Yeah, that's fair", Bryant acknowledged. "But you need to understand what's required here. And I need to know you're committed. Are you ready to go method on this?" "Bryant, please. I'm an actor. I once dated a guy for five months in high school because his mom was British and I wanted to study her accent for the Dickens Christmas show our theatre group was staging. This kid was in deep, took on two part time jobs to save up and buy me a ring. But I got everything I needed by mid-November and rehearsals were stepping up, so I ended it." "And how did he feel about that?" "Overdosed on his mom's fentanyl." "And... how did you feel about that?" "Won the year's award for best performance." "Okay... wow." "Look, you need someone to get the package to our contacts on Princeton and Rhodes. That's the old arts college. I spent the next two years there, I know the way. No matter what happens on those streets, no matter how panicked I get or how many diversions I need to make, I can get that package to that building. It may just a matter of time." "Well... you're right. We need accuracy over speed. Again, I can't overstate this: the contents of the satchel are irreplaceable, do you understand?" "I do", Cassie answered. She didn't, but that was only because she didn't know exactly what she'd be transporting. That it was more than simple information was obvious, that could have been shared over the radio. But if Cassie herself could carry this cargo - and do so surreptitiously and alone - then it could hardly be a cache of heavy ordnance... Bryant continued, "And you know you may end up needing to stay there? You're not just going to be able to come waltzing back across town?" "I'll do what I have to. We all make sacrifices." Another silence. Longer, this time. "Okay you've got the job, kid." The commander crossed the room to a row of metal lockers against an interior wall. From a low, unmarked door she produced a small backpack, fashioned from a heavy plaid fabric, its single compartment fastened with a light combination lock. "They know the code" Bryant murmured; needlessly, Cassie thought. They could cut it open, if needs be. She continued, "You should be able to bump this or even land on it if you need to, you're not going to smash what's in there. The inside of the pack is showerproof, but try not to submerge it in anything." The leader slid the bag over Cassie's outstretched arms, the faintly puzzled look on the girl's face belying a mind racing to work out what this cargo was. "And just for good measure..." Bryant raised two loose straps from the sides of the pack and fastened them across the chest. She sealed these in place with another combination lock. So no snooping, then. "Are you ready for this, Cassie?" "Of course. Let's go to the offal-tank and get me camouflaged..." "I'm afraid that's not the plan we've decided to go with today. There's no room for uncertainty. Remember, 331 Princeton and Rhodes, got it? They're waiting for you." As Cassie's brow furrowed in question, Bryant reached to her shoulder holster and retrieved a Browning 9mm pistol. She shot Cassie twice in the stomach at point blank range, waited until her gasping stopped and eyes glazed, then quickly hauled the body out and over the balcony railing. And watched.

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Hunters.

"Your guns won't kill it! They won't even slow it down..." The old man's admonition was barely audible over the jeep’s rumbling engine and scattering scree beneath its wheels. His wrists were starting to bleed in his lap as he squirmed against the improvised handcuffs fashioned from fence-wire. He made no eye contact with the search party as he muttered, but the pair sat closest knew the invective was aimed at them. "Think you've said enough for one day, old man." Billy glared at him, weighing the shotgun in his grip. Turning toward the driver without taking his eyes off their charge, he added "Any sign yet, Charlie?". "No, just followin' the trail still" came the voice from the front. While the amorphous creature may have been difficult to spot travelling at this speed, its linear path of destruction was anything but. A line of disease, disintegration and destruction cut through the scrubland. This was at least the easiest part of their task. The charred remains of another house passed by. The old Jones' place. No signs of life. What was left of the wooden panelling looked bubbled and rotten through, as if the building had been exposed to thousands of years of wear in an instant. The dwelling seemed to be frozen in one last cry as the remains of its supporting structure reached feebly for the clouds. The entirety of its contents - and inhabitants - were gone, either consumed or reduced to their constituent dust. The result was the same either way. “There’s still time to tell us why you did it”, offered Zachary, the calmest and the oldest of the group, even being at least thirty years younger than the one they were failing to interrogate. Lines of consternation furrowed into Zachary’s face, but he spoke to the old man without reprisal or accusation. “Did it?”, he responded incredulously, “You think this was my doin’? It was comin’ anyway, I just held the gate open! It would have found a way in, it’s not just me workin’ for the cause! You boys have got no idea what you’re dealin’ with…” “Then why don’t you tell us?”. Billy leaned forward across the divide, raising his weapon slightly but not pointing it directly at the old man just yet. Even in this excitement, Billy knew that a bump or dip in the trail resulting in an accidental discharge could be disastrous if their captive were to be on its receiving end. Captive. That in itself was a joke. The old timer’s eyes narrowed. “It’s here to clear a way for the others. The Old Ones. Soon be their time! You’ll see!” From the back of the truck, Wyatt joined in. “Why’d you call it up?”. A question so basic this late in the day was met with a snort of derision. “I didn’t ‘call it up’, it was here all along! In the space between the spaces! I just opened the gate!” Billy looked to Zachary. “Okay, can I shoot him?” “Not yet, he might still be useful.” The old man was becoming distracted and agitated now, his watery eyes seeming to focus on other places as he remonstrated with the hunters. “You won’t stop it! You can’t!!” “That doesn’t sound useful. Let me know when you want me to shoot him”. Wyatt again. “Maybe we can’t stop it, but maybe this can.” He held up a large book with both hands. Scabrous and ancient looking, a dark leathery binding etched and embossed with barely legible symbols struggled to contain thick, age-yellowed pages that seemed to hang at angles from its fragile grasp, bulging as if to suggest illicit additions secreted between. The old man’s mood changed in an instant and he blanched as recognition of the tome registered on his face, the illusion of smug superiority shattered. “You don’t know how to use that book!” he blustered a little too quickly. “Well then I guess you and your plan have got nothing to worry about! Let’s see…” Wyatt opened the volume casually at its middle, leafed through a few brittle pages and began to read aloud with an air of bemused interest. “Umph n'geena, brahuna hai...” “No! STOP!” hollered the prisoner, unabashedly panicked now. “…stoonto een ah g'tollah, g’facht ah n’geenah?” he continued quizzically, as if seeking confirmation from his companions. It came instead from the front-corner of the back of the jeep as the old man launched himself head-first past his closest captors and toward the reader of the words, an incoherent shriek of denial the only preemptive tell of the burst of energy. Billy was quick enough to assist this velocity by ramming the butt of his shotgun square into the centre of the old man’s spine. Hands still bound, the howl ended as his face made first contact with the wooden floorboards. After he was hauled efficiently back into his seat with neither grace nor compassion, Billy held the quarry in place with the business-end of the shotgun pressed into his chest, as Zachary fashioned a gag from a length of strapping hanging behind the driver’s seat. “Well,” mused Wyatt, “it looks like that’s the passage, alright. And I’d say that’s all the help we’re going to get out of the old fool. We should lose him. He’ll be so desperate to stop us now, we won’t be able to trust a word that comes out of his mouth.” “True,” agreed Zachary, “but we can sure use his reactions as a guide to how well we’re doing…” The jeep began to slow down, noticeably. “Guys?” came Charlie’s voice from the front. “Guys, I think we’ve found it…”. The jeep stopped. Around three hundred yards in front of them, a huge translucent, colour-shifting… thing - defying mundane description of shape - shuddered, pulsed and tensed for what came next, somehow seeming to stare from a thousand non-existent eyes, as the trickling sound of urine hitting the jeep’s floor came from the old man. “Game time…” whispered Wyatt.

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Appeal.

Interview commenced 07:06

I know what this place is, I just... I forget sometimes why I'm here.

Do you remember why you were screaming?

It was... it was the TV. I was in the day room watching the TV. I don't know where everyone else was but the TV was on and it was… it was the kind of thing that’s not usually on. If something like that comes on, They usually come in and switch it over, you know? Who are They, the nurses? …warders?

I know who you mean.

But they weren’t there. Nobody was there, it was just me and the TV. It was like a… documentary or something? But I couldn’t hear the words. Someone was speaking but it was all muffled, or maybe in another language? But it was the picture. The girl. I could see that. Someone was talking about the girl and the TV was showing her photograph and I didn’t know why and I was trying to remember her name. I don’t even know why I recognised her, and then I remembered I never knew who she was. I didn’t know the girl, but I remembered her face.

And that made you scream?

No, no that came… I was trying to remember her name. I’m sure somebody told me, or said it when I was around, somebody said her name. It could have been on the TV but I couldn’t hear that right. Then I remembered what her screaming sounded like. She wasn’t screaming on the TV, that was just a photograph, but I remembered. I knew. But I couldn’t remember how I knew, does that make sense?

A little. But do you remember why you were screaming?

The picture changed and there’s some guy talking in like an office, maybe a study or a classroom, I couldn’t tell. And I can’t hear what he’s saying either but he looks so flat. He’s not angry, he’s not sad, but I know he’s talking about the girl and he just seems so… detached. And then it goes back to the photo of the girl and all I can hear is her screaming and then it’s the guy again and he’s just talking like that never happened, like only I heard it. Then there’s another photo on the screen, on the right this time – the first photograph is on the left now – and it’s another girl and I can hear that one screaming as well. They’re both screaming, panic, fear, no words, and that’s all I can hear and I squeeze my eyes closed and that doesn’t make it stop. And I open my eyes again and there are… photos. I don’t know how many, I can’t count them because I can’t see straight, and all I can hear is all these people screaming, and then the next photo came up on its own and it stopped.

The screaming stopped?

Their screaming stopped.

What was the next photograph?

It’s some other guy. It’s old, black and white. He’s smiling but there’s no warmth there, y’know? I don’t trust him. That voice is running in the background still, like someone talking in the next room? I know it’s talking about the guy, I’m looking at the photograph and I’m trying to remember where I know him from and that’s when I remembered what I did. I remember the guy is me. Not just girls, though, and there was no funny business. I’m no pervert, not me. I just needed the parts. They had the parts and I needed them. But then I saw what I did to get them. All of them. That wasn’t on the TV but I saw it again, and I could hear all the screaming and feel all the blood and it was drowning me and then I knew that it was me screaming. I guess that’s when They came in?

I imagine so, yes.

Why… why am I here?

To see if we can make you better.

Do you think you can?

Well that’s very much up to you. Do you think you can be better?

I don’t know, it… I don’t want to remember. Is that part of it? I don’t know how I got here. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO HELP ME?

That attitude isn’t going to help anyone. You need to calm down.

HOW CAN I BE CALM WHEN YOU WON’T TELL ME WHY I’M HERE--

Interview suspended while a sedative is administered.

Why would that be on the TV? In here? Who’d do that?

There is no TV. That was you remembering.

Why am I here?

You’re here until you can be better. Think yourself lucky, many don’t get the chance.

What happens when I’m better? Can I go?

I imagine so, yes.

How will you know when I’m better? How will I know?

We’ll know when we know. But a lot of it has to do with remembering. Or not.

So what, you’re… you’re here to… to wipe me? To wipe my memory?

That’s not what I meant.

But I can go when I can’t remember?

That’s not what I meant either. It’s to do with stripping away the things you’ve done, about finding out what’s underneath all that. Like I said, a lot of people don’t get this chance. Someone must think well of you.

And what if I don’t get better? What if I always just remember? Do I stay here? Is being sorry enough?

That’s not for me to say.

Then how will you know when I’m better? How can I be better if YOU won’t let me out to BE better?

At the moment there’s nowhere else for you to go. Trust me.

I remember the blood. The drowning. How do I remember drowning if I’m here?

You were trying to forget.

To forget the screaming? I can’t. I can’t forget the screaming.

Okay, thank you.

Interview terminated at 07:18. Appeal denied.

[aworryingdarkness-blog]

Creak.

This had gone badly wrong. The burglar felt his way up the familiar staircase in absolute darkness. Not an ideal situation, but stealth necessitated overriding the convenience of being able to see. Truth be told, while the darkness was intimidating, he was far more afraid of what the light might show him. It was not an old house, yet every crack of the stairs and scuff of Clark’s feet against the worn carpet betrayed his presence as if he were ringing a bell. Leaning gently forward to spread his weight over hands and feet just seemed to multiply the sound rather than diminish it. The problem wasn’t his weight, it was the mouldering wood itself. A silent smile filled the air, and The Thing that was in here with him seemed to be enjoying itself; in no hurry to end this game, even if it stalled in making its own moves. He could hear short breaths rasping theatrically in front of him. Panicking, Clark stopped. But which other way could he go now? Doubling back down the stairs with no light would almost certainly create more noise, not to mention more uncertainty in navigating them safely. Clark twisted his head round more quickly than he should, feeling a wave of nausea threaten to send him crashing to the bottom. Through the white noise reverberating in his brain he could hear the breathing down the stairs, too. Then, just managing to stifle a sob of hysterical relief, Clark admonished himself for an utter fool; that had been his own breath. He forced himself on, as silently as shaking limbs could manage. The combination of screaming nerves and stress-amplified tinnitus meant that Clark could no longer be sure how much noise he was making anyway, not that this was an excuse for carelessness. Having lost count of the stairs once he took to all fours in their ascent, Clark exhaled more loudly than he should have when his right hand collapsed onto the flat landing, instead of upward to the next step. This part was over, at least. Straightening would be tricky while maintaining any level of silence or balance, and so he resolved to stick to floor-level until he was safely inside his old bedroom. The empty landing reduced the chance of bumping into furniture at least, but it also stripped away some of Clark’s spatial instinct – especially crouched at this height. The floorboards beneath him proved to be no less treacherous than their splintered comrades on the stairs, and the creaks half way to his door again tempted him to stand up and give in. But why come this far only to admit defeat? He owed more to himself at any rate, and certainly to the others. Not far now, just-- Clark wasn’t sure if his hand or his head hit the bedroom door first, but the result was the same; shock from the impact followed by the crushing realisation that the old, round doorknob would make more noise in its opening than everything else combined. Perhaps he could stand, open the door and slide through in one fluid motion? Unlikely, given the protesting ache already resident in his knees. Reaching blindly above him, Clarke gingerly felt for the handle. Slightly sticky to his touch, he tugged it downward to try and minimise its loose rattle and slowly - excruciatingly - turned it away from the frame. He felt the bolt slide through the housing and pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked on its hinges. Scuttling inside on hands and knees, Clark pushed the door closed behind him as it audibly protested once again. And breathe. Reaching into a jacket pocket, Clark retrieved his phone. Holding his breath, he pressed the power button once, its faint plastic click being nothing in comparison to the screen illuminating and advertising his face, at the expense of his own limited night-accustomed vision. But there was nothing else for it. Slowly, deeply exhaling then holding his breath, Clark flipped up the control center on the phone’s screen and activated the torch-mode. The Thing appeared in his vision instantly, with horrifying floodlit clarity. And it was far too close. It was inches away, and the lack of scuffling noises meant it probably always had been. Clark didn’t scream. He didn’t even whimper. Every instinct was now anaesthetised by sheer crippling terror. Flesh hung off The Thing’s face in bubbling, peeling ribbons, glistening in the torchlight as it shook in Clark’s hand. Both of the eyes were technically intact, yet glazed over as if to suggest they were there for decoration, or perhaps a default convention, rather than actual use. It had found its way effortlessly around in the darkness, after all. What was left of the jaw bobbed silently up and down on decaying sinews, with little left of lips to form words, but still undulating slightly to the left and right, as if in the vague memory of speech. Faint puffs of steaming air plumed in the light between them, and Clark realised that this is what he’d been able to smell since the power had cut off. Primal blackness surged up from beneath, its promise of swift and painless oblivion almost too tempting to refuse. But now was not the time for that reprieve, for who was to say how long it would last? What good to check out now, only to be roused in the agony of being torn apart by The Thing and whatever else it had dragged up with it? All of this occurred in an instant, a rollercoaster of fear, reason and realisation compressed to a microsecond. When The Thing finally managed to make a noise, it was a short, high-pitched creak, exactly like the ones created by the stairs and door. No. Not like those. It was those. And as Clark inhaled after what seemed an eternity, The Thing seemed to grin in a lop-sided way. The burglar's own next sound was disbelieving yet instinctive: “…mother?”