short stories

Calcutta, 1946

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This is a story recounted to me by my Indian grandmother, who is now in her 80s. She lived in Calcutta through the late 1930s to 1947, when her family moved to England to escape the violence in the region. She was about 9, according to her memory. This period was just before the British Partition of the region based on religious population, where Pakistan and modern-day Bangladesh were created as a separate country for the Muslims, and India was made to be solely for Hindus and Sikhs. This action created the largest population exchange in human history. The story takes place on August 16th, 1946. A day that first was supposed to be known as Direct-Action Day, but became known as the Great Calcutta Killings. Within a short time, over 4,000 were left dead. Even more homeless after the fires died down. This event sparked several days of violence across India, with Hindus attacking Muslims, and Muslims attacking Hindus — the “Week of the Long Knives”.
My Grandmother’s family was upper-middle class, and their home stood tall and clean. They were able to hire housekeepers and pay them well enough to provide for their own families. She was raised Catholic, since the family was close with the British and wished to remain so, but the city itself was predominately Hindu and had a large Muslim population. The Direct-Action day was supposed to be a Muslim-organized peaceful protest to show defiance to the British rejection of the proposed 2-state solution, but quickly turned violent after the heat and fiery speeches turned the hearts of men darker than coal. There are conflicting reports on who started the violence, but both sides were guilty in participation of slaughter and ethnic-cleansing. Skirmishes lasted for days. Factories where Hindu workers lived were invaded and the walls coated in blood and gristle. Homes where Muslims lived were chained up and burned to the ground.
What she remembers is being on the roof of their home with her sisters, taking the day off because of the planned protest scaring her family into isolation. They had a milkman, whose name she could not remember, coming down an alley delivering his goods as usual. He was a young Muslim man, probably no more than 18 years old. Door to door he went about his rounds, and as he drew closer they waved to him. He smiled and waved back as several Sikh men appeared from the shadows and stabbed him with their knives and sliced with their kirpans, each taking their turn thrusting the young man between his ribs, back, and eyes as his screams turned to gurgling noises and silence. They continued their stabbing even after he was dead until they were exhausted and blood filled the alley. The sisters were frozen in horror on the rooftops, as one of the men noticed them and spoke:
“Sorry to have let this filthy Muslim get so close to you, friends!” They dragged the man’s corpse and shoved him down a nearby manhole and left cheering to themselves. About this time, smoke could be seen from the downtown area, as fires were being set to businesses and homes. 

Her and her sisters finally broke from their shock and ran inside, horrified. Luckily their father had the foresight to prepare for this. A detachment of British guards had been sent to their home to protect the family, and all day they remained inside. Screams and crashes mixed with crazed laughter and chanting echoed outside in the city, and crept through their windows. They were inside all day, mortified of what was happening outside.
As night fell, the violence subsided slightly. Every night she would go outside to look at the stars before bed, and out of habit she snuck away from her parents and sisters to go to the roof again. Smoke made the stars blurry this night, and fires burned creating strange shadows that flickered and danced to the music of chaos. She heard the awful sound of metal scraping against concrete, and ducked down behind the low wall that ran along the border of the roof. With the curiosity inherent to a child, she peeked over the wall to look down into the alley where their acquaintance was brutally murdered earlier. The manhole was being pushed aside from below, and when the creaking stopped there was a terrible silence for a moment. A man, clothed in shockingly white robes, came from within the man-hole. He climbed out, and looked around for a while. She recognized the young man from earlier, the milk-man.
“Impossible” she told me. “It was impossible for him to have survived that attack. And his robes were so white and clean, even coming from the sewers of Calcutta! But that was when he looked at me. I felt cold, but not the type of cold from an icy wind from the North. This cold came from my heart — no — my soul! I felt frost inside of myself, and I could not help but cry. I felt so scared and alone then, in that moment. And then he nodded to me, and began to walk away. Something was off, and I couldn’t figure out what! And then I looked closer. His feet appeared beneath his robes as he moved slowly away. They were twisted backward, completely opposite of a human’s feet. He walked toe-to-heel, as we walk heel-to-toe. My father always told me of bhoots, mostly as stories used to entertain us. But now, I have seen one. I rubbed my eyes to clear my vision of tears to get a better look. But he was gone. The silence was broken again and more screams came from up the alley. A woman’s scream, and men’s laughter. I ran back inside to be scolded by my Father. I never told anyone in my family this, for fear they would think I was crazy. But the next day we left the city under British escort, and my sisters protested as they complained about leaving their friends alone. But me, I just wanted to get away from that alley. From that angry, lost soul.”

 

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The Faucets

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So, we all know cats are pretty weird. My cat is definitely no exception. Her name is Mrs. Gibbles, and she is probably one of the weirdest I have ever met. She loves to get to the sinks as I try to wash my hands or start the bath so that she can get the absolute freshest water possible. She will stare at the faucets in wonder as the water starts to come out, like it is some magical thing beyond understanding. It’s not uncommon for me to go home after working all day to find her in a cat-trance, staring at the faucets in one room or another. She will look at me as I make fun of her strange obsession, meowing needily.

“More water, Dad!” If she had her way, she would be a watterlogged piggy.

Recently, she has been acting even stranger around the faucets. She’s been refraining from drinking the water, unless I put it in her bowl. But she still stares, and it has been all she does for a week now. Extremely unusual and out of cat-character. She sometimes even makes a racket while I watch TV or clean the house, swatting at the steel and chrome and meowing incessantly. Sometimes I thought that she was attacking a roach or something! She would hiss and go into crazy-mode, running around the house at maximum velocity with her fuzzy white gut swinging back and forth only to charge back into the bathtub and attack at the faucet. I would try to surprise her, to see what she was up to, but whenever I did she was just staring in wonder at the glistening steel. The same look she has when she stares off into the spaces in-between atoms, gazing at ghosts.

Bored and with some extra money, I decided to set up some cameras. I thought maybe I could get some prime footage and get onto America’s Funniest Videos or something along those lines. Maybe just make my folks laugh. That would have been enough. But I don’t know what to do with these tapes now. I’ve begun moving out because of these tapes. I stay in a hotel with my Mrs. Gibbles, only packing during the day.

The footage started as usual. Just her looking out the window as I drive away, then immediately she plodded over to the bathroom. The camera in there was at a downward angle, looking from a corner where the ceiling meets the walls. She sat on the edge of the tub, away from the faucet. Staring. Nothing remarkable happened for a while, and she crawled into the far end of the tub laying down where she could stare at the faucet. Very very boring. But then I began to see some movement at the chrome, and I was unable to understand how the water suddenly began to run when I realized it wasn’t water.

Slowly, over the course of several minutes I saw a purple finger stretch from the faucet. Unmistakably a finger. There was a long nail, black on the tip, cracked and moldy. It felt around the tip of the spigot and Mrs. Gibbles began to hunt it. She crept toward it, and suddenly slid to attack, swatting and hissing at it. No audio, but this was the thing that she would always do. Smack, smack, smack and the finger disappeared. She stared up into the faucet, cutely sniffing at what I knew to be impossible.

Then the finger crept up from the drain below her, bits of my wife’s long black hair entangling it, but then I saw it was unlike a finger because it was much too long and it had no knuckles. More like a tentacle than a finger. It poked at her with an intelligent curiosity, startling her tail into a big poof, coaxing her to attack again. Playing. It disappeared, and as she investigated the drain, it reached from above and tickled the back of her head.

She leaned into it like she leaned into my rubs. I vomited.

I googled some information on my address. A young girl had been drowned in the tub by her mother when she was only 6.

 

 

tales of a travelling salesman final

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My Late Uncle Clive (Final)

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It was impossible to get any sleep.  Even though Trent left to go do some snooping around the college.  Even though Max was dog-snoring loudly next to me, normally a comforting sound.  I was restless, and wired.  I wasn’t sure if it was from the excitement of the impending investigation, or from my compulsion to try and look at the… stone.  When my eyes were shut, I imagined it’s curves and edges.  Tracing with imaginary fingers, I felt its cracks and grain.  My back ached, and my shoulders were so tense that I tossed and turned.  Tired as a 90-year old man, but wired like a child before Christmas.

Of course the whispers did not help.  As I put one leg out from underneath the blanket – the perfect temperature finally achieved – I noticed them.  Their syllables were guttural and foreign and yet… Familiar.  I paid attention as best as I could, they grew quieter as I paid attention.  They must sense I am listening.

“Ft’ngluii maglwf’nafh…”

It was all I could catch at the time.  Later, I would hear more.  But first, the dream that came while I could not sleep.

A darkness fell over the room as if the sun was suddenly covered by some great tapestry of storm clouds.  But what happened next was more of a prophecy, or something.  I don’t know.  I was awake in bed, and abruptly a great ocean stretched out, tumultuous and awe-inspiring.  Waves of titanic proportions crashed into each other, greater than any other waves this world had seen.  Their collisions shattered the song of the rain with thunder.  A city suddenly began to appear, with gargantuan stone blocks stacked irregularly to create strange structures that were nearly Escherian in geometry.  A strange tone blew from beneath the waves as the city rose higher, water falling from sinister stones covered in algae and rumbling into the sky.  The tone was a thousand screams blended into one voice, somehow.  The cacophony grew so loud and impossible to block out, and then just as suddenly as the vision came, I was back on the bed, sitting upright and sweating.  My legs shook from the fear that comes from a lack of understanding, and when my eyes finally focused, they found their own way to that bas-relief of the horrible being.  A chill tingled its way down my spine, and shivering, I left the hotel to meet up with the detective.

We returned to the college, and the secretary had left for the day early apparently, as she was not in her usual spot at her desk.  Trent brought a crowbar under his coat, and we awkwardly hid together in the leg space underneath the great desk that belonged to my late Uncle Clive.  I couldn’t imagine what awaited us behind the secret door, what terrible dark secrets must be behind it!  We sat in complete silence for hours, neither of us wanting to take the risk of being heard.  Luckily we both remembered to wear our deodorant. We had fasted in preparation for this, so that we wouldn’t get the urgent calls of nature at the worst possible time.  A granola bar each kept our stomachs from growling as darkness began to chase the light away from the day.  Shadows spread around us, the already dark room becoming so black that we could scarcely see each other.  Silence was pulsing into the room, waves and waves of it washing over the darkness.  We thought that no one would show up, and just as Trent became restless, a slow creaking shot into the room.  The heavy wooden door to Uncle Clive’s old office began to swing open, letting in a dim light from the hall and several long shadows that belonged to members of this strange cult.

The footsteps tentatively found their way into the office, so quiet and careful.  A small crowd had bustled in judging from the sound, and the last in shut the oaken door behind them.  Darkness again found its home.  If we were discovered, my mind shuddered at the thought of the horrible tortures that would await us.  Flayed skin, peeled back from each finger like a hangnail from hell, curling up my arm and my neck and finally to my eyes.  My damned imagination made my heart pound with such force that I feared I would be heard by the anonymous crowd less than 20 feet from where the detective and I hid.

After an eternity, we heard the large picture of the sea monster attacking the old vessel swing to the side, revealing the doorway.  The sound of brass on brass clanked and I knew that the keys were slid into their locks, tumblers turning and hinges creaking as the door swung open.

In silence, the group made their way into the doorway.  Finally the door swung shut behind them, and their echoing footsteps down a stone corridor disappeared.  A moment passed, and then another moment.  Trent and I looked at each other and silently agreed to finally stand and stretch and complete our mission.  It was nearly the appointed time.

Trent stood first, and I hesitated to stretch my own legs from the sitting position first.  He stood, stretched his arms up, and a great cane with a large stone at the top cracked him across the face.  Blood spurted from his nose and sprayed onto his shirt as he fell backward, tumbling over the chair.  I quickly pulled my legs back and continued to hide, a cowardly move that saved my own life.  From where I was, all I could see were his legs twitching with each repeated swing of the cane onto his skull.  Each thick thud gave a spasm to his body, which finally went limp.  Silence again, and then the hidden door creaked one last time, swinging open then closed.

My entire body felt weak as I pulled myself up.  Trent’s face was completely caved in.  The copper smell of fresh blood was blended with brain and marrow.  Barely able to contain my nausea, I took the crowbar he had smuggled in.  I would have closed his eyes if there were eyes to close.  I would make sure he got a proper burial… But first there was business.

The crowbar worked well on the hinges, and I pried the door open with a surprisingly quiet splintering.  The vestibule was a wooden frame of decent design, remarkably clean.  I took out a small flashlight that I had brought with me, and I carried the crowbar in my other hand.  A smell rode on a small wind out from the darkness in front of me, and it grew stronger with each step down the old stairs.  The wooden structure gave way to stone, and I did not notice when that change occurred because of the sounds I heard.  The damp, musty air blended with strange incantations, and trills.  Drums.  Almost human sounds.  Sounds no person should make.  Each step into the tunnel brought them deeper into my mind, the echoes giving the impression that the sounds came from all around me.  Finally, a flickering light could be seen around the corner and up ahead, where the tunnel curved suddenly to the right.  Turning my flashlight off, I crept up to the edge and peeked around into the heart of madness.  The light that flickered was from a great fire.

The earthen hall had opened into a great cavern, who knows how deep beneath the school grounds.  The ceiling was so high up it gave me vertigo to look, with strange Byzantine patterns carved into the wall all around escalating the sensation.  The center of the room drew my eye, as the dark chanting grew more frantic and hurried, words echoing with fanatical glee.  A monolith of black-green blended stone towered in the center of the room, fires burning around it in a shallow pit.  Countless skeletons hung upside-down above the pyre, just beyond the reach of the flames.  I focused on the cultists, silhouetted and nude.  They danced and swayed erratically, each moving to the strange rhythm of the incantation that I will try to write again.  It is so clear in my mind… and yet difficult to write:

“Ft’ngluii…. maglwf’nafh…. Kuthluun…. Reh’lyeh… wvagah-najl… phutadjnn!”

As I heard the words from the disgusting lips of the raving cultists, I knew that they were the words that I have been hearing in my mind.  It makes me shiver to try and think of how it was possible.  Some stones are best left un-turned.  The flames leaped and I caught one face: A man I recognized from the funeral.  A colleague of my late Uncle’s.  And another.  And another.  This was the secret for which he was ashamed.  A scream broke through the maddening tempos of beating drums and foul syllables.  The drums became more frantic as a woman was dragged out from the other side of the cavern, naked.  Feet and hands bound.  My heart pounded and I watched helplessly as they brought her to the center, before the swaying nude crowd and the monolith.  The chanting grew louder as one man stepped forward, and raised an object high into the air.  The gold glistened from the strange blade that I was so fond of — the tentacled blade.  It was a sacrificial knife.  They broke in and made a mess to hide that they took just that.  The woman looked frantically around, crying for help, and as the man grabbed her hair to pull her head back I saw it was the secretary from before.  Blood squirted out onto the stone floor as the blade cut into her throat, and almost immediately she was hoisted up over the monolith and the flames, and I watched the blood drip down onto the black-green stone and I saw the familiar being from the bas-relief carved into the top of the stone, staring at me.  The chanting was frantic as she twitched and hung above the monolith, dying and flames licking at her skin, and catching her on fire.  Must have been doused in gasoline.  I could not help but vomit, and I felt powerless and I weakly made my way back the way I came.

The police did not believe me.  They nearly arrested me when I tried to get them to follow me to the school.  They knew of no Detective Trent.  His body was gone when I went back up to the room.  No blood.  I have done the best I can to write this clearly, and I fear I have used all the strength I have had just to stay sane.  The whispers still come to me.  The dreams come as well, repeated over and over again exactly the same during the darkest hours of the night.  A horrible conspiracy at this university, going on for generations.  I went back to my burnt shell of a house to salvage anything, and there was nothing.  I took Max from the hotel, and upon checking out the manager gave me a note that had been left from someone, though he could not remember who.  The camera’s footage from the night it was left was just static.  I am moving on, and fear I will continue to have to move around.  The note was on very nice paper, in a thick envelope.  The typed words stood harshly in contrast with the white paper:

“We know that you know.  We are watching.  We are everywhere.”

As I read it, the whispers began again.  At first they could have been a soft wind through the trees.  But now they are constant.  I have found a good home for Max, a safe place.  I won’t be around much longer.  The whispers won’t stop, and I know of only one way to stop them.

 

 

 

tales of a travelling salesman final

My Late Uncle Clive (3)

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I have to type quickly.  Time is of the essence.

The morning after the firebombing of my house, we went to the college again to try and find more clues.  I kept the hidden note my uncle mentioned a secret.  It was a hot day, and the AC in my truck doesn’t exactly work at 100 percent.  By the time we arrived, we both had rings of sweat under our arms and on our backs.  The heat was oppressive, and made me feel almost lethargic.  Max the dog was to stay at the hotel all day, and watch National Geographic.  Lucky dog.

We both arrived to see the smiling secretary again, who greeted us.  In a sing-song voice she told us that no one had gone into the office of my late Uncle Clive.  Relieved, we walked in silence down the large hallway, and opened the wooden door to see a ransacked room.  Papers thrown everywhere, priceless looking artifacts were tossed to the ground.  Someone was looking for something.  Luckily nothing seemed destroyed.  I noticed something that was mentioned in my uncle’s notes: a strange bas-relief of some inconceivable language, like the one from before, and a more detailed picture of the odd creature from before.  It was a queer caricature of an octopus / man with bat-like wings, towering over impossible architecture that my mind struggled to perceive.  The strange angles and geometry captivated me, and the color of it was an unknown, black-green blend of strange stone.  Trent had to shout to catch my attention, at which I whirled around.

“Hey ____, are you listening?  I said I found something odd.”

I walked over, carefully avoiding important looking papers and set the etching onto the table.

“What is it?”

“Well I noticed that nothing is missing, it is obviously not a robbery.  These artifacts were left alone.  But I also noticed that there is no forced entry.  Extremely odd.  I’m going to go review the cameras in the hallway.”  He quickly left me alone in the cluttered office, dust spiraling around me lazily in the scattered sun.

Perfect.  I could get a chance to look for the secret note, and it would be discrete.  I began to look around the room.

“Something that holds the whole world in it”, I muttered to myself over and over.  A globe?  Surprisingly there was no globe.  I looked in an atlas, and then another.  Time was passing quickly as each of my ideas went to no avail.  Not in the encyclopedia.  Not in the dictionary.  I was becoming frustrated and I bumped into the computer tower that stuck slightly out from under his desk, knocking it over.

The side panel came ajar, and a the corner of an envelope peeked out from within.  I laughed to myself because I never would have figured that out.  I was surprised that my uncle knew enough about computers and the internet to create that small mystery.

I propped the chair back up, sat in it, and reached for that really sweet letter opener — the golden tentacle.  To my dismay, only pencils and pens sat in the container.  I looked under the table, on the floor, frantically picking up papers and tossing them aside.  It was nowhere to be found.  Why would someone have stolen just that?  There were plenty of other (and more expensive) artifacts and tokens in the room.  Strange.

I sat down again in the chair and as it squeaked I opened the letter to read:

“Dear (Redacted),

I knew you would find this.  I have a terrible secret.  It’s simpler to show you rather than try to explain it.  Go to the painting opposite my desk, which is probably where you are sitting and reading this now.  Move it to the side.  They are overconfident, and won’t expect outsiders to find their way in.  

Make your way down on the first of September, at 11 PM.  Hide in an alcove, and keep your mouth shut and your ears open.  Bring a camera, no flash.  Night vision.  Detective Trent may have contacted you by now, and if not, he is the creepy guy who might be following you around.  He really is an odd one.  

Please forgive me.  I know what they… or what WE were doing was wrong.  But I want to help put an end to this.  Maybe then my soul can find respite.  

I’m sorry.  

Your Uncle Clive” 

Immediately I stood and went to the picture, an old timey work of an ancient sea monster attacking an old ship.  I went to move it, and it didn’t budge and I strained against it as Trent walked back into the room.

“What are you doing?” He asked quickly, and I asked in a strained voice for him to help.  Finally with his help, the painting suddenly flipped open, revealing a door raised from the ground, and a staircase that flipped down like the stairs of an attic.  A secret passage!  But, the door was locked.  Two sets of keyholes made it apparent that we could not get in without alerting whomever frequented it.

“Well, this explains the lack of forced entry.  I’ll bet it is other staff members who are using this…”

“I found what was stolen!” Blurting out and cutting him off, I quickly sketched the molluscan blade.  His face turned pale as a sheet as he pulled an old drawing from his wallet.  It was a scan of an old primary document, covered in wrinkles and tears of time.  The same tentacle knife was there, staring at me.  I felt strange again, somehow mesmerized by its shapes.  My eyes flicked over Trent’s shoulder to the bas-relief.  I swear then I heard whispers in my mind, and I must have lost track of time because Trent shook my shoulders.

“Hey!  I said this was found with that cult in Louisiana!  Could it be the same one here?”

I stared at the picture he gave me in silence.  The similarity was undeniable.  We decided that we would come back on the first of September, and hide somewhere in the room and wait for those who may use that tunnel to come back and use it, then somehow follow them in.  Maybe break in.  Trent and I gathered what important papers and documents we could find so that we could go back to the motel and see if anything important could be found.  What was interesting was what happened to me that night.

The whispers were definitely real.  Trent had passed out, and Max had too.  So I sat alone in my twin bed and I was going over some of the same documents again when I glanced at the wrapped up stone etching of the strange creature and the writing.  I felt like I was being drawn to it, like an obsession.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day, and now I couldn’t resist looking at it again!  It was really amazing and horrible at the same time.  The ancient, elder god of some forgotten tribe perhaps.  The artwork was fascinating, and before I knew it I was holding it, touching the curves and the lines.  Trying to understand the impossible architecture of the city the being towered over.  Before I realized it, I had been listening to whispers for the entire time, and as I became aware of their hushed syllables and clicking tongues they disappeared.  I looked around, but there was nothing but peaceful sleep and scattered papers.

I have to get some sleep, because last night I did not.  I must have stayed up for 7 hours just looking at the thing.  Before I knew it, as I traced the exquisite lines of the relief, the sun had risen and Max was ready to be fed.  So was I.  Time flies when you are having fun.

 

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My Late Uncle Clive (2)

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I’ve lived alone since the kids have grown up, and my wife left me soon after that. We stayed together to raise the family, but she never really loved me. I don’t resent her for anything at all, so lets move along as I correct myself. I don’t live alone, not really.

 

My dog Max was a big ol’ Golden Retriever, and in his prime he was rambunctious and would bark at everything. But as time went by, he became more reserved. Some people follow the same pattern. I’m just glad he didn’t follow the terrible pattern that is senility. Max was my best friend, and he always managed to find his way up to my lap no matter how tired he was.

 

I got home, and I was greeted by the familiar thumping of his tail on the hardwood floor of the hall. I flipped lights on and kicked my shoes off and scooped all the old boxes of take-out off of the kitchen table and into the trash. I threw down the old manuscripts and papers, and took some fresher take-out from the fridge to sate my growling stomach.

 

Max found his way in with me, and sat eagerly by his feeding frenzy area. His tail was uncontrollable as I poured fresh food into his bowl. We ate together in silence as I looked at these strange documents. The night was steadily growing darker, but I forgot to turn on the lights and my eyes adjusted without my knowing. They were too fascinating to peel myself away from. There was something about the strange, completely foreign symbols. They were unlike anything I had ever seen before. Pictographs and dashes and curls all blended together into some forgotten story.
Some of the scrolls were something similar to ancient Sumerian. But they were also not quite like what Google searches spat back to me. There were flourishes here and there, and odd pictures blended in between some of the lines. The text spiraled around some of these eldritch images. One in particular caught my eye. Some strange octopus, turned upside down but with angry eyes carved right ways up in the head of it. The tentacles held different items: A cross, a strange “Y” with two dashes in the botttom, and knives. I stared at the image for longer than I thought, because Max’s whine broke my concentration. He stared at me with keen interest and tilted his head. I took another bite of my food and it was already cold! Time was passing by with unusual expediency.
The night had fallen completely by this point, and to see I had my face pressed up all the way to the papers. I didn’t even notice! I stood and flipped some lights on to continue, but then I heard Max begin to bark at the front of the house. Extremely out of character for him, the barking was persistent and growing louder. He never barked at anything anymore, not even the mailman. But something had grabbed his attention with an eerie tenacity. A loud knocking broke the silence from the front door, and Max’s barks turned to growls. No one ever visited me, not even my kids. And at this hour?
I grabbed the bat that was by the front door and looked carefully into the peephole. On my front step was that strange man from before, his brown hair was carefully combed in a modest pompadour, and he was wearing a dark coat. He looked nervously over his shoulder and reached up again to knock when I popped the door open a crack. My eye was the only thing he could see when I asked:

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I… Haven’t been honest with you, sir.”
“Well anyone could have figured that out, buddy. You’re not a good liar.” He chuckled and reached into his back pocket, at which I slammed the door shut thinking he was going for a gun.
“WAIT! I’m a detective! I was getting my badge!” he shouted with frustration. I carefully peeped out the peeper, and sure enough there was a gold shield there, held up next to his sheepish grin.
I opened the door again, this time unlatching the various locks all of the way so that I could let him in.
“Well, why didn’t you just start with that yesterday? Would have been much easier for both of us. Plus I thought you were some creepy and stuck up asshole.” He laughed at that as he stepped inside, hanging up his coat.
“I get that all the time. There’s a lot to tell you.”
I cleared the manuscripts off of the table hurriedly, putting a pot of water on to boil for a french-press brew. All the while trying to think about why a cop would be interested in my late uncle.
“I’m just going to dive right into it, sir. I’ve noticed a pattern in some recent cases, as well as some cold cases going back… quite some time.” He produced a file from thin air, it seemed.
“Oh, by the way. My name is Detective Jackson, call me Trent. I’m sorry for yesterday. I’ve had to be extremely cautious. I’ve been receiving death threats for my work, which is unusual, because I thought only I knew about it. Even my boss doesn’t know I’m here right now. I’ve kind of become obsessed. But hear me out.”
“Sure. I have nothing else to do, and I haven’t had company in years. Plus I like stories!” I smiled and he gave a thin smile back.
“Women have been disappearing from this town for hundreds of years. But people always assumed they were runaways, or something along those lines. Because there was no discernible pattern or similarity. Until I took the time to do all this work. Every 4 years, a young woman vanishes. She is always between 16 – 25, and according to the reports that are complete, they have no real close friends, and their family is broken. Fathers or mothers gone or addicted to drugs, you know. Very sad situations.” He spread the thick file out on the table this whole time, laying out photographs from recent years, and ending with one from a very long time ago. The type of photograph from when folks never smiled. Her hair and eyes were as black as the underside of the clouds outside that wandered through the night.
“People always assumed that because of their home situations, and their ages, that they simply ran away, or killed themselves. No one had ever been found, and so without a body they remain a missing-persons case. Never able to warrant a full on homicide investigation. There were never any witnesses to the disappearance, it was like they just walked out their homes one day and never returned. But this is where it gets weird. All of these disappearances began when the college was founded. I’ve even found old primary documents from colonial eras about some disappearances, but those were assumed to be Indian kidnappings or the like.”
The sound of my phone timer exploded into the kitchen, and scared us both. He actually stood completely upright and drew his gun, which he now awkwardly put back into his holster. The coffee was ready.
“But I have made a map of the disappearances, and they all are within 30 miles of the college. I had been researching strange disappearances like this, and apparently there was something similar going on in Louisiana a long time ago, and it had to do with some strange cult that required human sacrifice. Throats were cut, then burned, or simply just burned alive. Really horrific stuff. But your Uncle intrigued me because some of the records from that case had strange manuscripts remarkably similar to what he was working with when I went to canvass the staff at the college. He said that he wanted to meet me, that he had something to tell me that would blow a hole in this case but… He died within 48 hours of talking to me. That is how I know something is seriously amiss here. Of course there were the death threa — ”

 

 

Max began barking again, furiously. He had barked more this night than in the last few years all together. I stood and looked for him in the front, and saw he was foaming at the mouth and barking like a wild animal. His eyes were crazed and my heart was pounding as suddenly the window shattered inward, and the room burst into flames. The curtains caught fire and the fire spread over pictures on the wall and an old couch as Max bolted from the living room and into the kitchen, barking and barking and barking. Trent stood and had his gun drawn just as another Molotov cocktail burst into the opposite end of the house. The heat filled the air as flames began to cover everything.
“Save the manuscripts!” I shouted at him, as I grabbed an old family picture of mine. From a time when we were happy. With the picture in one hand, I scooped the massive retriever under my other arm, and followed Detective Jackson as he kicked down the back door and covered the flames there with a blanket he had found. We tumbled out into the dewy grass and stood in the night, watching the flickering flames spike up high into the sky. Tires squealed out front as the culprits got away. No time for even a glance.
“Well, I guess we should go to…. well my place isn’t safe either.” He looked at me, then the ground. Within an hour we awkwardly were checking into a hotel together. He passed out in one of the twin beds, and I sat in the other, typing this. I will update soon.

 

Something is afoot.

Click here for the next part!

My Late Uncle Clive (1)

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I was never close to my uncle, but then again, no one really was.  His work always came first.  He never came to any family gatherings, no matter how much anyone asked him.  Even physical letters went without reply.  He never even showed up for my dad’s funeral!

I resented him for that, until I saw his work.

He was an archaeologist who focused in ancient languages and cultures.  Clive Sterrenson was his name, and in his field he was widely respected.  Being in his old office was the nearest I ever came to visiting him, and he was dead now.  At his funeral, there was no family, only colleagues who seemed older than the manuscripts he pined over.  Funerals already make me sick, but the smell there was really terrible.  Something about the way old people smell really flips my stomach around inside me.  There was only one other middle aged person there, who seemed strangely out of place.  A blank face and a white suit he wore among downcast grimaces and black clothes.  I approached him, and asked him how he knew my Uncle Clive.  He stared back with that blank face and muttered:

“School.” Without another word he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of mingling mourners.  Odd.  I talked politely with some of my uncle’s old friends, and they were remarkably tight-lipped with me about his work.  Each question was answered without specifics and between quick glances between each other.  My uncle had died of some sort of flu that took him in his old age with his weakened immune system.  Natural causes.  But there was something about this funeral that made me curious.  I felt compelled to learn more about my uncle, a man his own family did not understand.  I always liked a challenge, and I used to read the Hardy Boys when I was a kid.  Maybe there was something beneath the surface of all of this.  Maybe I just wanted to understand what kind of man would ignore his family for some old tomes and ancient etchings.

So before I knew it, I was pulling up in front of an esteemed college with towering spires and glamorous architecture with the loud and old truck I had.  I found a spot between a Lexus and a Bentley.  I remember feeling glad that even if normal teachers did not get paid as much as they should, at least these college professors were taken care of by the university.

The secretary seemed to be expecting me because she was stoic as a wall until she heard my name, which brought a smile to her face and a flurry of motion to her hands.  Ruffling through some papers and dust, she found a letter that my uncle had written and addressed to me!

“Why wasn’t this just mailed to me?” I asked, annoyed.

“He left specific instructions with me to only deliver it in person, and if you came in ‘of your own volition'”. She said with a forced smile, the smile of someone trying to assuage a problem customer.  With a sigh I took the letter, and she led me to his old office.  Dark wood everywhere, giant bookshelves on the walls that were behind and flanking his massive walnut desk.  This place took fantastic care of their professors.  The woman closed the door behind me without a word, and left me alone in the dusty darkness.  Thick curtains blocked out most of the light, only a sliver of sunshine found its way in.  Dust danced in the thinness of it.

I sat at his desk and a massive creaking shot out from underneath me.  All of this money can’t stop chairs from squeaking.  Looking at his desk, I saw it completely covered in papers and rolled up manuscripts, and in a large jar for pencils I saw an awesome letter opener — probably the coolest I have ever seen.  The child in me lit up as I saw the light reflect off of its gold.  It was shaped like a tentacle, the handle thick and there were suckers that fit my fingertips perfectly.  The opener was more like a knife I saw, the tentacle part curving down then flitting out toward the tip, the blade surprisingly sharp for a normal letter opener.  Probably some gift from the college.  A model ship in the room hinted, perhaps, at an affinity for the nautical.

Perhaps.

I opened the letter with ease, the blade doing the entirety of the work.  Surprisingly sharp.  The letter was covered in beautiful penmanship.

 

“Dear (Redacted),

I’m sorry for never being around.  I wish I could have apologized to my brother before he left us.  But it is my own fault.  This damned work I have been involved in for 40 years now has finally killed me, if you’re reading this.  And Miss (Redacted), if you are reading this, mind your own goddamned business.

Sorry (Redacted), but she is a bit of a snoop.  She’s probably still reading this.  So I’m going to hide another note somewhere in this room for you.  It’s in something… that holds the whole world in it.  Even you should be able to figure that out, no offense.  Burn this note so no one can — “

 

The door swung open with a clatter, and I was so startled that I quickly stuffed the note into my crotch for some reason.  Why not a pocket? I have no idea.  The strange man from the funeral was there, dressed in pressed khakis and a blue shirt.  A student?  He looked extremely irritated.

“What are you doing in here?” He spat words laced with venom.  I sat back in the chair and leveled my eyes toward him like I do with my son when he has an attitude.

“Perusing my late uncle’s work.  What are you doing barging into a dead man’s office?”  His face became even more irritated, narrowed eyes became the slits of a snake’s nose.

“I’m here to protect your late uncle’s work, all due respect.”

“Oh, were you a student of his?” He looked like he had been stung, and he shuffled slightly and became visibly uncomfortable.

“That is no concern of yours.  We were colleagues.  We were working together when he became ill.  I’m here to collect his things.”  Not if I could help it.

“You will do no such thing, not until I say so.  He made me his executor.  What was your name?” The man turned on his heel and said as he walked down the hall:

“Good day, sir.” Extremely strange.  Naturally I had to find out more.  So I collected as many papers as I could carry, loaded up my truck, and instructed the secretary to ensure the door remained locked and no one got into that room.

I’m home now, and about to go through some of his works.  Hopefully my boss is alright with me cashing in more vacation hours.  I will update as soon as I can.

 

Click here for Part 2

 

 

 

Scratching (Final)

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Click HERE for the part before.

I’m writing this in the lobby of a Starbucks. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but I need to make a record of this before I finally lose my senses to the fear that is lurking behind my eyes. Or they catch up with me. My wife has left me and its my fault, all my fault. I’ve become obsessed. I should start from where I left off. Looking back at what happened there is so much gray, and not enough black and white. The people here are casting odd glances at me, they must think it strange for a homeless looking man to have a laptop and to be typing furiously while stifling the crazed laughter that keeps bubbling up into his mouth. No matter. Who cares what THEY think?? Th0ey have no idea of what lives out in the untouched woods east of this town.

 

OK, I need to focus. Focus.

 

I went back to the house. The house on the left, where the old man was, was embalmed with yellow CAUTION tape. Wind made it flutter and sound like some leathery wings above the din of the trees that swayed and twitched in the heat that blew through them. The humidity was so thick that I felt as if I was wading into some great, invisible sauna. The strange, seemingly empty house on the left stood silently. Staring. The trees all around us, being fairly far into the countryside, towered into the sky as they moved with the wind. I thought about how I wished I had enough money to buy a pistol. Buckshot and slugs would do.

I was going to move without hesitation today. I was going to finish this. It was going to be easy. I could corner them here and finally finish this. Oh, to be finished. Were that I could be and not a raving man holding on desperately to the cliffs of sanity — trying to save myself from the black waters of madness frothing below. I have to push their strange ritual out of my mind. That dark altar in the woods. Forgotten… Demanding attention.

Wait. The beginning.

 

I was about to re-enter my old home, the one that I had fallen in love in. So many memories were held within its walls; pale echoes of laughter glowed in my mind as I went to slide the key into the lock. The key barely touched the brass when a quick clamor and came from inside and I whirled to the window next to the door to see my white curtains obscuring my view. Shadows were all I could see, and one moved into the hallway and out of sight while another stealthily slithered to the kitchen on the right. A trap was in the process of being set and I had stumbled upon their devious workings. I would not become the next skull on their filthy shrine, cut into that wet colon of the earth. I would not be another trophy to be polished and displayed carefully in the foul darkness while they cleaned their rotting teeth with a splinter of my rib bone. I would not be, as it seemed more likely now, a sacrifice. It did not matter. I would not become another victim. Not today. Or ever.
I put a chair under the front door to keep it from being opened. Leaving it locked, I doused the front of the house in gasoline. Even the windows were covered in dancing flames as I moved around to the back. From the hole in the house foundation, rats came squeaking out into the dirt and into the underbrush. Then a black-nailed hand – elongated in a disgusting strangeness – pulled a pallid beast out as it gripped the dirt. I shot it and it wheezed and looked up at me as it gave its last repulsive breath. Hatred brewed in those obsidian orbs that stared unblinking as death filled its new corpse. Another came, and it was so fast!! It crawled out low to the ground as if this was another natural way that they moved — on all fours!! In one motion it had come out of the hole, and pulled its revolting counterpart over itself like a cloak. I fired 3 rounds into it, the buckshot only slightly penetrating until my final round – a slug – tore through them both and it fell into a steaming hump of grey flesh half into the brush and half in the dirt. Dark red blood began to pool and be absorbed by the planet. Mosquitoes and flies landed instantly on the macabre pile. A wafting of horrible smells from the body blended with the natural stink of a swamp. My house was engulfed in flames behind me, and while I was far enough away from the main part of town for it to take some time for police to get here, I had to work quickly — I knew I had to I had to finish them off now and here and forever and then leave this place and never talk again. There could be no more rituals. I had no clue – at the time – that these horrors were nothing compared to what I would find later. The blending of onyx and green in the moonlight… No. Not yet. I must write it all.
The house that had seemed vacant next to me all of those years was not, and the fire had grown out of control with the wind and spread to it. I checked inside the shed to make sure that my rudimentary barricade had held, which it did. A loud crashing and cries of the beings who had long been hidden echoed out. Melancholy and angry, animalistic and frightened. Unnatural, and yet… human. Almost. I moved just in time to see the last of them tumbling over each other into the forest, screeching and clicking and talking to each other… Maybe to me. Fragments of half-words and almost familiar tones drifted into my ears. I did see one that sat, staring at me from across the small field. It saw me, too. I raised my gun to fire a slug I had loaded, but it was gone. I knew that I could not leave them free in the forest, I could not pass the buck on to some other unsuspecting soul.

 

They were my responsibility. They were mine to kill.

 

I left the inferno raging behind me, screams of the damned erupting from the yellow blossoms of their funeral pyre. I crashed into the underbrush, and ran after the creatures. The fauna was thick on the ground, cutting and pulling and tearing at my arms and face and clothes. Ahead of me, I could hear the stampede of the hominids running through the forest. I caught glimpses of them standing upright, and I fired at them, missing. I don’t remember how long I chased them, my breath burned in my lungs and my legs were aching when I finally slowed down. It could have been an hour. Maybe even more. The adrenaline was endless, and my heart fluttered like a captured bird in my chest. I managed to slow my breath after a time, and listen. The sun was beginning to fall already. How long did I run? This part of the forest seemed untouched by man. A forgotten swamp. I began to walk, hearing silence around me. My crunching was stifled by the mud, for the ground had become much more damp. My eyes investigated every leaf and bush, tree and branch. I saw no signs of animal life in that place. No paths cut by boars in the brush. No scratchings from deer. Even the insect life was drained from this place, as the sun fell behind a clouded horizon. There was darkness now, and I was lucky to have packed a flashlight.
I moved through muck now, my boots almost getting sucked off by their sinking into a mire of ancient land. Spanish moss was thick in many places, choking the life from parts of thick oaks. Slopping through more and more, I was worried for gators, but saw none. I thought myself lucky for it, and stopped my breathing and strained my ears to focus on a sound I swore that I did not hear. But I did hear, and to think of it now makes me want to scream out at these fools around me who have no fucking clue what lives east of their suburbs and lattes.
The sound was chanting, words that I had never heard and wish to never hear again even if it means I have to take a spike to my ears. Half-human tones and alien syllables distantly found their way to my mind. Words meant to remain unheard — but I must try to make some sense of it all! some record so that people can know and avoid and perhaps… No. There is no defeating it I suppose. The dreams made it clear. The voices blended and clicked and did not make sense but here, I will try:

 

Ft’ngluii maglwf’nafh Kuthluun Reh’lyeh wvagah-najl phutadjnn

 

I heard these mumblings and moved closer, that is when the words became more clear to me. They chanted low, just above a whisper, and yet being in that strange silence of that old land it reverberated into my bones with every vile syllable. I moved quietly closer to observe a horrible sight and strange things that disappeared when I went back to look for them. I combed that same area for days and could not find anything. That glade was still there, a str a n ge island in the swamp with a river gliding around it murky and brown. It was still empty, when I went back. No animal life. But the shrine was gone, or invisible. Yes… The shrine.
The creatures swayed grimly chanting around a monolithic structure around 8 feet tall. Fires surrounded it, layers of sticks blended with a few headless corpses that crackled and popped and made me nauseous with a stench of charred flesh. The stone towered and was an odd color. Black and green and… yet not. Not obsidian and emerald though, it was almost as if the green had blended into the black, a disgusting and unknown color. Strange carvings were visible, unexplainable hieroglyphs and a malevolent etching of some strange being I cannot describe. Something from the sea. I stared upon the horror of this evil ritual, and raised my gun to fire. Slugs ripped into one and it fell suddenly, like a repulsive rag doll. The others looked around frantically and screamed with an overwhelming hatred as I fired again, and again, pumping rounds into the bush next to me. I think it was then I went mad, as some picked up strange amulets or totems from around the shrine and took off into the night, leaving the horrible fire burning flesh under the stars. The night was silent again, and I blacked out.
I woke up several days later, for I had grown a beard and bug bites covered my body. Maybe I came back into rational thought again, and repressed the time spent insane? I found my way back to that place and it was empty, no green/ black monolith jutting from the earth on that strange old island. Not even evidence of burnt grass. I laughed into the silence. Just empty dirt filled the island, and not even footsteps remained. I must be insane. I went back to the town, and I found that my wife had left the hotel without a forwarding address. Her number was disconnected. Her family’s was off. And so I went to look again at that place. It must be there!  But, there was nothing. I hunted in those woods for anything now, no boar or deer or ancient subterranean human cult lived there anymore. I googled my home address in the news just now. People disappeared 20 years ago from there, almost to the day. And 40 years before that. I have to leave now. The police are on their way, apparently. Something about arson. More like some sort of cover up. The people are whispering around me and I have to leave.

 

The Stone

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Day 1

Never kept a journal before, decided to start because my Grandfather died, the man who raised me. He died on the old farm that his Grandfather bought all those years ago. Our family broke and tended to this land for generations, growing all manner of crops. But now that Grandfather is gone, its all mine now. No problem really, its what I’ve been bred for. Plus there’s plenty of help from the farmhands. But there was one responsibility that had been hidden from me, out on the far corner of our property. The one small barn that was a fraction the size of the main ones, hardly more than a tool shed. I was never allowed in there. Not until I found his note, with the key.

Life after life, we pass this down. A duty passed from father to son.

Go to that shed, you will learn how.

I thought it was the weirdest damn thing I ever read. And I’ve read a lot for a farmer. So I thought I would go out to the shed and see what all this fuss was about. I was never really curious about it, to be honest. The building was just an old run down-looking thing with some old wood rotting away. Sitting in the middle of a field you would have to walk across to get to it. Not a pleasant walk either because that sun gets hot. But I went out anyway, taking the pupper along with me. But when we got closer to it, the old coot started acting strange. Barking like mad, that dog refused to cross the field to the hut. So I sent him on back and kept going. Dog never spooked easy, but who knows what dogs think about anyway.
But one really strange thing was the squirrels. There were 3 sitting outside of the building and facing it, un-moving. I thought they were dead because they were so still! Normal squirrels would be long gone by the time I walked up. But they just sat like they were frozen solid. I shouted and they turned and looked at me, and for a long time too. And I looked back at them real awkward-like. Then suddenly they went their way, scurrying about all normal. Strange as hell. Kind of got a chill from that but I brushed it off and opened the door.
The place was mostly empty, but there was a big ol’ rock sitting in the middle. That’s all. No grass around it either, just a dirt floor. Dark as night in there, the odd place actually was sealed up pretty tight i guess. No light came in. But… there was something about that stone. It was sleek, once I took a good look at it. Real nice to look at. Real pleasing to the eye, something about the smoothness of it. It was black. A deep black. I got this really weird feeling that came over me as I looked at it, and I started looking around, looking for how I was gonna learn how to take care of this damn thing. For what do do with it. But there was nothing else in that place. Nothing but that sweet-looking rock. Pointless thing though, no idea why they would keep it here. But it was so nice to look at! Maybe it was some sort of family shrine. It was light before I went in there, but it was dark outside somehow, I must have lost track of time. So I came back in to write this. That’s why I felt like I needed to write this down for someone, because there was something wrong with how time passed in there. Better get to bed, gotta do a literal ton of work tomorrow.

 

Day 4

 

I keep going out to keep the dirt in the shed the way it is, picking up any weeds that might have sprouted up and taking the rake to it so the dirt looks real nice around that stone. I don’t know what I am supposed to do out here, but for my Grandfather I would do anything. I felt compelled to just keep things nice like the way I found them. I mean that thing really demanded my attention. His tombstone is on the other end of the property, but there is something about this place that makes me feel closer to him, and my late father. I know they all took care of this place and kept it the way it was, so I must too. Besides, it was nice and cool in there, the air slightly drafty somehow despite it being shut up in the dark. Even the lantern I used never seemed to get warm. I cleaned the door as much as I could on the inside, and the walls too.

I polished the rock for the first time yesterday, and it was extremely satisfying to wipe the soft cloth over its smooth surface. Even bought some nice cloth to use for it, out of respect I guess. It deserves more than just an old rag. It deserves more. I made it shine, even in that dark! Every once in a while I see some squirrels trying to get in to see it, so I shoo’d them away as usual. Weird little critters. Last night I couldn’t sleep though, I kept thinking about those curves on that strange stone, that altar! There was something about polishing it that was amazingly satisfying, like scratching an itch that you cant get to without exhausting effort. I could not shake the thought that I missed a spot! I tossed and turned, could not get comfortable to save my damn life. Frustrating really. My folks always raised me to be thorough, and my Grammy always told me “if you do a job, do it right!” So naturally I got up in the moonlight, threw my boots on, and got on out there to clean it. Man its a sight to behold, this night it seemed even darker than black, like it was swallowing light around it. Thats how good I polished it. Can almost feel it thanking me. Feels warm sometimes too. THe more attention it gets the better it looks so I have to make sure to keep checking on it to keep it all nice for my family. Maybe one day my kids can take care of it too. When I was done, it was morning. So I came in and decided to just eat and stay up and get the days work done.

Day 11

 

Something weird was happening, and I just noticed it today. THeres dirt all around the shed now, a perfect circle going about 10 feet away from the structure itself. Some sort of wood rot spreading to the plants, or some science stuff. Should go away soon enough. But while it was thhere, I defcided to start just raking it again like I do to the inside, gotta keep the ground fresh! Makes it look amazing, the smooth cuts into the earth. THe patterns.s. Dream about them sometimes too. I feel like I need to rake in a certain way and I do, and it looks strange but… right somehow. But that rock is just getting nicer and nicer. I wish I could share it with the world, but somethign tells me to keep it a secret. For now. Sometimes when I am out there polishing it, I hear some squirrels outside trying to get into it, I feel like they know that theres something interesting in here. THey go away though. But I keep polishing. Sometimes I stay out there all day, and just hire another fellow to help the guys down in the fields. My responsibiliy is here now, just like my Grandfather’s was. But I never noticed him coming out here to take care of it like this. Maybe he did it at night, when we all slept. He never liked wasting time. I(‘m sure he knew this Stone needs attention, and as much as it can get. Whenever I am away from the Stone, I feel like it is calling out to me, telling me to come take care of it to make sure no dust settles on it. I have to go to it, even when I am at the store getting goods, I feel drawn back to it.

 

Day 20

Whispers.

 

 
I hear them sometimes when i am away from it, but always when I am around it. Comforting me. I feel like it is my Grandfather and those before me, but I cant quite hear them. Whenever I polish the Stone they are the loudest but only slightly above a whisper. They do not come from the Stone, but from the air it seems. From the constant draft in that place, swirling. It’s soothing to me, like I’m back sitting on the porch with Grandfather. And I do not feel that hollow pain when I am there. I cannot understand what they sa y but something tells me that I must keep cleaning. I must keep the stone pristine so that I can hear more and understand itwhat they are trying to tell me. I must. I h a v e to. There something for me to know, something that only I can discover, It needs me to take care of it it needs me to listen and be ther for it so thats why I decided to hire another full time manager to take my place. Sure it hits the budget a bit but we can take it besides I have to take care of this old thing out here in the field. Only I can. I dont know why but the whispers are not scary to me, I can hear them now tickling me, almost makes me want to giggle. Wait, The Stone. More whispers?, calling at their dependable friend. it is time again, it needs some more loving. It needs to be darker.

 

Day 25

 

So clean, so tended to. Like an impeccable zen garden. But this morning was amiss. I must ha dve left the door open, becaduse I could see it open from far off whispering to me telling me to take care of it. I look inside and among the whispers and the dirt surrounding the Stone was a circle of squirrels all looking up at the Stone like little minuature druids, identical each other all frozen stand still like statues worshipping maybe.. or perhaps the stone opened the door because it wanted more attention. It was stronger now. Good. I shoo’d them off, but with that they only backed up a bit enough for me to clean so it was enough I listened to the whispers well and they let me take care of that beautiful black smooth Stone throbbing with darkness. I felt a hum from within almost like a purr I swear thats how good I clean it. Ill keep cleaning until it purrs again because that felt so good and so satisfying like when a kitten purrs and you want to hold it closer because its s o sooothing and nice and comforting to me like it fills a hole that I never knew that I had. The hole my Gr an d father left perhaps. the dirt outside was bigger now so it took almost constant care but I dont mind I have the time I have the guts to take care of all this. The tree nearest to it died so it could make room for more dirt. Pulled it out with my truck to make room for more dirt. Sent all the men home, no t hi ng to tend to no more. Combed it over the spot real nice so it looks like nothing was ever there, nothing but the pattern, zig-zagged into squares. Hope Grandfather is proud of me they never got it to be like this to make such sounds and emit such feelings. How did I never know this art was here? doesnt matter I know its here now and I will tend to it, alone. Gotta keep it safe from others, who knows what other people would think?: what would it want if others saw it and didnt want to admire and respect it? ? why would they do that I have no clue but no risk will be taken. No one can see it but me. And the squirrels too they know they understand what the rock is. I know what it is. It is so old, and so lonely. It needs more and more care forever, and its ok I will always be here.

 

Day 46

 

It Rumbles each day now, and the dirts swell and fill the farm!! I had other workers destroy the fields and raze the trees and leave nothjing but the topsoil! Perfectly tilled like a giant zen garden Glorious in the light, the Great Rock now stands open without that stupid barn around it. No idea why they kept it there, the old fools. How could they not know that it needed to be f re e? Something weird about keeping it hid? it NEEDS to be free it yearns to be free and it needs all the room it can to grow. It needs the dirt. It rumbles each day now, echoing into the home. It wants me to get rid of the house too. No matter. I will live by it with a tent and a small mess. The whispers are constant, comforting me god I love them. Its amazingly Black, that Great Rock. Even with the sun on it there is no issue with it being darker than dark. It absorbs the light around it with ease and on a s u per sunny day the light diffuses by it making shadows leap into the sky sometimes, jabs back at the sky vibrating around it waves of shadows emanating off in such a beautfiul way. GOd theres nothing like it why did my folks keep somethign so awe-inspiring hidden? The squirrels even come in numbers around it, surrounding friends who had died in solemn reverence to their Elder. I keep polishing it and making sure that there is no dust on it. Not one grain. It ne e ds to breathe. The earth rumbles and I know it is connected to this stone, this ancient thing, and that the earth knows that I tend to this place. This paradise. An old responsibility I have, that I will always do. The rumblings grow so loud now!! Amazing. It knows I am wasting time with this journal. THe earth shakes!! Its beautiful and horrifying and humbling and I am its servant, it needs me to grow stronger.

 

The Day

 

The Ground rumbles with anxiety, I can see the trees on hills offf in the distance quivering with the reverberations from the grouund. I think I am mad, because the landscape is qu iveringd and waving like waves on an ocean sometime, I kept polishing and the rumbling gets so LOUDthat it fills the air, the birds in flew off long ago, and up and high in the sky circling, all of them, a cloud. But there was no sound of life but the life within the land here that i have nutured and cared for this primeval being I know now that It was my duty my destiny to care for and be here for the Stone of the world, the Stone that stuck from the earth that shakes every minute now of every day. I cannot stay much longer I think or I could be swallowed up byh the planet

 

The squirrels have all died, their skeletons sucked up by the dirt they died on, disappearing into the dust, i cleaned it more, but the rumbling has become so violent that I couldnot stay so crying i left, I could not become like those tiny rodents so loyal to the forgotten One here in this place.

I walked to my truck and drove it off onto another hill where I could see this event and now that I was farther away I know that I have done something.. unnatural.. and wwrong. The whispers were loud enough that I could hear that they were Words that should not be spoken, Words forbidden by time and forgotten on purpose. They were gleeful now… As I watch the earth buckle and pulse, something rising up out of the ground where my family farm once stood pulling itself out and I want to keep typing but id ont think I can anymore there’s some darkness coming from the planet, a massive pulsing earthen hell pushing its way from the crust and breaking free from the plates where it had been kept a secret. I see it’s hand, the size of a hill. I know I will die.. I’m sorry. I have ruined it all, and I was not smart enough to stop myself. The whispers are laughing now, softly in my mind. Taunting. They know that the ancient One has finally been freed, some primordial Titan that ancient magicks had sealed away or ancient tribes buried in the dirt or God or the gods themselves had pushed back down into the crust. It should have stayed forgotten.

Its free now, dear God. It sees me. Im sorr

barn

Scratching (3)

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Click HERE for Part 2

I went back out to the shed… I don’t even know where to begin because so much has happened since the last update.  I lost my phone, and nearly my sanity.  And more questions were raised then were answered.

I woke up to a knock on my door after my nap, a hard knock.  Brushing the sleep from my eyes I opened the door to see 2 police officers standing there, with flashing lights outside on their cars and an ambulance.

“How well did you know your neighbor, Mr. ____?”

“The old man?” I replied. “Hardly knew him at all.  Waved to each other when we took out the trash but that’s about it.  I knew he was alone, is he alri –”

A cop interjected with a tense tone, obviously flustered by what he saw.

“He’s not alright at all.  He is dead and his body is scattered…”

“Shut up, Jackson.  Stick to the script.  Sir did you hear anything last night between midnight and 4 AM?  Any screaming or anything unusual?”

“What happened?” I asked.

They looked at each other for a long second, and the older cop scratched his head.

“Someone broke into your neighbor’s house last night and killed Mr. Jeffries.  It was a very violent death.  You didn’t hear anything?”

I stood there in silence for a moment, and I told them about what was in my shed.

“Please come look, this must have something to do with what happened to the old man.  They were inside my walls last night, scratching again until dawn.  I haven’t slept in days and I need your help with this.  I don’t know what to do and you should probably call for backup I don’t know how many there are.”

The younger cop laughed, and the older remained stoic.
“We don’t have time for this.  If you don’t know anything then we won’t waste our time here.  We have real work to do.  Where were you between midnight and 4 AM?”

I looked at them with pleading eyes, or they could have been dead eyes.  Who knows.  I am exhausted.  I told them I was asleep.  I was on my own.  And if I pressed the matter further I felt like I might become a suspect myself.  I have that kind of luck, in case this entire story didn’t lead you to believe I have shit luck already.
They left along with their flashing lights and left only yellow crime scene tape around the neighbor’s house, and plastic over windows that must have been busted in by the murderer.

Or murderers.

I didn’t want to know how the man died, but my imagination ran wild.  I could picture him sitting alone watching something on TV Land, a picture of his dead wife smiling next to him on a table helplessly looking on as creatures smashed his head to the floor and ripped him to pieces, taking his entrails and hanging them from all over like twisted party decorations, crimson glistening in the yellow light of ancient bulbs flickering.  Pouring bits of his fluid and chunks of his flesh into their grim mouths, blackened teeth crunching and gnawing at this macabre meal.

I paced in my house for a while, and finally decided to go outside.  I had to see the shed.

I went out, and looked around my house first to see how they got into the walls.  I found the place where they must have gotten in.
Luckily I was freaked out enough when I found that to go back inside and upload the pictures before what happened next, My hands are beginning to shake again as I remember what happened in the shed.
I went outside, the sun was shining clearly since it was a great day.  Clear blue skies, but the heat was really horrible. The humidity made it feel like I was swimming through an itchy mossy lake instead of my backyard.  Mosquitoes were thick in the air, I constantly had to fight them off as I made my way into the undergrowth.  Through the ferns, the old shed came into view again.  The door looked shut, but it was open just a crack.  I held my shotgun tight to my shoulder, ready to raise and fire at a moment’s notice.  After what happened to my neighbor, I was not about to risk becoming another victim.
The door creaked on the old hinges as it swung outward, opening to the chaos that was within.  The tools were all still stacked where I had left them, along with the shelves and everything else.  I listened closely — and could not hear a thing.  Nothing but the sound of dust swirling about with the lazy draft coming in.  The air was hot and stale, and it made me cough quietly.  If anything was there, surely they knew I was there now.
I began the process of moving all of the junk, placing my shotgun carefully down with the safety on.  One by one I moved a ladder, a toolbox, an old boxing bag, paint cans.  Soon there was just the rug half up-turned with the mysterious trap door.  I could almost feel the enigma emanating up from the earth, some forgotten hell here in the Florida swamp.  An oppressive sense of fear was hard to fight back, my knees felt weak as I stared down silently at the door.  I stared for a long time, just listening.  Thinking of my wife at her job now, taking care of someone’s kiddos and teaching math and science.  But I doubt there was anything in any textbook about what happened next.
I picked up and shouldered my Mossberg, kicking the trap-door open with my foot and holding a small flashlight in my mouth.  I looked down at the black, surprised and thankful to see nothing at all down there.  A black goo was visible on the wooden frame of the doorway into the earth.  Must be some sort of blood.  I threw a tool down, expecting some clamoring and motion.  My hands sweating so much that they were dripping, I listened to the sound of silence echoing loudly up from the darkness.  I began to descend the earthen stairs, when the door to the shed slammed loudly shut to my left, and I let out an involuntary shout of fear.
I scrambled back up and kicked at the door with all my might, and it swung open immediately.  The wind must have blown it shut.  With a deep breath I propped it open with a pile of dirt and sticks pushed up with my boot.  I mustered my courage and descended into the black, the flashlight feebly pushing light into the dark.   A small room was there, and shining the light around I could see that the walls were just dirt, some old wooden beams holding everything in place.  There was some hay covering the ground, thicker along the edges of the walls.

 

Like little dirty cots.  A pile of small bones was in one corner, obviously from rodents or whatever else these things could get their hands on.  The room had a hole, by this pile, large enough for a person to wriggle into… Some strange tunnel.  I began to take pictures with my phone, the shutter sound like an explosion in that place.  The lightning flashes of the camera driving the opaqueness away into tiny corners, only for the blackness to rush back into place like waves in a tidal pool.
I peeked down into the tunnel, poking the light down there.  It reached for a long while, and I could deduce that it must head out by the vacant house next door’s yard.  Curious, and emboldened by my discoveries and evidence, I got on my hands and knees and began to go down into it, dragging the shotgun with me and the flashlight in my mouth.  I slid deeper for some time, the going was slow because of the cramped space.  The dirt was held up only by itself here, there was no wood.  The earth made rumbling sounds at one point, which I first mistook for my stomach.  But there was nothing but silence down there with me.  A fearful silence.  Finally I could see the end of the tunnel, where it opened into some other forgotten chamber of horrors.  I crawled further and further, excited to see what strange things was there for me to find, I could not keep this odd sense of glee from my mind.  I was excited to finally get some sort of proof that something completely fucking weird definitely was here.
But then, as I looked down the tunnel to the end getting closer, I saw several long fingers clutch the roof of the exit, and I froze.  And then I heard a raspy breath escape into the air.  I felt like my heart would leap from my chest it pounded so hard it must have been able to hear the muscle beating against the cage of my ribs into the blackness.  The creature lowered its head at an unusual angle to look down into the hallway at me, its eyes glowing with the reflection of the light.
“Hell… Hello..?” The words weakly whispered from my trembling mouth, tears welling up in my eyes from the fear of being so close to the thing.  Where I was in that tunnel, diplomacy seemed the only option.  I could not exactly maneuver there.  The creature looked at me for a long time.  It blinked several times, its raspy breath coming from its slightly opened mouth, and I got a chance to examine the beast.  It drives me mad now to have to recount the images that may be impossible to repress. The grey skin was stretched tight over its face, slits where a nose should be.  A thick brow bone protruded over its eyes, almost Neanderthal looking.  The breath was foul, and the scent of it filled the air in the darkness.  The light danced around since I was shaking from fear, and the shadows moved over its facing making it have the appearance of changing like some shape-shifter.  But I knew that it was something not unlike a human.
Then it opened its mouth, exposing narrow, long teeth like the tines of a steel rake.  Like hundreds of freakishly long needles were jammed into its rotting gums.  It lowered its head even further closer to the ground at an uncomfortable angle, staring at me with saliva dripping into the dirt pooling and creating mud.  I could hear the drips, and then the snarls coming from its blackened mouth.  Then I could see the skulls on the wall behind it, where a shelf had been carved into the earth.  4 human skulls, white and clean, sat reflecting the light that trembled over them, casting shadows onto the wall behind them.
At this point I began to be able to move, and I started to slowly back up the way I came, bringing the shotgun in front of me.  And then it lowered its full frame down, filling the end of the tunnel with its horrible body.  The smell was overwhelming and I kept forcing back bile down into my stomach with each slow movement backwards the way I came.
Then it let out a sound that I will try to describe, but I know it cannot be.  A trill, like a tongue rolling an ‘r’, with the pitch getting higher then lower.  Some strange communication, I thought.
“Please…” I meekly spit into the air.  At this the creature began to move into the tunnel, and I moved backward faster now, with desperation.  Shaking, and trying to breath in the enclosed space I could not help but drop the flashlight, making the battery fall out.  I was alone in the darkness with the sound, and the creature, and the smell, and my shotgun.  I fired it off into the darkness, and with the flash I saw that I had hit my mark, but I saw behind the creature that there was another.  And probably another.  I shot again and again, but through the ringing of my ears I could hear the trills in the damp cold air of this place in the earth.
I crawled backwards faster and faster and faster, crying now into the black, my eyes were opened but for all the good it did they may as well have been closed.  the sounds of the scraping bodies consumed the air in the tunnel, and also the sounds of flesh tearing and bones snapping.  They must either be eating their comrade / father / brother / mother / sister or simply forcing it out of their way.  Finally the light from the trapdoor came into view and I fell back into the main chamber, scrambling up the earthen stairs and I could hear them calling to me as if begging for me to stay with them in the darkness, they sounded lonely somehow, but I knew it was all a ruse.  As I turned to shut the trapdoor, I saw one looking up at me, angrily hissing at the sunlight trickling in, I tried to fire but the pump-action was empty.  I slammed the door shut and threw a heavy toolbox on it along with almost everything else.  Exhausted, I sat on the pile, crying.  I had to move.  I knew then I was not sticking around longer than I had to.  The leaves outside rustled in the wind, and a draft came into the room, wiping sweat from my brow.  I was shaking, and then I heard another sound.
Scratching.

 

The trapdoor was being scratched by grey fingers and black nails.  At first it was one, but soon it was a cacophony of nails from several hands scratching and pushing against the door.  And just as suddenly as it began, it stopped all at once.

 

 

I came inside the home and locked the door, unable to stop my hands from shaking, I reached into my pocket to text my wife to instead meet me at the Holiday Inn instead of coming home.  But my phone was gone.  I must have dropped it in the chaos underground.  Fuck.  All of my proof was gone, except what was there in the shed.  And strewn all over one of the houses next door… But what was in the other house?  I would like to think it was empty, but my gut tells me that there is something in there.
The sun was going down by this time, and I did not want to mess with anything.  I packed the dog and the cat and some clothes and things we needed, and I went out to the truck to leave.

 
I am at the hotel now, I managed to get my wife on the phone and told her what happened and to come here.  I took a pill last night to get some sleep, and it was a dreamless night.  My wife gave me a hard time for a while.  She says I must have seen something, or had a bad dream.
But she came to the hotel, without stopping by the house for anything at all.
Tomorrow I am going to go back, with the sun high in the sky so that I can do some real exploring.  I am going to look at the vacant house and break in.  Something tells me that the tunnel opens up into that home, and there is some dark secret living inside.  My landlords phone is now disconnected completely, their leasing office closed and their website domain up for sale.

There is some secret here, in this old swamp of a town.

Something that can’t be hidden for much longer.

 

Click HERE for the final entry.

 

Scratching (2)

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Click HERE for Part 1

I heard something heavy on the roof, crawling above us.   I went outside to get a look at the thing, and I peered into the shadows above my house, trembling.  An overwhelming sensation of being watched came upon me, stifling my breathing.  I gazed upon nothing.  But that feeling of being quietly observed made me sick to my stomach.  There was nothing on the house… Not anymore.

I quickly went back inside.  Bolted that door tight again.  Moved the couch back in front of it.  I wasn’t going to risk going outside again, not after what I did.  Not after what happened.  There was something primal about our interaction, like a story that had been told too many times already over the course of history,  Us versus them.  I can’t explain it, but there is a hostility innate to the interaction between us.  Like homo sapiens forcing homo erectus into extinction.  Who would have thought my high school biology class would become useful to me?
After the roof scare, we decided to take all of the animals and just go into the bedroom for the night, since the doors were locked and blocked.  My wife took a pill to help her get some rest since she is a schoolteacher, and she can’t miss work since tests are coming up for the kiddos.  I stayed awake, clutching my Mossberg.  I felt pretty confident that all of the barriers that I made in the shed should keep the creatures in the ground.  But as I sat there in the darkness, I found myself thinking of their eyes, glittering in the dark looking up at me.
None of the descriptions you folks suggested really looked like what I saw.  The rake’s hands are much too big for this.  These things had more… dexterity.  Nimble fingers.  And the eyes were not dark, at least not with a light shining at them.  Seems more like some forgotten link between us and the primordial soup.
My thoughts were a whirlwind as sleeplessness began to catch up to me in a wild delirium.  The faintest brush of a wind in the bushes made my heart flutter, and my muscles tense.  And that FEELING!  The one of being watched.  Even the walls of my home seemingly could not keep those prying humanoid eyes from whispering into my mind.  The darkness itself seemed to hold them.  The shadowy corner, black in the room.  For all I could tell, there was something crouching in my room now —
Scratching began anew.

 

The location made me feel a new fear.  The walls!! The WALLS!! I have heard rats in walls before in apartments I lived in during my youth.  Light scratches and tiny scuttles.  This, was completely different.  It must be Them.  Scraaaaaaatch scratch. Scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatch.  Long, subtle scratches.  Like dragging long nailed fingers lightly over drywall.  I could picture the creature, skinny enough to slip into the frame of my home, grey skin pallid in the dusty darkness.  I loaded my shotgun with buckshot.  There was no question in my mind now, that there was something there.  And it was the thing that I saw.  There are no coincidences on a moonless night like that one.  There were no cute mice in my wall.  I knew.  I could not bring myself to pump shells into the walls, lest it let the creature spill into the bedroom.  Luckily my wife was out cold, but the dog was whining and growling again — like before.  I sat on the edge of my bed, feet hanging over the side to the ground, cradling my shotgun at the origins of the hellish sounds.
When the scratching first stopped, I went out into the living room to see the other side of the wall, to make sure it was within the thin frame and it hadn’t gotten into the home itself.  Surely, it was where I suspected.  But this gave me more scares.  The angles that strange body would have to twist into to get to where it is now are wholly unnatural.  It took all my strength left to not vomit, thinking of the disgusting being covered in dirt that had lived so close to me for so long.  And then I noticed that the cat had come out with me, and was at the window looking out intently at something.  I slowly walked over and I swear I caught a glimpse of a face peeking into my home.  A face not devoid of reasoning.  A face looking for something, someone.  Me.  As I got closer it was nothing but reflections and shadows…
I waited all night for something more.  But the scratching would stop, I would begin to drift off to sleep and then they would begin anew.  Toying with me.  As if it could sense my sleepiness and was playing with my mind.  Psychological warfare.  It is now almost 8 am, and the scratching has been gone since just before the sun rose.  They must be nocturnal.

I sure hope so.
I am going to take a quick nap, then go out into the shed.
If my hands will stop shaking.

 

Click HERE for Part 3