Short Weird Tales: Brown

"Whit dae ye ken aboot yon Simulation Theory?” asked Hen, the pint glass in his hand rapidly approaching empty. The snug of The Lomond Arms hummed quietly around their table, a regular Sunday crowd.

"Whissat?" mused Joe, distractedly. Oh god, Hen was in one of his moods again. "Ye mean like in The Matrix?"
"Aye, EXACTLY...". Hen pointed at his brother in cold triumph, "...jist like in The Matrix, when thir livin inside a computer, likesay!"
"What's this aboot, Hen? Ye think yir in a computer noo?".
"Naw it's no that, bit... well somethin's no richt. Look, since ye mention it, whit year did The Matrix come oot?"

This stumped Joe, who paused with a pint half way to his mouth. "Well ah'm no sure, a guid while back. Whit dis that matter?".
"It disnae", chirped Hen. "Mair importantly, whit year is it noo, though?"

Something was out of order. Even Joe would have to admit this was a perfectly reasonable question, unusual as it seemed. And all the more unusual because he realised he couldn't answer. Had Hen spiked Joe's drink? What year was it?

"Ah... ah dinnae... look, what's goat intae you the day? Ah come oot wi ye fir a quiet drink and ye spring aw this oan us...". Hen slapped a newspaper down on the table between them.
"Ken whit that is?".
"Aye, it's the Post."
"This week's Post, aye?"
"Aye, this mornin's. Ah read it earlier."
"Thir's nae date oan it." Joe stared at the top of the folded cover, the unease growing to a clamouring din inside his head. "No oan the front, no at the tap ay every page. Nae date. Explain that."

"How shid ah explain it? It's proabably a printin error or somethin."
"An it's no occurred tae ye that thir's nivir a date oan it? Ah mean we baith ken that newspapers huv dates oan every page, and we baith ken that the Post is the only newspaper we ever huv in the hoose, yet wuv nevir noticed there's nae date oan The Post before?"

"Look Hen, yir daein ma heid in, can ye no--"
"That's jist the start ay it Joe, whit dae ye make ay this?" Hen hurried, opening the paper in a scramble to a point past the mid section.
"Make ay what?" Joe asked, his expression as blank as the sheet he now looked at.
"Why’s yon page empty?" asked Hen urgently, pointing a bony finger at this barren stretch of journalistic real estate. "Why would a whole page in a newspaper be empty? It's like this every week!"
"Well ah guess it's fir the bairns tae draw oan or somesuch. Yir richt, it's eyewis been like that, it's no really bothered us before, likes."
Hen could tell he was starting to lose Joe, now. He quickly turned back a few pages.

"Ah didnae pit it thegither until ah read this letter here, looksee... it gaws oan aboot how great the paper is an aw that, then intae this: 'One of the regular Sunday highlights in our house is of course The Broons, and Joe's recent car troubles had us all crying with laughter'."

Joe's expression was hollow, now. Each new implication battering against his shuttered mind like a storm.

"Whit's that supposed tae mean, Hen?"

"That's whit ah'm tryin tae work oot. 'The Broons', that's us. That's oor family, no? And you're Joe Broon, and did ye no have aw that bother wi the mechanic last month? Bit why would there be a letter aboot you in The Post? And whit's this aboot it bein 'a highlight'? Because there's nuthin else aboot any Broons in the paper at aw, an there isnae normally, neither. Thur's only this blank bleddy page."

Joe was animated again, although his mood had darkened. "So whit are ye sayin, Hen?"

Hen stared at the newspaper silently, not ignoring Joe but thinking of how best to form his next crucial words.

"Are we... are the Broons... oor family... are we a story in The Post every week? Ah mean ah dinnae ken whit kind ay story, bit mebbe there's somethin oan that page that everywan else can see? Mebbe it's us, likesay?"

"De ye mean like wir no real? Like characters in a book?"

"Ah'm no sure, Joe. Ah mean ah feel real tae me, an you feel real tae me, bit mebbe that's jist part ay it, no? Like when they folk are in The Matrix, they dinnae ken thur in the simulation because thir conditioned no tae notice..."

"And whit aboot everybody else? Aw this lot? De they ken? Are they no real either?"

"...Well ah'm no sure that--" Hen started, but was interrupted by his brother raising his head and hollering over to the bar.

"Hi Dudley! Did ye get The Post?". The barkeep turned his attention to the query while continuing to serve a man at the counter.
"Aye Joe, as eywis" he replied, with an air of inflated satisfaction. "Ye want a read ay it?"
"Naw, ah've goat wan here, likes, jist wonderin. Hus yir paper goat a blank page in the back half?"
"Whit, the drawin page? Aye, eywis dis."
"Is there onythin aboot the Broons in there?"
"Eh? Ye mean yirsel? Whit huv ye done now, Joe?" Dudley laughed, returning to his paying customer.

Hen and Joe looked at each other. This was normal, then. People knew, they just hadn't noticed. But why had Hen? Why now?

Five desperate pints later, Hen and Joe Broon drove an hour to the But’n'Ben, unlocked Paw’s gun cabinet and retrieved his trusty hunting rifles. With enough ammunition for their task, the pair returned to the Lomond Arms and murdered everyone in the building bar one (Dudley survived, following surgery) before turning the rifles on each other, safe in the knowledge that you can’t really kill what doesn’t exist.

And that’s how The Broons ended up on the front page of The Sunday Post.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Ghoul

THE GHOUL SONG
(in E♭, Michael Slanders / Donald Flann - 1860)

v.
A week ago last Thursday, I was strolling quite alone,
On the chilly lane which passes by the church;
When I'm sure that from the graveyard, I could hear a quiet moan,
A sound which gave my heart a sudden lurch;

So I leaned in through the railings and I hollered "who goes there?",
But I saw no one and thought myself a fool;
When a voice right by my shoulder with a mouldering of air,
Whispered to me "I'm g-hungry and I'm a g-houl..."

ch.
"I'm a g-houl! - I'm a g-houl!
I'm the g-nastiest work of un-nature you can say,
I'm a g-houl, oh I could drool!
At the g-thought that I might have caught my lunch today!

I'm a g-houl! - Now as a rule,
I will conduct my ghastly feasting without shame,
I'm a g-houl, though it seems cruel,
I will suck your innards from your screaming frame!"

v.
I had taken rooms in Ealing, to be closer to my work,
Not the nicest place, but cheap and somewhat merry;
When I had that creepy feeling and I felt a proper berk,
For my guest house sat behind a mortuary!

Notwithstanding all the smell, and the blood and guts as well,
The real problem was nocturnal visitations!
I was woken to exclaim, by a scratching at my pane,
And the hungriest of gurgled lamentations...

ch.

"I'm... a... g-houl! - a g-nother g-houl!
And I g-wish to slurp the juices from your spine!
I'm a g-houl, ah they would fuel,
All the excuses for further abuses I could assign!

I'm a g-houl! - A pestilence mule!
It is my lot, to spread my rot, and stinking remains!
I'm a g-houl! Beelzebub's tool!
I am to shamble on Earth, and feed on humanity's brains!"

coda.
"...some say that I'm a g-zombie,
But it's a different thing, no that's not me...
I'm a g-houl, I'm a g-houl, I'm a g-houl!"

fin.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Clerk

As the final, feeble rays of November daylight rasped their last against the window of my study, I resolved to close my ledger and take step of the surrounding town, for air which would at least be cooler, if not necessarily any more fresh. These are streets I feel I have always known, yet while I cannot remember the first time I walked them, I swear I only took residence here relatively recently.

My regular route took me along sparsely populated lanes and alleyways, and on the disused railway line under a rarely used footbridge, I came across what I came to term as The Old Man. Although I call him this, his actual age was indistinct. Lines did not mar his face, and yet such a toll of living had been collected as to evidently strip bare his very soul. The Old Man's attire, timeless yet undeniably old fashioned, was as worn as his aspect as he raised his head sharply, to make instant eye-contact.

He asked if I was enjoying my day. Or my time. I am unsure which as, while his meaning was clear, I find it impossible to recall verbatim the words he used. His manner was direct, short of being abrupt, but with none of the aggression any bystander may have predicted. While I bumbled around a response which would pass as polite whilst hoping to avoid further conversation, my eye was nonetheless drawn to what appeared to be a medal of some sort, pinned to the heavy, flowing rag he had fashioned around himself against the seeping cold of the damp trackway, hanging perfectly straight on a threadbare ribbon of dark, stained red.

This sigil showed a face, clearly a face, though of what species I could not say. Lacertian? Piscine? Satanic? Perhaps all or none of these? A cackling grimace, surrounded by hair, flame or even tentacles leered out at me, the dark recesses of its eye sockets seeming to yawn back as the evening now stretched away from me. Cast in yellow metal with a greenish tinge in the dim light, this could have been brass, bronze or even gold, the time-addled weathering of these filthy streets hiding its value in plain sight. Although the artefact's striking attraction to me was more than the financial potential of its material.

I must confess to having lost track of the discourse I initially wanted no part of, for midway through his rambling reply the man stopped dead, slack mouth turning up in a wide, knowing grin. He asked if I liked what I saw, if I recognised it, noting that even though he had distracted my attention, still my gaze was fixed upon this terrible, leering trophy. Quite lost for words, I could barely draw my eyes back to him, only flapping like a landed fish whose terminal gasps are punctuated by the overwhelming knowledge that it had been hauled from the waves by King Neptune himself. But why again, that automatic aquatic association?

The Old Man went on to tell me his last possession was token for his part in 'the fight of The Wall'. No such recent conflict leapt to my mind, although the name seemed draped in a faint familiarity, like the memory of a nightmare brought to the surface hours or even days after waking by some unconnected occurrence. He spoke vaguely of this confrontation as if it were some historical campaign, yet clearly with first-hand knowledge. Shapes, shadows and screams were conjured as he held my gaze, my own breath hanging on his every word.

When struggling to decide whether I should document this interaction once I had returned to my chambers, it was at this point I realised The Old Man was not in fact speaking in my language, although nor could I specifically identify his tongue. Most odd. I understood the story perfectly, yet my mind also seemed to be performing some instantaneous, subconscious translation upon it. His words seemed to flow through some manner of base human communication, almost as if buoyed by empathy or telepathy. And with this realisation his intent became clear. A flash-flood of memory ensued.

The Wall; an attempt to turn an entire kingdom into a fortress; an ancient emperor bearing terrible power from The Old Ones; his crafting of an invincible legion; a siege, a slaughter, invaders driven back; armies rewarded; an amulet to remind them of their victory over a life beyond imagining; not quite immortality, but far, far more time than any man can know what do with, as long as at least a single brick of that Wall remains in place; freedom, hope, grief, confusion, boredom, despair, resolve, and now opportunity. Finally, opportunity.

The wan smile of a man no longer speaking but preparing now to sleep, slumping contentedly back against the evening's damp brickwork as if it were the long-missed embrace of a parent. And the residual feeling of hideous metal pressed, burning into my hand. Mine, now. Mine, always. And all the time that goes with it. All of my time. For I served at The Wall, too. Of course I did. The accountant. The clerk. The quartermaster. It is not that I could not remember, only that I had forgotten I'd forgot.

In my chambers, I wrap the emblem in its ribbon and place it in the chest, under the boards. With the others.

All will be accounted for. In the end.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Wet

That the street had been built over what used to be a park was well established.

The walls of a chain-pub in the town centre were adorned with reproduction antique photographs showing the area, the park and its small boating lake. But the lake, long since filled in, used to be what was now several streets away from this house, so even the residually high water-table did not explain why the cellar was so prone to flooding. Because the cellar would sometimes flood even when it wasn't raining. She had watched the water herself, seeping - even bubbling - up between the bricks in the floor.

Last August, she'd walked down the stone steps into two inches of water, six weeks into a heatwave-induced hosepipe ban. Insanity. The neighbours' basements were damp certainly, but the flooding itself didn't seem to affect them. Only here. The water authority had eventually checked their pipework and found nothing amiss. Their interest in the matter had ended there. And since a surveyor had reported no problems all these months down the line, there was nothing - legally - preventing her from selling the property.

That the street had been built over what used to be a park with a boating pond was well established. That the park had earlier been marshland, was not.

Oh, local records in the library and museum made mention of it, but this was hardly an unusual historic feature of coastal towns. Neither, sadly, was the smaller pool, located underneath what was now number 38 Park Road. The witching pool. Or more properly, the drowning pool.

She knew nothing of this, of course. Not that the knowledge would have helped her. Because while the water was a problem, it wasn't 'the' problem. No, that was more the crying, and the screaming. At first these emanated from the cellar, but after a while they moved up to the kitchen, too. And they never failed to shock. She'd lost count of the number of cups and glasses that had been dropped as the result of sudden, soul-piercing screams, emitted at full volume at all hours of the day and night.

The time she'd walked into the kitchen to be confronted by a crying girl of around eight years old? Well, that was an entire dropped tray, followed by staying at a friend's house for three nights.

The next was a young woman. That one had appeared halfway through the dishwashing; gibbered, sobbed and screamed for around five minutes then just as quickly vanished. She soon stopped counting each appearance. She'd even tried talking to them on occasion, but to no avail. Each of the women - even when they started appearing in small groups - looked straight through her, presumably unable to see where, or when, they now stood. But she didn't know why they were here, or how - even if - she could help. In fact, she couldn't help. Pain cannot be exorcised, cannot be undone. These were cries echoing down the years, their unfixable source buried in the past.

Her neighbours had put this down to her, of course. Why wouldn't they? Their kitchens weren't haunted. She was the just crazy lady from number 38. She knew this. So she'd stopped washing up. Stopped using dishes. Largely stopped using the kitchen, in fact. The shop at the end of the road sold things she could buy and then eat in the lounge. The bins were at the front of the house, so she didn't need to go into the kitchen to get rid of the rubbish.

It hadn't occurred to her that the reason she'd stopped washing and bathing herself could be down to a broader hydrophobia than the kitchen sink. That the guttural resonation which set her nerves on edge whenever the toilet flushed could be part of a larger, yet ultimately more acute, problem. But it wasn’t a problem because she’d mostly stopped doing that, too.

If she could only sleep properly, she'd have the energy to clean up and get the lounge tidied. Then the estate agent could come back and look round properly this time. Yes. Sleep first. Maybe clear tomorrow. That would be fine. After all, the kitchen had been quiet for, what, days now? Yes, almost. That's enough. That's almost enough. Almost quiet enough.

Almost quiet.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.