Short Weird Tales: Dreamer (iii)

Jimmy's check-in was done.

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

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

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

The light was red.
The patient was dreaming.

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

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

But the hole was already getting larger, rippling as if unfolding outwards. Flesh was simultaneously torn and somehow absorbed inward. God knows what was coming. Mr Belmont continued dreaming of unseen spheres, but physics and biology still mattered in the hospital room. His spinal column now severed, Jimmy collapsed as he was eaten from the inside out…

---

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: Dreamer (ii)

"Doct... Doctor Fairmile, I presume?"

"Indeed. How can I help you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course, yes."

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

"Is my father in danger?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the lights went out...

---

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: Dreamer (i)

"Doctor, is my father crazy?"

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

---

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: Krakus

The moon hung in the sky, a day yet from its full-state zenith and already tired in its orbit. The sickly yellow luminosity seeped through a blanket of mottled, undulating cloud with an oily halo, proclaiming the body to be the lone sentinel of the heavens. No stars could be seen through the uneven backdrop; none would dare be bold enough to try. No breeze stirred and the air was heavy.

Were it not for the muted glittering of the waves below, looking upon this scene would be akin to staring at a backlit painting, slowly feeling imprisoned in its absolute stillness where even breathing feels like giving away one's position. The shoreline a distant memory, fates coalesced and now was the time.

Such was the apprehensive tranquillity of the night that the gradual breaking of the waves was almost unnoticeable to the eye, unless one were already trained upon that spot. Groping tentacles first slid flatly onto the surface, themselves wetly reflecting the pallid glare from above. Silently, more appeared around them. And more. Too many to be a single creature surely, but too intertwined to count and impossible to tell apart. The activity spread outward like an ink blot on black paper until all that could be seen to each horizon was a writhing mass of uncanny, sub-aquatic intelligence.

As thick tendrils began to reach upward, almost in supplication to their lunar sovereign, eyes began to open between them. A great many eyes; malevolent, turquoise orbs bulging in the wan light and roving wildly as their owners bobbed upon the sea. They appeared to blink as their vision was blocked momentarily by the swaying, outstretched feelers of others. Slowly, they gained their bearing as if coming to unspoken agreement, and focused on the reason they had been called from their slimy bed.

The ocean itself seemed to sag when, as one, they swarmed into the ship...

---

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: 1635

The thing squirmed restlessly, as much as the packed, clotted and centuried earth above and around it would allow.

With flesh in various stages of decomposition, the silver in the chains which bound it bit into what remained of muscle, a perennial fire in the blood just as mercury is to a man. But whereas that metal would lead a human into a swift and fevered demise as it pulsed round the circulatory system, no such respite was available to the creature.

Oh, there was a casket of course - or rather a crate; heavy, coarse and nailed shut through coils of more silver chains - its captors hadn't been so naive as to bury the thing in open ground. And most tellingly, the box had been packed with native soil after its captive had been interred, safe in the malicious knowledge that this would keep the creature (un?)alive in perpetual, claustrophobic torment. Yes; the stake, the sword and the cleansing fire might have been a more permanent solution, but the executors of this plan had injected more spite than efficiency into their long-awaited ritual.

How long ago had this incarceration begun? In all honesty it was difficult to tell. Time became meaningless when one couldn't tell the difference between waking and sleep, dream and memory, fantasy and regret.

The thorough entombment with seismic cries of howling justice rang in the thing's own ears for what seemed like years, long after the jailers had ceased making the noise itself. After that, a protracted and sullen silence.

An explosive reaction of rage and despair was what the band of villagers had truly wanted, so what point in letting them win any further? Plans of escape and revenge had long vied for attention in the thing's mind, although foremost among these was the assurance that even here in the earth the creature would outlive them all. For if time had taught it anything, it was that no situation lasts forever.

Ah, time. And what long, glorious years they had been.

The creature itself had no gender, strictly speaking, but instinct had gauged it most practical to inhabit a male host. The man had tastes and gluttonies of his own, of course, and the thing inside him had amplified these to levels which would have finished mere mortals. Uncounted years had passed, filled with wine, women and song.

And blood. Always blood.

For the blood was the life; and what was life for, if not living? That the creature and its host deprived others of this in the name of sustenance was... well, nature's way. Those who do not flourish are destined to perish, after all. There were those who would argue - and convincingly so - that there was little of 'nature' about the creature and its hemal symbiosis, but it was certainly in the nature of the creature. And that was enough. Besides, there were plenty of things still to be discovered by the humans in this world. Some of these because they lacked the tools, some because they just weren't yet ready for the knowledge.

The thing of endless years was partly covered by these classifications; but more that those who had deduced its methodology were not destined to live long enough to pass on that information. And so, as the decades passed, a secondary game began to be played. That of a nomadic survival. Oh, would-be-assassins arriving trembling at the threshold did not worry the man/beast-thing unduly, but carelessness could be fatal all the same.

Through time, the blasphemous symbiosis fabricated differing identities at various locations. It did not do to live too long in the gaze of suspicious men, and this way the thing could be seen to grow ‘old’ in one place before disappearing, presumed dead. At this point of course, it would re-locate to another of its former palaces, a young and distant relative of the one who lived there previously, ready to take up the mantle of benign landowner or noble boyar.

After the cycle of feeding and recrimination had run its course - usually within fifty years or so - it would be time to move to another carefully and secretly maintained ruin and begin again. The crimson legends that the creature left in its wake made sure that no one else would inhabit the castles. Well, rarely in any case. Unwelcome tenants could be disposed of before the thing’s official ‘arrival’ as easily as prying villagers afterward, and it was not likely that these hermits would be missed in any case.

But occasionally - rarely even, although not as rarely as the beast would have liked - a challenge arose.

Whether it was one who heeded the local folklore as well as having the nouse to think around it, or just a particularly charismatic chancer who could whip up a mob large enough to present a logistical problem, life of this longevity did not come without... obstacles.

It was one such obstacle which had rapped - iron on oak - one windswept night, in years of which the creature had now lost count. The thing had felt the stranger's approach, of course. An eager, brash inquisitiveness in the psychic aether; a soul seeking to prove itself to others rather than any solemn determination. There would be no point in ignoring the visitor, since vigorous flambeaux advertised the presence of life (of a sort) within the castle walls.

With no mesnie attending - an indulgence long since spurned in the name of hitherto uninterrupted anonymity - it was left to the creature to see to its own domestic affairs. Roused out of a bored reverie, the host appeared at the door without the scuffing or signs of strain that the visitor expected.

The castle's lone inhabitant towered over the fool in the stone doorway.

As the figure stood, snapped out of his boisterous adventure, the creature sensed no prying eyes outside the walls and so leapt upon this... opportunity, with brutal efficiency.

At once enveloping and flattening its prey, lightning-fast metamorphosis led to large membranous wings acting both as propellant and constrictor, while myriad pincers and fangs erupted at every point of contact with the now-shrieking idiot. Sounds the intruder made were lost to the outside world, cocooned as he now was in the fatal embrace of his attacker.

Cries were soon lost as much to disbelief as to the leathery enclosure which gripped every fibre of his being. The visitor's body seemed - to the creature - to deflate in its grasp. Blood, fats, tears, bile and sweat were consumed with equal relish. The symbiote pair were almost lost in their ecstasy; although wasn't it always thus?

No pleasures known to mere man could equate with the rapture of taking another in this way - so completely and utterly. The inexorable binding of hunter and prey at this moment was exquisite, far more than any mere spearman or archer could know. No matter how anticipated or unexpected the arrival of it, the outcome was always the same.

And it was intoxicating. Exhausting. Overwhelming.

The creature was still, now. Almost as still as the shrivelled hunk of meat it surrounded. The remnant would be disposed of easily enough, most likely with fire. The cursed flame was, after all, the greatest hider of misdeeds and absolver of sins.

The thing was roused from its disposal planning by the silent gaze of others. Unfurling from its nest of butchery, it raised its head while surreptitiously forming pseudo-eyes about itself for panoramic night-vision. Surrounded now. Like a fool. A trap. An obvious trap. Which it had walked straight into.

So eager had it been to feast upon blithe innocence, common sense had been cast to the wind. And what a foul stench now came to bear upon it. The crowd - mob - which surrounded the beast at a cautious distance were armed not only with swords, nets, spears and bows but also... buckets?

The circle closed slowly but uniformly. Traditional implements of war seemed only for defensive measures, whereas... as one man gave the signal, the crafted wooden pails were thrust forward and in an instant the creature was soaked. But this was no witch-drowning. Not water, but fire.

The oil of the knoblauch, every bit as harmful to the beast's physiology as hemlock or belladonna would be to any of these attackers. With bubbling skin seemingly aflame, the rest was a blur. Netted, bound in silver chains and speared in a casket, then buried un-alive. By the time the thing's biological defences had nullified the plant oil, all activity above ground had long since ceased...

And yet it was the recollection of this turmoil which had distracted the thing in the ground from activity above it - here and now. Something - someone - was digging. Not by chance, not through idle exploration. No, there was agency - intent - behind the scurrying above.

After all these years - centuries? - what was this now? Treasure hunters come for stories of silver, or myth-hunters arrived to finish an ancient task?

Still unable to defend itself either way, the old dead thing in the ground was at least grateful for the external gloom; that sunlight didn't sear its grey flesh when the lid of the coffin was finally ripped away from its nails after what seemed like an eternity.

Although the sight which greeted atrophied eyes was no less heart-stopping.

A slobbering beast, much like the creature itself but at least twice the size, caked in mud and in obscenely strong health towered over the open casket, a rudely sharpened stake the size of a small tree trunk poised in its gnarled talons.

But worst of all was the simple three-word greeting and eulogy which croaked wetly from its razor-lined jaws...

---

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: Coin

[ artefact recovered from the aftermath of a fire which destroyed
the University Of San Bernardino Paranormal Research Department
on January 12, 1870, author unknown ]

--turn for the worst. That terrible maw yawned open with agonised yearning, as centuries-hardened sinews cracked and sprung sluggishly into life once more, whilst motes of dust skittered wildly in the sputtering exhalation of gases long-fermented in the suffocating blackness of the grave. After a handful of long and phlegmy wheezes, a noise stirred in the sightless chasm; willed into being by an urgency which had transcended the very boundaries of death itself. "...oiii ...oiii...". That the creature had somehow replicated the motor skills to heave itself across the polished tile floor was one thing, but the thought that a consciousness still existed behind its rotten facade and was about to give voice to the spiralling thoughts of immemorial entombment was enough to give pause to all but the most hardy of rationalists.

"...coiiin..."

The elongated drawl of its ululation brought me up sharp as everything suddenly snapped into place. Like an iron filing to a magnet, the thing was drawn to the coin. Of course. The same coin which - at that very moment - sat buttoned in my waistcoat pocket, the tell-tale remainder of a particularly sorry misunderstanding which had already caused me one embarrassment that evening. And the penalty for this second was likely to have repercussions of a far more permanent nature.

Damn it all if it hadn't happened again. To my shame, I fled.

A clattering, scraping, heaving sound came from the other side of the splintered wooden door as it clung limply to its hinges, and yet the creature outside made no singular effort to actually come in. Curious, as it had pursued us here with sufficient vigour to convince all and sundry of its terrible intention. That the source of this current activity was the creature was undoubtable, its laboured grunting reverberating through the mouldering panels of the dilapidated outhouse where we now hid and struggled to regain our collective breath.

It was at this point that my companion looked at me with a now familiar plaintive gaze, his unspoken thought crossing the short distance between us like many a glance between the very best of friends with a long and eventful history between them. "Not now, old chap. This really is not the time" was all I could muster in response whilst trying to keep the volume of my voice on a purely intimate level. Why this need for subterfuge, I do not know. The thing which currently busied itself on the other side of the door had seen us burst in here, watched the door slam shut behind us and clearly knew there was no other egress. And yet for all the frantic effort occurring mere feet away, the door knob itself remained as motionless as when I had touched it last; this monster had not even tried to enter. Intriguing.

Again, my friend's pointed look at me resumed with renewed, if thoroughly inappropriate, alacrity. He seemed to gesture toward his mouth as his eyebrows raised in a hopeful, encouraging manner. I am ashamed to say that I almost quite lost my composure at that moment, hissing through gritted teeth "But there's nothing to ruddy well eat, Scubius, as well you know! This is a toolshed!". How foolish I felt, trying my best to verbalise a plainly obvious situation to one who could not - if he had not already on some instinctive level - understand my pronouncements. To a dog. The finest dog I have ever known, that much is certainly true, and my faithful and trusted companion throughout the last decade of my life and more, but a dog nonetheless.

While it is certainly attestable that his intelligence is well above the canine average (as is his appetite, I fear), and also that my own regretfully growing dependence on a course of opiates prescribed by my physician has occasionally clouded my sobriety in the view of anyone with whom I am not already acquainted, I should make it clear that I for one have never claimed to believe that Scubius Kthannus Doomsayer - to use his full Kennel Club moniker - can actually, literally talk. That would be ridiculous. There has, however, been a wide-eyed repetition of this claim by my recent companions in their amateur private detective agency, with whom I have been associating, as witnessing my perfectly normal interactions with the four-legged counterpart to whom I have grown comfortably accustomed. Yes, his mannerisms are borderline anthropomorphic in their expressiveness; yes, his barks and whines in conjunction with these appropriately likewise. The fact that we often seem to understand each other with ease is a testament to his intellect and my skill, patience and good humour in training him to this point. But a talking dog? Insanity.

Nonetheless it was the figurehead of this agency, the incredulously flamboyant Mr Frederic Jones Esq, who seemed the most taken with the idea, and bade us both to remain in their company while he could study our relationship in is own enthusiastic - if largely unscholarly - way. And I confess that while I was unable to work as I awaited the beneficial actions of my aforementioned course of medication to take effect, I chose to agree to his request.

This trio of young investigators, that number completed by Frederic's assistants the steadfast Ms Dinkley and the delectable Ms Blake, had carved something of a name for themselves albeit in the local area, eager to take on cases which suggested the mysterious or the somewhat outré. While I myself have never had a particular leaning toward either the supernatural or abnormal psychology, I found their undertakings fascinating. But my present strained circumstances were neither acceptable nor, sadly, new to me.

That the lumbering, foaming, stinking creature which pursued us was not truly of the grave, I had little doubt. Of what I was even more certain, however, is that if I should fall into its clutches, I myself very soon would be. And at that very moment, the divine forces of a universe which I had hitherto proclaimed upon several occasions to be godless colluded apparently to our salvation, as a combination of exterior floodlighting and splits in the rotting wooden panels illuminated a way out of this predicament.

If the fates be willing, if my resolve be strong, and if the fuel tank of the device I now spied were not quite empty, I would use the rusted, howling, furious blades of this modern lawn mowing contrivance... as a weapon...

---

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: Shelter

The best thing about being dead, he decided, was not having to deal with people.

There were other benefits too, but they paled into insignificance with the burden of obligatory interaction being lifted from his shoulders. Downsides existed, naturally, and he'd never dealt with boredom well to begin with, but all things being equal - and since he did not exactly have a choice in the matter - being dead probably wasn't as bad as it had been made out to be.

That this stance was the result of a long-considered conundrum rather than some revelatory moment of insight felt evident, although he'd be the first to admit he couldn't actually have told anyone how long he'd been not been alive. Worse, for a long time he hadn't actually known that was the case.

In a stone-built shelter overlooking the clifftops and the ocean beyond, this was a quiet, contemplative spot. Never the best at keeping track of time, his instinctive memory had been that this was a place he came to think, because of its solitude. So a lack of people was to be expected - indeed, enjoyed. They came by occasionally and for the very most part ignored him. This was fine. He'd caught the interest of a handful of children in the company of distracted or disinterested parents, although he refrained from properly engaging with this young audience. Dogs didn't seem to like him but that had been the case when he was alive, too. Nothing had felt inherently unusual.

No, it had been the slowly changing style of people's clothing - those few who passed by his way - and the developmental shift in their manner of speaking which caused him to realise all was not right. Most of the words seemed to make sense individually, but their flow and subject matter became more... abstract. It had gotten to the point where he struggled to understand overheard conversations, when he remembered he could not quite compare their utterances to others he had recently heard elsewhere. For he had recently been nowhere else. At all.

Once this perceptual barrier had been broken, more followed as swiftly as his fragmented train of thought would allow. For instance, he could not remember the last time he had been at home. Nor where that home actually was. Hazy images of a town were evoked by these ponderings, but he found he couldn't name that town. That it was within walking distance of these clifftops seemed logical, but who was to say what sway logic held?

No, the gradual realisation that he was dead was only alarming in how little alarm it caused. Then again, he'd already noticed that he wasn't conscious all of the time, so any distress it could have engendered was therefore limited in a strictly mathematical sense. This didn't feel like a cycle of waking and sleeping, more phasing in and out of being. As if existence were defined solely by the presence of self. And who was to say that it wasn't? No one, any more.

It was after this that the unease started. The restlessness. A nagging voice in the back of his head reminding him at all times that he was dead and that he should do something about it. But what could be done? He'd argue with himself that he (they?) just had to wait. To wait for what? To wait and see. To just wait.

When boredom got too much and he decided to leave the refuge, he'd take no more than a handful of paces beyond its open front before a howling, primal fear forced him to retreat to its safety. A screaming in the soul; not his screaming, but the very voice of creation assuring unending torture to any who dare defy its warning. He felt enough to believe. He'd lost count of the number of times this had happened, always forgot the intensity of the feeling before he set out again and always instantly remembered as he scurried quickly home.

Home.

Because this was where he lived now.
Well, not 'lived', but...

But there should be a system. This thought would flash into his mind in fits of agitation, when the gently crashing waves and rolling clouds failed to salve his thoughts; failed to perform the very play for which this box - this amphitheatre - had been constructed. There should be a system where he was told what was going on, what he was supposed to do and how he was supposed to do it. But there wasn't. There wasn't a messenger or an angel or a light or a tablet or a handbook. It was just this. Being trapped - sometimes contentedly so, admittedly - in a small section of a much larger everything. Life was unfair, uneven and confusing. So was death.

But getting angry about things changed nothing. Wasn't that what he'd always said? He had no idea. It sounded like a philosophy and in the absence of anyone to rail against, it was certainly proving to be true. No, the plan was just to wait. To think. To grow? To hopefully be here for whatever came next. Some conversation might be nice, although when the people were in here lately with their bright clothes and glowing hand-tiles, so might some peace and quiet. No. He was good at waiting. That would be enough.

If he'd ever been able to walk around the stone building, the rough-hewn brick wall facing outward over the clifftops, he'd have seen a large, inbuilt engraved block bearing the legend:

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

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

C'est la vie.

---

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: Trench

19 July 1918

Dearest Ginny,

Thank you for writing. It's good to know that Davy is walking properly now and that your parents are in the best spirits they can be. Do keep sending them my love.

Please try not to talk about current affairs in your letters, neither newspapers nor hearsay. Information is limited here for means of security and morale alike, and the censor panel obscured rather a lot of your last letter. I've heard at a certain point they'll just destroy the whole thing, so best to keep any of that business to a minimum or less. It's more comforting in all this confusion to know the little details from you. There's enough to keep me on edge here as it is, and your letters are the only thing helping me get any sleep at all.

Things here are as well as can be expected. In terms of progress I can't tell you any more than you already know (or have been told). The food continues to be dreadful. So hungry. The noise is constant and every sunrise is both a curse of protraction and a reminder of how lucky I am to see it. For every yard we take at one point in the front, we seem to lose two elsewhere, but it can't be too bad as we've only had to draw back twice this year. Like I say, every sunrise.

I volunteered for Wolf Division last month. More in the hopes of peace and quiet if anything, as they're a fairly new group and it was rumoured they'd be working away from the front lines. That much is true, but it turns out this occupation is full of noise wherever it's at. I started on watch so at least got to be in my own company. Uneventful stuff, which in this game is a blessing. Most of my time has been spent monitoring an abandoned church on the province border, rumours of something unusual going on there but even I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be looking out for.

The boys here say hello. Afraid to say we lost the Johnson brothers, although I'm sure you've heard that already. Can't go into the details but to say it was a damned foolish business. I know it will be of little to help to their mother Audrey, but when you see her - and when the time is right, of course - just let her know it was quick. They're missed awfully here, but we've vowed to do right by them.

Tommy's been a bit off these last couple of days. He was away for two nights on recon and very shaken when he returned. Nasty affair from what I can tell you, although this was after the Johnsons. He was a bit scuffed up but still walking and able to aim a rifle. Not quite himself soon after, though. He became sullen the next day (not unusual in this line of work) and outright rude the next. Tommy's never been the most calm of soldiers, but word is he tried to bite the sergeant at one point. Not sure I go for that, but the poor man's got bruises coming out all over him and he's scratching at his arms constantly. Medical looked at him before he came back to us but not since, so I'm sure it'll work itself out.

Chap whose name I don't know is said to have come back the same. Thing is, Tommy lashed at my face earlier when I said good morning to him. Had quite the tizzy and caught me quite deeply, but as I say he's been through a lot. And I'm damned but I've never known itching like it. Going to see if I can get a dressing later, but they're awfully busy down there and at least it's not my good side. I can feel (hear?) it tingling, although I'm sure that's some infection working itself out.

Anyway, it looks like we're going to be moved again soon so I'm hurrying this one out and not sure when I'll get your reply. Brass are around keeping an eye on things so this could be something big. Have to go, though. Apart from anything else I'm so bloody hungry I've got to find something to eat. Can't concentrate, it's getting so bad. Want meat. God dammit, I need meat. XXXFUXXXXXXXX Sorry, please ignore that, just nerves. Sure I'll be right as ninepence in no time. And the most delicious smell has just wafted past outside. If the boys are eating without me I'll bloody kill them, I swear it.

Anyway. See you soon, I know it.
Love to all,

Daniel.

X

---

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: Interview

The cell-leader lowered her head. "When you get out there, it's crucial that you become just like them. That you are one of them. Can you do that?"

"I think so" the charge replied, her tone sounding more confident than the words themselves.

"Thinking won't be enough", Bryant snapped. "If you give those creatures a sniff, they'll take it all..."

She turned and looked gravely down through the balcony door. Below, the shambling remains of people who had walked these streets every day of their lives, and continued after death. Moping about, so locked in to their unfathomable, wordless preoccupations that they didn't interact even though they were drawn together. "Plus ça change..." Bryant muttered.

Cassie knew some convincing was in order. "I've spent enough time studying them, I understand how they move. How they shift their weight on stiffened joints, but swing loosely on decomposing muscles. The gait of each one is unique to their build, just flat-out 'acting zombie' is the easiest mistake to make. They can see if you move unusually. And they're not aimless. In any area, each one cycles between three or four points. It's like they arrive at a place they remember, then forget why they wanted to be there and move on to the next."

"Okay..." Bryant left a pause hanging in the air of her makeshift office, an invitation to complete the answer. But Cassie hadn't finished, she'd only wanted to ensure her expertise wasn’t mistaken for youthful enthusiasm.

"So instead of going in a straight line, it makes more sense to wander around in a circuit. So that when I finally reach the target they aren't noticing my behaviour."

"But you know it's not just about how you move. They're hungry. Always. Are you ready for that?"

"Well, you're going to smear me in The Gunk so that shouldn't be a problem. So long as I don't smell like dinner, I'll be fine."

Bryant tilted her head slightly, appraising the applicant. It had to be said, she may have just the right mix of knowledge, duty and gung-ho stupidity to pull this off. She changed tack.

"What made you volunteer for this, Cassie?"

"We all have different skills here, and we work well together. It's why we've survived so long. I want to be the best. I want to be the only one who can do what I do. Also, I don't see a queue of people throwing their names in for this one?"

"Yeah, that's fair", Bryant acknowledged. "But you need to understand what's required here. And I need to know you're committed. Are you ready to go method on this?"

"Bryant, please. I'm an actor. I once dated a guy for five months in high school because his mom was British and I wanted to study her accent for the Dickens Christmas show our theatre group was staging. This kid was in deep, took on two part time jobs to save up and buy me a ring. But I got everything I needed by mid-November and rehearsals were stepping up, so I ended it."

"And how did he feel about that?"

"Overdosed on his mom's fentanyl."

"And... how did you feel about that?"

"Won the year's award for best performance."

"Okay... wow."

"Look, you need someone to get the package to our contacts on Princeton and Rhodes. That's the old arts college. I spent the next two years there, I know the way. No matter what happens on those streets, no matter how panicked I get or how many diversions I need to make, I can get that package to that building. It may just be a matter of time."

"Well... you're right. We need accuracy over speed. Again, I can't overstate this: the contents of the satchel are irreplaceable, do you understand?"

"I do", Cassie answered. She didn't, but that was only because she didn't know exactly what she'd be transporting. That it was more than simple information was obvious, that could have been shared over the radio. But if Cassie herself could carry this cargo - and do so surreptitiously and alone - then it could hardly be a cache of heavy ordnance...

Bryant continued, "And you know you may end up needing to stay there? You're not just going to be able to come waltzing back across town?"

"I'll do what I have to. We all make sacrifices."

Another silence. Longer, this time.

"Okay you've got the job, kid."


The commander crossed the room to a row of metal lockers against an interior wall. From a low, unmarked door she produced a small backpack, fashioned from a heavy plaid fabric, its single compartment fastened with a light combination lock.

"They know the code" Bryant murmured; needlessly, Cassie thought. They could cut it open, if needs be.

She continued, "You should be able to bump this or even land on it if you need to, you're not going to smash what's in there. The inside of the pack is showerproof, but try not to submerge it in anything."

The leader slid the bag over Cassie's outstretched arms, the faintly puzzled look on the girl's face belying a mind racing to work out what this cargo was. "And just for good measure..." Bryant raised two loose straps from the sides of the pack and fastened them across the chest. She sealed these in place with another combination lock. So no snooping, then.

"Are you ready for this, Cassie?"

"Of course. Let's go to the offal-tank and get me camouflaged..."

"I'm afraid that's not the plan we've decided to go with today. There's no room for uncertainty. Remember, 331 Princeton and Rhodes, got it? They're waiting for you."

As Cassie's brow furrowed in question, Bryant reached to her shoulder holster and retrieved a Browning 9mm pistol, releasing the safety catch. She shot Cassie twice in the stomach at point blank range, waited until her gasping stopped and eyes glazed, then quickly hauled the body out and over the balcony railing.

And watched.

---

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: Hunters

"Your guns won't kill it! They won't even slow it down..."

The old man's admonition was barely audible over the jeep’s rumbling engine and scattering scree beneath its wheels. His wrists were starting to bleed in his lap as he squirmed against the improvised handcuffs fashioned from fence-wire. He made no eye contact with the search party as he muttered, but the pair sat closest knew the invective was aimed at them.

"Think you've said enough for one day, old man." Billy glared at him, weighing the shotgun in his grip. Turning toward the driver without taking his eyes off their charge, he added "Any sign yet, Charlie?".

"No, just followin' the trail still" came the voice from the front. While the amorphous creature may have been difficult to spot travelling at this speed, its linear path of destruction was anything but. A line of disease, disintegration and destruction cut through the scrubland. This was at least the easiest part of their task.

The charred remains of another house passed by. The old Jones' place. No signs of life. What was left of the wooden panelling looked bubbled and rotten through, as if the building had been exposed to thousands of years of wear in an instant. The dwelling seemed to be frozen in one last cry as the remains of its supporting structure reached feebly for the clouds. The entirety of its contents - and inhabitants - were gone, either consumed or reduced to their constituent dust. The result was the same either way.

“There’s still time to tell us why you did it”, offered Zachary, the calmest and the oldest of the group, even being at least thirty years younger than the one they were failing to interrogate. Lines of consternation furrowed into Zachary’s face, but he spoke to the old man without reprisal or accusation.

“Did it?”, he responded incredulously, “You think this was my doin’? It was comin’ anyway, I just held the gate open! It would have found a way in, it’s not just me workin’ for the cause! You boys have got no idea what you’re dealin’ with…”

“Then why don’t you tell us?”. Billy leaned forward across the divide, raising his weapon slightly but not pointing it directly at the old man just yet. Even in this excitement, Billy knew that a bump or dip in the trail resulting in an accidental discharge could be disastrous if their captive were to be on its receiving end. Captive. That in itself was a joke.

The old timer’s eyes narrowed. “It’s here to clear a way for the others. The Old Ones. Soon be their time! You’ll see!”

From the very back of the truck, Wyatt joined in. “Why’d you call it up?”. A question so basic this late in the day was met with a snort of derision.

“I didn’t ‘call it up’, it was here all along! In the space between the spaces! I just opened the gate!”

Billy looked to Zachary. “Okay, can I shoot him?”

“Not yet, he might still be useful.”

The old man was becoming distracted and agitated now, his watery eyes seeming to focus on other places as he remonstrated with the hunters. “You won’t stop it! You can’t!!”

“That doesn’t sound useful. Let me know when you want me to shoot him”.

Wyatt again. “Maybe we can’t stop it, but maybe this can.” He held up a large book with both hands. Scabrous and ancient looking, a dark leathery binding etched and embossed with barely legible symbols struggled to contain thick, age-yellowed pages that seemed to hang at angles from its fragile grasp, bulging as if to suggest illicit additions secreted between.

The old man’s mood changed in an instant and he blanched as recognition of the tome registered on his face, the illusion of smug superiority shattered. “You don’t know how to use that book!” he blustered a little too quickly.

“Well then I guess you and your plan have got nothing to worry about! Let’s see…” Wyatt opened the volume casually at its middle, leafed through a few brittle pages and began to read aloud with an air of bemused interest. “Umph n'geena, brahuna hai...”

“No! STOP!” hollered the prisoner, unabashedly panicked now.

“…stoonto een ah g'tollah, g’facht ah n’geenah?” he continued quizzically, as if seeking confirmation from his companions. It came instead from the front-corner of the back of the jeep as the old man launched himself head-first past his closest captors and toward the reader of the words, an incoherent shriek of denial the only preemptive tell of the burst of energy.

Billy was quick enough to assist this velocity by ramming the butt of his shotgun square into the centre of the old man’s spine. Hands still bound, the howl ended as his face made first contact with the wooden floorboards.

After he was hauled efficiently back into his seat with neither grace nor compassion, Billy held the quarry in place with the business-end of the shotgun pressed into his chest, as Zachary fashioned a gag from a length of strapping hanging behind the driver’s seat.

“Well,” mused Wyatt, “it looks like that’s the passage, alright. And I’d say that’s all the help we’re going to get out of the old fool. We should lose him. He’ll be so desperate to stop us now, we won’t be able to trust a word that comes out of his mouth.”

“True,” agreed Zachary, “but we can sure use his reactions as a guide to how well we’re doing…”

The jeep began to slow down, noticeably. “Guys?” came Charlie’s voice from the front. “Guys, I think we’ve found it…”. The jeep stopped.

Around three hundred yards in front of them, a huge translucent, colour-shifting… thing - defying mundane description of shape - shuddered, pulsed and tensed for what came next, somehow seeming to stare from a thousand non-existent eyes, as the trickling sound of urine hitting the jeep’s floor came from the old man.

“Game time…” whispered Wyatt.

---

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: Appeal

Interview commenced 07:06

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

Do you remember why you were screaming?

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

I know who you mean.

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

And that made you scream?

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

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

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

And I open my eyes again and there are... photos. I don’t know how many, I can’t count them because I can’t see straight, and all I can hear is all these people screaming, and then the next photo came up on its own and it stopped.

The screaming stopped?

Their screaming stopped.

What was the next photograph?

It’s some other guy. It’s old, black and white. He’s smiling but there’s no warmth there, y’know? I don’t trust him. That voice is running in the background still, like someone talking in the next room? I know it’s talking about the guy, I’m looking at the photograph and I’m trying to remember where I know him from and that’s when I remembered what I did.

I remember the guy is me.

Not just girls, though, and there was no funny business. I’m no pervert, not me. I just needed the parts. They had the parts and I needed them. For the project. But then I saw what I did to get them. All of them. That wasn’t on the TV but I saw it again, and I could hear all the screaming and feel all the blood and it was drowning me and then I knew that it was me screaming. I guess that’s when They came in?

I imagine so, yes.

Why... why am I here?

To see if we can make you better.

Do you think you can?

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

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

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

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

Interview suspended while a sedative is administered.

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

There is no TV.
That was you remembering.

Why am I here?

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

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

I imagine so, yes.

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

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

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

That’s not what I meant.

But I can go when I can’t remember?

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

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

That’s not for me to say.

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

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

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

You were trying to forget.

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

Okay, thank you.

Interview terminated at 07:18.
Appeal denied.

---

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: Creak

This had gone badly wrong. The burglar felt his way up the familiar staircase in absolute darkness. Not an ideal situation, but stealth necessitated overriding the convenience of being able to see. Truth be told, while the darkness was intimidating, he was far more afraid of what the light might show him.

It was not an old house, yet every crack of the stairs and scuff of Bryce’s feet against the worn carpet betrayed his presence as if he were ringing a bell. Leaning gently forward to spread his weight over hands and feet just seemed to multiply the sound rather than diminish it. The problem wasn’t his weight, it was the mouldering wood itself.

A silent smile filled the air and The Thing that was in here with him seemed to be enjoying itself; in no hurry to end this game, even if it stalled in making its own moves. He could hear short breaths rasping theatrically in front of him. Panicking, Bryce stopped. But which other way could he go now? Doubling back down the stairs with no light would almost certainly create more noise, not to mention more uncertainty in navigating them safely. Bryce twisted his head round more quickly than he should, feeling a wave of nausea threaten to send him crashing to the bottom. Through the white noise reverberating in his brain he could hear the breathing down the stairs, too. Then, just managing to stifle a sob of hysterical relief, Bryce admonished himself for an utter fool; that had been his own breath.

He forced himself on, as silently as shaking limbs could manage. The combination of screaming nerves and stress-amplified tinnitus meant that Bryce could no longer be sure how much noise he was making anyway, not that this was an excuse for carelessness.

Having lost count of the stairs once he took to all fours in their ascent, Bryce exhaled more loudly than he should have when, instead of reaching upward to the next step, his right hand collapsed loudly onto the flat landing. This part was over, at least. Straightening would be tricky while maintaining any level of silence or balance, and so he resolved to stick to floor-level until he was safely inside his old bedroom.

The now-empty landing reduced the chance of bumping into furniture at least, but it also stripped away some of Bryce’s spatial instinct – especially crouched at this height. The floorboards beneath him proved to be no less treacherous than their splintered comrades on the stairs, and the creaks half way to his door again tempted him to stand up and give in. But why come this far only to embrace defeat? He owed more to himself at any rate, and certainly to the others. Wherever they'd gotten to.

Not far now, just-- Bryce wasn’t sure if his hand or his head hit the bedroom door first, but the result was the same; shock from the impact followed by the crushing realisation that the old, round doorknob would make more noise in its opening than everything else combined. Perhaps he could stand, open the door and slide through in one fluid motion? Unlikely, given the protesting ache already resident in his knees.

Reaching blindly above him, Bryce gingerly felt for the handle. Slightly sticky to his touch, he eased it downward to try and minimise its loose rattle and slowly - excruciatingly - turned it toward him. He felt the latch slide through the housing and pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked on its hinges.

Scuttling inside on hands and knees, Bryce pushed the door closed behind him as it audibly protested once again. And breathe.

Reaching into a jacket pocket, Bryce retrieved his phone. Holding his breath, he pressed the power button once, its faint plastic click being nothing in comparison to the screen illuminating and advertising his face, at the expense of his own limited night-accustomed vision. But there was nothing else for it.

Slowly, deeply exhaling then holding his breath, Bryce slid up the control center on the phone’s screen and activated the torch-mode...


The Thing appeared in his vision instantly, with horrifying floodlit clarity. And it was far too close. It was inches away, and the lack of scuffling noises meant he'd probably crawled straight into its lair. Bryce didn’t scream. He didn’t even whimper. Every instinct was now anaesthetised by sheer crippling terror.

Flesh hung off The Thing’s face in bubbling, peeling ribbons, glistening in the torchlight as it shook in Bryce’s hand. Both of the eyes were technically intact, yet glazed over as if to suggest they were there for decoration, or perhaps a default convention, rather than actual use. It had found its way around effortlessly in the darkness, after all.

What was left of the jaw bobbed silently up and down on decaying sinews, with little left of lips to form words, but still undulating slightly to the left and right, as if in the vague memory of speech.

Faint puffs of steaming air plumed in the light between them, and Bryce realised that this is what he’d been able to smell since the power had cut off. Primal blackness surged up from beneath, its promise of swift and painless oblivion almost too tempting to refuse. But now was not the time for that reprieve, for who was to say how long it would last? What good to check out now, only to be roused in the agony of being torn apart by The Thing and whatever else it had dragged up with it?

All of this occurred in an instant, a rollercoaster of fear, reason and realisation compressed to a microsecond. When The Thing finally managed to make a noise, it was a short, high-pitched creak, exactly like the ones created by the stairs and door. No. Not like those. It was those. The Thing had been toying with him over every single stair.

And as Bryce inhaled after what seemed an eternity, The Thing seemed to grin in a lop-sided way. The burglar's own next sound was disbelieving yet instinctive:

“…mother?”

---

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: Extinction

Cosmic radiation. Laughable. It was the stuff of comic books. Of course by the time the phrase started being used seriously, everyone knew ‘something’ strange was going on. And yes, like an old b-movie it all began with a meteor shower. No one was really sure how long higher authorities had known it was coming, but TV news reports began around two weeks beforehand. Small ones at first. That final ‘human interest’ piece to pep viewers up a little.

After a week, amateur groups (hell, anyone with a decent telescope) could see the shower’s approach and started raising concerns about its size. And just like an old b-movie, they were shouted down. Condemned as crackpots and conspiracy theorists. And of course, the actual conspiracy theorists loved this. Because ultimately, why worry? Our planet takes small meteor strikes all the time and the last one to have had any significant impact occurred millions of years ago. There were always larger problems closer to home.

It began in the middle of the August night, around 3am UK time. We slept as usual. Most of the asteroids passed the earth uneventfully, avoiding its atmosphere completely. The outliers however, were caught in our gravity well and made their presence known. The bombardment - there is really no other term for it - lasted for just over 60 hours. The first strikes occurred out in the Pacific, causing relatively minimal damage. They seemed to be small or deteriorated enough that the much-mooted tidal disruptions didn’t occur. This changed as the planet turned of course. Come the morning, the rest of the world was starting to wake up. Or to be woken up. All in all, there were 36 confirmed impacts.

We didn’t know it at the time but the first casualties had been the twenty crew members on board the space station, as it was clipped by a meteor and ended up re-entering the atmosphere. People were on the lookout for falling objects, but they weren’t stopping to examine each one. By the time that was reported, it was fighting for column inches with the half of Ghent which had been destroyed in the first land-strike.

We’re not programmed to deal with an accidental catastrophe of that magnitude, especially when everyone on the planet thinks they might be next. And for the people in Belgrade, Osaka and Calgary, they were. Hundreds of thousands dead. The world stopped breathing. Eventually the danger passed. And our very best started planning to help, to counsel, to rebuild.

Then after two weeks or so, it was noticed that the plants were dying. 'Cosmic radiation'. Actually no, plants continued to exist, they just no longer flowered, pollinated or propagated. No new plants were growing. At all. Anything taking hold before the meteor strikes continued to thrive, but any other seeds lay dormant, inert. And no new plants then meant no new crops to eat. Which also meant nothing to feed the livestock.

But by the time this chain of events was forging its panic-stricken links around the globe, we suddenly had another problem. There was to be no new livestock, either. Whatever force that had instantly snuffed out the world’s arable farming cycle had seemingly done the same to the lifeforms which were dependent on it. Namely, all of them. Animals continued to be born/hatched if they were in utero before the meteors came. But no new ones were being conceived - anywhere - despite the best efforts of farmers and the enthusiasm of their herds.

So it came as no real surprise when the authorities reluctantly, if belatedly, admitted to the world’s population what they suspected already: that humans were part of this sudden mass sterilisation, too.

Infants in the womb continued to grow and develop, but this 'would be it'. Nine months after the meteor strikes that shook the world, no more children would be born. Naturally, pharmaceutical companies raced to find a solution, a fix, a shortcut. But all to no avail. Even the bacteria in their laboratories had stopped reproducing; what hope for jumpstarting a planet?

Absolute panic fought with total despondency for domination of the global mood. There was no clear winner. Within a week rioting became the norm as authority either dissipated completely or just joined-in. Existential shell-shock and impending starvation caused society to disintegrate almost immediately. The wealthy holed themselves away, rumour had it that a handful even made it off-world. Everyone else hardly cared as they knew it would make no difference. We are all just waiting to die.

In theory, the earth has until the last children that were born, either die of old age or find a solution. In practice it will be far less than that, since there is nothing for them to grow and eat. It’s now been a year since The Strikes, and current thinking predicts our planet will be lifeless within ten. Although this is near instantaneous in terms of cosmological time, it feels longer when one’s own end is sealed but not yet delivered.

I’m not sure why I’m documenting all this. I’m almost certain that it’s been done elsewhere and far more thoroughly. I’m also aware that none of it really matters. The light will be out soon enough and there will be no one to read these words, much less care. Future extra-terrestrial archaeologists are unlikely to be sifting through my pages above any others. Other than the curious hives humanity has terraformed for itself while slowly destroying the world which houses them, there will be little here of any interest. Because ultimately, we achieved little. After the decades of warnings, we didn’t kill ourselves after all. It was just bad luck.

Why do we persist? Instinct, I imagine. This species’ hardwired urge to leave something behind. Some trace of our individual existence. Anything to prove that we were here once. That we were more than animals. We weren’t - aren’t - of course. But still the need remains.

For this short while, at any rate.

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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: Wave

The July sun scorched into the white stucco walls of the fishing museum as Peter, Anne and their daughter Jessica stepped inside. Partly a time-killing exercise, Peter had persuaded himself the visit was an homage, a homecoming, paying admittedly overdue respects to the land of his forefathers; never forgotten, but also not acknowledged nearly enough, let alone celebrated.

Visibly relieved to be away from the heat, Jessica made an instinctive bee-line for the children’s area, essentially a corner of the large room with brightly coloured bean bags, non-removable activity games and a scattering of dog-eared preschool books. Anne followed behind efficiently at a discreet distance, happy to give Jessica the freedom to explore and happy to oversee her steps in a town the girl had only previously been brought to as a baby. Peter’s old town.

This was fine, Peter thought, and made his own way subconsciously to the real reason he had come here. The display took up its own side of the hall, and rightly so. Large-scale photographs printed onto fascia boards, the originals also present and behind glass, logs, records, witness accounts and cased artefacts all told the story of the Rinmouth lifeboat disaster.

In the early part of an infamously swift and brutal storm in 1886, a lifeboat crew was dispatched to assist a fishing boat spotted in trouble. By the time they had reached the vessel it was too late; swallowed by the waves with everything and everyone aboard. The rest of the fishing fleet was also in danger by then, unable to make it back to shore. The lifeboat crew could not assist them all, and when the weather grew even more angry, the lifeboat itself was struck. Two more response crews were scrambled from the harbour to no avail. Thirty six hours later, only a single trawler limped into the quay bearing four fishermen. One hundred and sixty nine souls had been lost, an unthinkable number in any era, but especially in the days when the town’s entire population numbered under a thousand.

Peter stood wordlessly in front of the photo. Of that photo. The particular one which, for all the newspaper clippings and essays and locally published books he’d amassed over the years, he’d never seen in any place other than here. It hadn’t been blown up to display-size and wasn’t a reproduction. But the group portrait of the 1885 Rinmouth lifeboat crews was around eighteen by ten inches, unusually - if satisfyingly - large for such a relic.

He hadn’t seen these faces in too long, and gazing again at their unchanging familiarity felt almost comforting. Fourteen men, of varying ages although all young enough to withstand the rigours of the job, all wearing uncomfortably heavy looking waterproof gear as they pose for the photographer.

Some of these are young with optimism - naivety, even - shining from their eyes. Others already have the lines etched into their faces from persistent windburn and far too many friends’ funerals. But the one thing that unites them all is pride. Not in what they’ve done but in what they can continue to give, to serve, to be the reassurance for the fishermen who are the backbone of this town; to be the very heart of it.

His ears ring from the coxwain hammering the bell like his life depends on it - even though someone else’s does - as the young navigator clatters his way down the slippery wooden steps to the boat that's being prepared for launch. Few words are spoken, only the most terse of instructions covering the variables of this call. All four men know exactly what they are doing, but there’s an uneasy song in the blackness this morning, and certainty is a luxury they can’t afford.

Peter’s intake of breath was loud and sudden as he faltered, still not taking his eyes from the photograph. This was… new? No, old. No, new. Something was different, something had changed. And then he saw it...

Freezing water stings Peter’s eyes as he scrabbles to pull the collapsed beam from the old man. It looks too late. The torso convulses, rising and falling, but no air comes in or out of his mouth, only foaming sea-diluted blood. Peter pushes on the man’s chest, trying to expel the liquid, to let life literally breathe into these lungs. But that doesn’t seem to work. Then the rest of the beam falls.

Peter inched back closer to the photo as his eyes grew wider and met… his own. Peter was in this photograph. Oh, he knew he had an ancestor who was lost that night - several in fact, once fishermen were taken into account - and had remarked at his vague resemblance to one of the lifeboatman in years past. But this… this was Peter, now? Somehow. In the portrait. Looking motionlessly back out at Peter across the decades, the centuries. As everything turned white, he could taste the salt again.

The flash fades slowly - too slowly - from Peter’s vision as he lays atop of what’s left of the fishing trawler. Everything is too heavy, soaked through and yet smoke rises from his hands and feet, an inferno having coursed through his entire body and soul as lightning rent its fury on the boat and on those who had dared to try and save it. Peter cannot breathe properly. And he cannot move. He is broken and burned in too many places inside, he can feel that much. All that can be heard now is the storm. Is he the last? Others must have gotten to safety, surely? Somebody must live, otherwise what it is all for?

The wreckage heaves on, soon to be driftwood, and begins to list. Peter knows this because of the tipping feeling in his stomach, and that he’s able to just make out the lights on the shoreline through the whipping storm and the smouldering wreckage of all that surrounds him. The angle grows more acute and Peter begins to slide, gravity bestowing one last ironic gift to his paralysed body.

That tang - no, the flame - the burning up the back of his nose, arcing through the base of the skull and up across the scalp. Peter’s vision flares to white and back again as he is roasted from within, a searing fire caused by the very thing which should extinguish it. So this is the drowning. He's desperate to claw at his head, not that it would help, to flail to stay afloat, to swim, to breathe. But the waves that Peter has battled in recent years have other ideas. Time to come home.

Peter’s next - last - thoughts are of Elizabeth and Mary, of their imminent sadness and their loss. And of their disappointment. Who will provide now? What life for a widow in a town the size of Rinmouth? Well, there may be a few widows when the sun rises. He can’t see any signs of life out here. Not in the remnants of the spent boats that brush noiselessly past him in the furious water. Peter thinks of the disappointment, the most. What use a lifeboat crew that saves no lives?

“Are you ready to go now, love?” Anne asked, as Jessica skipped toward her. The girl smiled, nodded and reached for her mother’s hand.

“I saw Daddy in the photograph!” she chirped.

“Daddy?”, Anne frowned playfully. “His great, great granddad perhaps, but your Daddy isn’t in here sweetheart.”

“Okay” said Jessica, happy not to argue the point. After all it had been a long time since the accident at the swimming pool, and already the photographs in the house were starting to feel like someone she didn’t really know. “I miss Daddy” she added, simply.

Anne furrowed her brow but smiled. “I know you do sweetheart, so do I. C’mon, let’s go and see Nanny, she’s got plenty of photographs of your dad you can look at."

~ ~ ~

As the pair made their way out to the blinding glare of the car park, the museum’s curator stood with one eye on his departing visitors and the other on the small pool of water in the centre of the lifeboat display. The roof couldn’t be leaking now, it hadn’t rained for a month. Honestly, the worst thing this place ever did was take down the signs saying no food or drink. Bloody tourists. No respect. Still, it was easier to deal with than sugary fingerprints on the glass cases.

The curator rolled his eyes and went to get the mop. Again.

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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.