[ 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...
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• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
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• 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.
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