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: 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: 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.