New Tales of the Old Ones

by Derwin, Theresa

  Albert was seated in the one red booth at the back for privacy.

  I grabbed the seat opposite him and ordered one of those frothy coffees to keep my hands busy.

  “So,” I started, “exactly how old are you?”

  Albert laughed and it was so infectious I had to laugh with him.

  “Seriously, I’ve read the diaries. Nan’s diary says you were a boy back in ‘65 but you couldn’t have been that young to be working in a looney bin.”

  “Psychiatric Unit if ya don’t mind,” he answered.

  “Soz. Breaside, then.”

  “Well,” he said, taking his own sweet time, “put it this way. I’m older than I look.”

  “Fair enough. Now for the important question. What happened to Mom? Do you know? Is any of this real?”

  “Whoa whoa.” Albert held his hand up to slow me down. I had a million and one questions after reading the diaries. But most of all, I needed to know what happened to her and if it was happening to me too.

  We talked for an hour or so, then Albert came up with the winning suggestion.

  He would escort me back into Breaside.

  I wanted to look around, take a look in Mom’s room.

  I wanted to talk to Doctor Storer.

  If I hadn’t already buried her, I’d have been opening her mouth to see if she still had a tongue.

  X

  Discreetly, we walked through those same miserable pea green corridors I had walked through just over a week ago when I’d first got the call that Mom had passed away. Just like before, the building felt wrong to me, smelt wrong to me.

  I was scared to death that we would be caught snooping around, but Albert didn’t seem to worry, after all, he worked there so wouldn’t look out of place.

  We started mooching in what used to be Mom’s room, but it had been cleaned top to bottom, maybe too clean.

  Next, we went to Storer’s office. Albert assured me Storer was in a meeting but it didn’t stop me from glancing at the door every time I heard someone walk past.

  I started by jimmying open his desk drawer. All that turned up was a prescription pad, a couple of pens, a desk diary and some sweets.

  Next I went for the old gunmetal filing cabinet against the side wall by the window. I’ve had some interesting pastimes so picking the lock wasn’t too difficult. At last after looking through each drawer I came to the fourth one down and found the manila file for ‘Patricia Yeomans’. Logical really. You would think alphabetical order would’ve occurred to me, but I was so bloody nervous.

  Pulling out the file I closed the filing cabinet and it relocked automatically.

  I sat at Storer’s large teak desk and opened the file.

  It contained the usual medical stuff: illegible doctors’ scrawl, medication notes and dosage instructions, a photo of Mom, next of kin details, that being me. Nothing to write home about – at first.

  Then something that caught my eye made me gasp.

  Albert dashed over to see what was up and joined me in looking through the file.

  Halfway through the notes was a sketch and one sentence underneath it.

  In his house at R’yleh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.

  It was the sketch that caught my breath in my throat and sent my heart to hammering.

  A winged creature sketched in pencil, writhing tentacles attached to a squid-like head, talons on its feet, a scaly hide.

  Though the sketch was done in crude black pencil, I knew what it was.

  Cthulhu.

  I squealed and dropped the folder on the desk as the door opened and in walked Doctor Storer with Sister Shabnam Khadim.

  I expected a reaction but Storer didn’t seem in the least surprised. He raised his eyebrow with a wry expression and shut the door behind him, locking us all in.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Albert,” he said.

  Albert kept silent.

  Storer and Shab walked forward until they were standing directly opposite us on the other side of the desk, which I was now using as a barrier.

  “And you, Mrs Monk, glad you could finally make it,” he said, and his smile was cold, sending tingles of fear down my spine.

  “I visit here all the time,” I blurted, confused.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said “I’ve been waiting a long time for one of you to wake up and see what’s happening here. I hoped it would be Mary. Then I hoped it would be Patricia, but I think it might be you. You are the last of your line, after all.”

  Again he smiled and it was the most horrific thing I’d ever seen, a passionate rictus grin, his eyes ablaze with adoration.

  No, it was with insanity, with the fervour of the religious fanatic.

  I could hear my heart thudding in my chest and my skin felt clammy.

  And Albert just stood there staring at Storer.

  “What the fuck are you on about?!” I finally screeched, backing up against the window.

  “Cthulhu,” he whispered with that awful grin plastered on his face. “Cthulhu.”

  He moved forward a step and started to walk around the desk.

  Albert didn’t stop him.

  I glanced at Albert and that’s when I saw him smile, that same fevered smile.

  And suddenly I knew.

  “Welcome home,” Storer said, and I started to scream. “You’re the first one to remember who you really are.”

  I started to shake my head, moaning. I could my own keening wail and I was scared, because I knew.

  I knew who I was.

  I’d heard the call of home.

  I was Cthulhu.

  THE CURSE OF THE FRASERS

  Emma Bunn

  I sit here in the study of the house left to me in my father’s will, as my father and his father before him have done over the years, stretching back for generations. I am writing this down more for my piece of mind. God help me and my family if anyone ever happens to stumble across these papers. Maybe reading it back to myself in black and white will make it all seem more real or I will be able to make sense of the extraordinary events that have happened to me.

  I knew there was supposedly a curse upon the first born males on my father’s side, but you do not believe in these things. A curse? How barbaric. That’s very fairy tale, how twee, how whimsical. Oh did I laugh. A curse you say? Not a good old fashioned curse?

  “Shh,” I was told, “don’t laugh, don’t even talk about it.” So I didn’t. It was swept under the carpet by my father’s family, but like most things you try to hide under the carpet; it left a bump on the floor we had to walk around. Every time I tried to ask a question about it, as a young teenager, everybody looked at me like I had uttered the worst swear word imaginable; then they pretended not to hear me.

  When I was 18, I had had enough of tip toeing around this thing like a dead body lying in the middle of the hallway. It was like the “don’t think of the elephant” game that we teased each other with at school. I left home. I packed a bag with essentials and decided to travel the world, and after a tearful conversation with my mother, she secured me an allowance to enable me to leave. I sent my family the odd postcard and even wrote them a full letter them once in a while. But never did I return back here. Then whilst on my travels in China I received a wire telling me that my mother was ill.

  Foolishly, I ignored that missive but when the next one came saying that she had taken for a turn for the worse, I hurried home. The telegram telling me that Mother had died found me with the family’s agent in London. Setting the wires on fire we arranged that I should return in time for the funeral. However bad weather, worse roads and two broken axles meant I arrived, feeling cursed, just in time to pay my respects. My elder sister by five years, Louise, now was married and had two daughters. There was no curse here for her to worry about. My father looked smaller than he did when I left. He was always such a statuesque man, standing tall and proud. Perhaps it was because I too had grown, in size as well as experience.

  He nodded to m
e beside the grave; it made me feel like an outsider and an acquaintance. Not his only son and heir. My nieces clung to their mother’s skirts when introduced to me after the funeral had ended, their big, brown eyes full of fear.

  “This is your Uncle James,” she gently told them. “He’s the one who sends us all the postcards from around the world.”

  “Hello,” I said to the taller of the two, who I thought to be Ellen; as far as I could remember she was six or maybe seven. It had been such a long time. She blinked back at me from behind long lashes.

  “Say hello to your Uncle James. See, I told you he was real,” Louise coaxed the child whilst looking at me accusingly.

  The smaller girl, Elizabeth, named after my mother, took a step forward. “Hello,” she said shyly.

  I smiled at her and a small smile twitched the corners of her mouth.

  Louise’s husband Robert came striding over to where we stood and shook my hand forcefully. “James old chap,” he barked, probably a little louder than he should considering the circumstances. I had only met him once or twice at the start of their courtship and thought him to be a weak man and a bit of toadying kind. But the fact he adored my sister and was a good husband was clear to see.

  “How goes the travel?” he asked me in a far too jovial way for a funeral.

  “It goes well, I’ve settled for a short while in China,” I told him

  “Good, good,” was his answer, already losing interest in me.

  My father shuffled over to join us too. He shuffled. This man who could instil the fear of God into most men when I was a child, shuffled. What you need to know about him is that he is what they call a “self-made” man. Apart from the house which had stayed in our family for years, everything he owned he had earned himself. He was always telling us how everybody should work for their living and never rely on the fortunes of others. This is probably why he liked Robert so much; he always said yes to everything my father said and was happy to work in his factory. Not like his disappointment of a son who decided to go off on some jolly around the world rather than stay and work for the family business.

  Anyway, I digress. We returned to the family home where my sister had laid out some sandwiches and small cakes. There was sherry or tea to drink. The children were allowed to sit at the table in the kitchen with their milk so not to get under the adults’ feet. I recognised a couple of aunts and a few family friends whose names escaped me.

  I knew I would have to stay here for the night, in my childhood home. So while my family were busy I slipped away and decided to go and unpack my bag in my old bedroom. As the house was all situated on one ground floor I only needed to walk along the hallway that ran the length of the house.

  It was with some trepidation that I took hold of the handle to my bedroom. I told myself to stop being silly and pushed the door open. My room remained unchanged. It was exactly how I left it. It smelt musty and unused. I pulled back the curtains and threw open the window to let in some air; even though it was March, the sun had been shinning. It was just starting to get dark out and I could have sworn out of the corner of my eye I saw someone in the garden, but when I looked again, whoever it was had gone. I rubbed my eyes and put it down to tiredness and the upheaval of being back in Scotland. Maybe it was the children outside playing. I turned and faced my old room. Everything was the same: the models I had made still sat upon the shelf proudly, though covered in dust. My books were still in order in the bookcase and the same eiderdown was upon my single bed. But I suddenly realised something wasn’t quite right, I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was like when you recognise somebody but can’t quite remember their name. I was about to start having a look when my sister called me from elsewhere in the house.

  I walked along the hallway, as I had done many times before and found my sister standing at the other end.

  “James,” Louise said, looking a little flushed, “there is someone Father would like you to see.”

  I followed her into the drawing room to find my father and another man I slightly recognised from my childhood. He was very tall, I would have guessed at a little over six feet, with dark, swarthy skin and his eyes almost seemed black. He was smartly dressed, wearing a long smart but tatty coat that had seen better days. He walked over and extended his hand to me. I took it in mine and shook it firmly; his hand was cold and clammy.

  “James,” he said in a deep and quiet voice. He had an accent I could not place. “I don’t know if you remember me, my name is Simon Abnett. I am your family’s solicitor.”

  My father looked pleased about this and spoke the first full sentence he had spoken to me since my arrival.

  “You remember Mr Abnett, James. He’s a good friend of mine and often dined with us when you were a child.”

  I was never allowed to dine with my parents when I was a child if they had guests, but I let this gap in his memory slip. From the corner of my eye, I noticed my sister leave the room; she gently shut the door behind her.

  “Yes, Father,” I replied thinking it was easier to agree. “I do remember him”

  Mr Abnett took a step towards me and seemed to grow taller by another couple of inches.

  “Your father has asked me here today to talk to you about his will.”

  “Were you at my mother’s funeral, Mr Abnett?” I asked him

  The man looked embarrassed at this question and stumbled with his answer. “I, um, was unable to attend, much to my disgrace.”

  I thought this odd, as he was supposedly such a good family friend, but I let that go, too.

  My father clapped his hands together; a curious thing to do considering my mother’s wake was still winding down in the room next door.

  “Enough of this chit chat!” he exclaimed. “To business. I have asked Mr Abnett here today so we can sort out the fact that when I die too, this house will be yours “

  “And what if I don’t want it?” I asked him. He sat back into the chair behind him, looking aghast.

  “But it’s our family home; it is always passed on to the first born son. It is tradition.” my father responded. “It is yours, as it was mine and my father’s and his father’s before him.”

  “But Father, I don’t live in Scotland any more. My home for the moment is in China.” I could hear the pleading tone in my voice and was disgusted with myself. I felt like a child again.

  “I’m afraid James,” Mr Abnett interrupted, “that the will has been written in accordance with your father’s wishes.” He looked pleased with himself for taking the opportunity to come to my father’s defence, just as he stood up once more and moved to the solicitor’s side.

  “James, you knew from an early age that this house would come to you upon my death.”

  I looked at them both and asked the question that was on the tip of my tongue. “What about the curse?”

  My father blanched and looked once again unsteady on his feet. Mr Abnett sensed this and took his elbow.

  “That is not to be mentioned in this house,” my father whispered.

  “Why?” I became quite angry and could hear my voice getting louder. “Why, Father? I know there is supposed to be one, so why can’t I know about it? Especially if it actually concerns me.” My fists were clenched at my sides. I tried to relax my hands.

  Mr Abnett walked to the sideboard and poured three brandies, passing one to each of us. He turned to pick up his glass but stayed with his back to the room.

  “The curse, young James, is just a story. It was made up to prevent the men folk of this family selling this house. Your great, great grandfather wanted it to stay in the family so created a story to ensure this never happened.”

  “So why all this secrecy? Why didn’t somebody just tell me it was false when I found out about the curse in my youth?”

  “It wasn’t that easy,” Mr Abnett retorted. “It has always been easier to just go along with it rather than tell the truth,” His back was still towards me.

  I looked at my last parent for c
onfirmation, but his eyes were cast downward. “Father?”

  He did not look up; he remained motionless for a moment. He suddenly seemed like a small, broken old man, not the person who had installed unease into the hearts of his workers when I was a child. I walked the short distance over to him and knelt in front of him. For the first time in a very long time, I took his hands in mine. I looked into his face to see his eyes were full of tears. “Father?” I whispered.

  He couldn’t meet my eyes. “Yes son, it’s the truth.”

  I stood up and turned to face Mr Abnett. He had been watching the exchange between myself and my father. I couldn’t read his face, but it looked like relief.

  “So, whether I want it or not, this house is mine?” I indicated with my hands at the house around me. Mr Abnett gave a slight nod.

  Frustrated with the lack of answers, I left the room.

  I helped my sister see the rest of the guests out and say goodbye to her husband as he had to return to their home. Then along with the housekeeper, Mrs King, we cleared away the plates and other such things. This is not something I would usually have done here, but I am now used to looking after myself and needed to keep my mind off the day’s revelations.

  By the time the place was tidy and the housekeeper had shooed me off. I was feeling tired, he emotional drain of the day’s events had finally caught up with me. I said goodnight to my despondent father and I went to my room to sleep, even though it was still only just before 9 o’clock.

  When I walked over to the window to shut the curtains, my room was still in darkness as I had yet to light the lamp by my bed. I pressed my face against the cold glass and my warm breath fogged it over. I wiped it off with my sleeve, just in time to catch a movement in the garden. It was a figure. I was sure of it this time.

  I hurried out of my room and back down the hallway. I grabbed my coat from the hook on the wall as I sprinted towards the door and then out into the garden.