For the Grandfather that I never knew and the Grandmother that never got to see the man that I became.
For Jim and Joan x
Spectral presents...
Neverlight
by Dan Weatherer
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Dan Weatherer
Published by Tickety Boo Press Ltd
www.ticketyboopress.co.uk
Edited by Siobhan Marshall-Jones
Cover Art by © Holly Madew
Book Design by Big River Press Ltd
Contents.
Foreword
An Ode to the Greats
Introduction
Abarath
Solitude and the Storm
Signed
I
Incubation
The Watchful Eye
Hate
Against All Odds
Time Flow and the Spectral Realm
My First Horror Story
The Specimen
Meadow View
The Dolly who is my Friend
The Wanting Summer
The Withered Touch
The Raven and the Wolf
Neverlight
The Miners of Annan
A Butcher’s Wife, Indisposed
The Tragedy of the Tailor.
The Thing Beneath the Bed
Clarence Milton—Vampire Hunter
That Laughing Man
Six Feet
She who Casts no Shadow
Soul, Ugly
Killing Gary
A Mother’s Gift
Brammerly House
Alone
With Special Thanks To Holly Madew (Cover art) Andrew Angel, Jim Rhodes, Lucy Roach, Mark Lee, Gary Compton and Siobhan Marshall-Jones.
Foreword
Question—What do you look for, or indeed hope for, when you pick up a book of short fiction by a relatively unknown (although not for long) author?
Personally I want something that grips, something that makes me want more and at least some of the stories to stay in my memory long after. Most of all, though, I don’t want to be bored. With this collection, his third, Dan Weatherer ticks each and every box.
Weatherer seems to have a gift for style and voices combining stories of modern and ‘body horror’, tales with pieces that could have come from the time (or indeed the pen) of Lovecraft or Poe, pieces that horrify and good old-fashioned ghost stories. Add to this a sprinkling of Flash Fiction and poetry and you have a collection worthy of a place at the top table.
The imagination of Dan Weatherer is a most fertile and inventive one, so find your comfiest chair, turn the page and prepare to enter the worlds of Father Darkness but remember. Not everything is as it seems and if you meet a little old lady who offers you a pie then run, run as fast as you can.
Most importantly though, enjoy—I know I did
Andy Angel
Acquiring Editor at Phantasia
Introduction
Hermes Trismegistus was wrong. The Emerald Tablet is a lie. God is not a singular entity, and his kingdom was not situated somewhere in the cosmos. There are Gods on Earth, and they number in their thousands. Older than even time itself, they languish beneath the surface of our world. These are ancient beings of muscle and flesh, consigned to the depths by a catastrophic event that tore apart the very fabric of the universe.
They can be seen.
They can be touched.
They can be killed.
When the flames had subsided, and the dust had settled, these massive creatures had become one with rock and clay. They lie buried far below, poised and alert. Their minds are beyond comprehension and their will presses upon on our own.
This message is a warning that will likely go unheeded. Do not look to the skies to ask an absent God why he permits such atrocities amongst his people. Look towards the ground upon which we walk, feel the vibrations of corruption, beware the calls of the forgotten.
As below, so above.
Abarath
You will not see it marked on any map, nor will you find anyone willing to take you there should they happen to know its location. Though the promise of untold riches features within the stories associated with this place, so do those of Abarath, the creature said to stand guard over the subterranean labyrinth that goes by the name of Filey’s Motte.
During my travels, I had heard countless stories of careless souls who, in their earnest to find their fortune, entered the Motte never to be heard from again. No doubt you grow weary of hearing such a tale rehashed and repeated ad infinitum, so allow me to present a different version of this famous yarn.
It was 1964. I was twenty-one, foolish and headstrong. My friend Albert and I had taken to the roads that summer, driving across the country in a bid to leave the pressures of university life far behind us. Albert was a bookish sort, and he had taken it upon himself to mark out a series of places that he thought would be interesting to visit. We saw historical monuments, quaint English villages and countless other remnants of our country’s rich heritage. It was Filey’s Motte that was to be our last stop.
Albert explained how he had stumbled across an interesting legend while researching one of his more arcane texts earlier that term. It told of a subterranean labyrinth that at its heart contained wealth beyond all measure. Worryingly, the book also spoke of an unholy guardian that keeps a constant vigil over the maze. Further research yielded several possible locations of the Motte but little more in the way of insight as to its content.
It was the final location on our list of places to visit that proved to be the most telling, for the villagers of (name omitted) came forth with an abundance of information regarding the Motte. The tongues in the village tavern once suitably loosened with ale began to wag and warn of the folly of our plan. Though none could point to the exact origin of the Motte, all in attendance agreed that it predated local records and several argued that the Saxons and the Celts were aware of the Motte. One gentleman who wished to remain anonymous said that the site was once used for Pagan worship, and the beast that was contained within was imprisoned by a brotherhood of Warlocks whose lineage had long since faded to dust. With our interests piqued, we decided to head to the site come sunrise.
***
We searched the area that we believed contained Filey’s Motte for many hours before finally locating the hole in the ground which would grant us access. A quick inspection under torchlight revealed a narrow slipway that angled steeply downwards before disappearing into the gloom. It was clear that we would need to leave our bags behind and that this was not to be our exit point. Though I would not admit to it at the time, I felt a choking sense of dread as I positioned myself above the entrance. Not wishing Albert to sense my unease I ushered him to follow before disappearing below ground.
The slipway was smooth and my descent rapid. I have no idea just how far the shaft burrowed beneath the surface, but it took nearly a full minute for the passageway to level itself out. It was cold this far below ground, a cold that I have never felt before nor since. A quick recce of the area while I waited for Albert’s arrival revealed that I was standing in a small antechamber. The beginning of the labyrinth lay before me. Once Albert had acquainted himself with his surroundings (alas, his torch did not survive the descent intact) we began our exploration.
Labyrinth fails to describe the splendid complexity of what lay within Filey’s Motte. I had often wondered why there was no map in existence that detailed the layout of the Motte, but upon seeing the maze for myself I began to understand why. T
o plot every possible route would take several lifetimes alone and with the beastly Abarath upon your trail, the inconceivable quickly becomes the impossible.
The further we travelled the more curious our surroundings became. The tunnels that we navigated began to take on an organic look and at times I saw the walls begin to pulse. The air grew thick the deeper we ventured and a heavy odour that I can only describe as rotted meat lingered all around.
After countless hours of backtracking and dead ends, it was with a heavy heart that I admitted our misfortune. We were lost. All sense of direction had long since been swallowed by the darkness and the disorientation provided by the Motte. Albert (God rest his soul) took this admission badly and began to kick up an awful fuss, and nothing I could say would placate him. Our surroundings seemed to react to his outburst and though I pleaded with him to cease he continued unabated, much to his misfortune.
I remarked earlier how organic our environment appeared and the reason for this was soon apparent. Albert and his outbreak had disturbed Abarath, and though all who enter the Motte hope not to encounter him, this is an impossibility. For Abarath is Filey’s Motte. Albert and I, like countless explorers before, were crawling through the very innards of a monster. Our chamber rapidly began to fill with a noxious fluid that immediately proceeded to dissolve our shoes. Albert, oblivious to the peril that he was now in disappeared deeper into the darkness, alas before I could continue after him a large fleshy barrier sealed itself between us. That was the last that I heard of him, save for his hellish screams.
Realising the imminent danger that I was now in I somehow plucked up the will to retrace my steps. I lost my flashlight at one point and fumbled in the dark for an ungodly amount of time. My palms were reduced to the bone as were the soles of my feet due to the liquids pouring from the walls and ceiling, yet still I drove forwards. Fervour gripped me the likes of which I have never encountered since; simply put, it was the will to live that kept me moving.
Emerging from the Motte weary and bloodied I found myself amongst the ruins of a burial mound. It was here that I slept until fortune grant that someone find me.
***
I never did find the treasure of Filey’s Motte, but I do believe I know what it entails. I have embraced every day of my life anew since my ill-fated journey to that place and though I lost a dear friend that day, I for one feel like the richest man on Earth.
Solitude and the Storm
She lay atop the bedsheets naked as a babe, clothed only in darkness. The world beyond her open window busied itself with the trivialities of the night. The flow of a hundred lives, some laughing, some crying, some falling in love, faded into a distant hum, a mere prelude to the symphony yet to come.
The week had brought her elation and heartbreak in equal measure. Here she lay caught twixt a mood of blissful contentment and fierce ambition. Apathy hung above her, threatening to sap her desires and condemn her long and wasteful hours.
In times of such humour, the dance would be her release. Her music collection remained untouched, for no ordinary ballad would stir her this night.
As the stormclouds gathered, and the darkness thickened, Mother Earth surveyed the score before her. The furore was to be a good piece, nay, a grand piece, written only for the soul who lay naked and alone, the soul who needed rejuvenation, the soul who burned for the dance.
The tempest raged above the city. First there was nothing, and then there was everything. The rain fell hard and fast, beating out a rhythm that wound its way through the empty streets, setting a cadence atop of which the roar of the thunder could accentuate the drama.
It was the sudden flash of light, brief and blinding that drew her attention to the window. A storm approached, and somehow she knew that it was all for her. Rising from her bed she approached the window before stepping out onto the balcony. The streets were long deserted, only the patter of the rain remained.
As the skies roared, and the heavens opened, she allowed herself to bathe in the glory of the downpour, writhing amongst the rains, permitting the fingers of the storm to explore her body. For her, there was only ever the night and she was blessed to let it be so.
Signed
In some ways, it is terrifying to imagine just how close the town of Marchington came to obliteration by the tentacles of a demonic cephalopod.
THE END
It was finished. Months of toil had finally given way to Marty’s latest masterpiece. Of his eighteen novels to date, this was to be his finest. If 80,000 words detailing the harrowing exploits of a possessed octopus that resided in a quiet, seaside aquarium didn’t announce the arrival of Martin Murderstorm (his pen-name of choice) upon the international horror stage then he was convinced that nothing would. Old One Offspring was his magnum opus.
Of course Marty had held that very same belief upon completion of his previous seventeen self-published novels. His best seller to date, the aptly titled Number Cruncher (a story about a murderer who only targeted chartered accountants) had sold six copies. The rest of his back catalogue had not fared nearly so well.
Yet Marty’s belief in his work never faltered. Though his girlfriend had left him, and his parents had kicked him out of their basement, still he clung to the dream of one day becoming a best-selling horror author. No-one can downplay the importance of drive and determination when one strives for success and Marty was willing to do anything to achieve his goal.
He checked his watch.
1:23 am.
Just enough time to fire out a few quick emails to the agents that had taken the time to reject his previous works. He loaded up his usual email template and set to work.
Dear (insert name here),
My name is Martin Muderstorm and I am the saviour of horror.
Don’t believe me? Then treat your eyes to (insert title here) which is my latest tale of dread.
It’s about (enter spine chilling description here), and it will blow your mind!
I hope that we can work together.
Yours confidently,
Martin Murderstorm. Visionary.
With all thirty-two of his agent contacts emailed, Marty closed the laptop, fixed himself a glass of warm milk and climbed into his single bed.
***
Upon opening his inbox the following morning, Marty was greeted with thirty-two emails, all of which said exactly the same thing—Thanks but no thanks.
The weight of the rejections hit Marty like a sledgehammer. Sure, he had received rejections before but they were in regards to inferior pieces. Old One Offspring was too damn good to be rejected out of hand. He wondered whether they had even gotten past the front cover (which featured an octopus brooding in its tank as couples and children pass it by, oblivious to the terror contained behind a mere inch of glass). No, he thought to himself, there is no way any of them even read it, not that quickly!
As he munched his way through his usual breakfast (a half bowl of cornflakes) he worked out the beginnings of a plan. This book deserved to be read and by God was he ever going to do whatever it took to get it noticed. It was time for a change of tact. Every approach he had previously made had been via email. This was the industry norm, Agents expected as such, but Marty felt that perhaps this was a tad impersonal. Each of his rejection emails contained the direct phone number to the agent disregarding his work. Marty’s plan was simple. He was to choose the agency he most liked the look of, and he would speak to them directly. After much pondering, he decided upon Mcluster and Luster, (it was the name that he liked the best). and dialled their head office.
“Good morning, Mcluster and Luster,” said a cheery female voice, “Ruth speaking, how may I direct your call?”
“Good morning, I was wondering, could I speak to Mr Mcluster, please? Or Mr Luster, I do not mind which one really—whoever is free will do” replied Marty.
“That won’t be possible I’m afraid. Mr Mcluster died of Polio in 1928, and Mr Luster fell from a train in 193
5. They founded the company in 1919; they don’t actually work here.”
“Ah, it didn’t say that on the website.”
“No, it probably doesn’t—I doubt many companies include the details of their founders’ deaths as part of their online information, some would deem the approach distasteful,” replied Ruth, some of her initial cheeriness lost. “Is there anybody else that you might wish to speak to?”
“Yes—yes, bear with me two seconds.” Marty scrolled through his emails until he located the one needed. “Could you pass me through to Mr Alan Chambers then please?”
“And who shall I say is calling?”
“Martin Murderstorm.”
The sound of a muffled laugh quickly cut into the jazz piece that the company had chosen as its ‘hold’ music. After a minute of lazy snares and wailing saxophones, Alan Chambers spoke.
“Hello, Mr Murderstorm?” He sounded weary and in desperate need of coffee.
“Yes, that’s me. Thank you for taking my call. Good morning—” he said.
“What is it that you want?” interrupted Alan. “I’ve a busy morning ahead, and I’d prefer if we cut directly to the chase.”
“Certainly, of course. It’s about my book—Old One Offspring…”
“Ah yes,” sighed Alan. “The possessed Octopus.”
“You read it? Wait—he wasn’t possessed, he was the son of—”
“I read the blurb and decided to pass. Look, the truth is we have far too many authors like you on our books anyway. We simply don’t have the time or resources to pick up another writer.”
Marty had been prepared for this response as it was the one that cropped up most regularly in his email rejections. “If you ask me, this seems to be an issue with all agents, don’t you think? Tell me, if you always have full lists then how does somebody new get onto your books?”
The line fell silent for a moment as Alan pondered how best to answer. “Well…” he began, “I imagine that when of our authors retires from writing that potentially frees up space for somebody new. In theory anyway.”
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