Charleswood Road Stories

by Joudrey, M. C.

  He looked sternly at me waiting, to see what I would do. He was right; I didn’t believe him but I was sure he believed his own story and if this would lead me to his victims then I needed to play along.

  He reached for the bag to put it and its decomposing contents back in his pocket when I grabbed his wrist and took the bag from his hands.

  “This is evidence,” I said coldly, and slid it into my own pocket. “Why don’t you tell the rest of what happened and we’ll try to figure this thing out?”

  “I’m glad you understand. This whole thing has rattled my nerves so they might never recover.”

  He looked at me for sympathy but I gave him none. Then he took a sip of his now warm lager, having only barely finished half the bottle and continued.

  “As I said, I found the ear resting in the storm drain. I turned and looked at Carol but she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking past me, down the alley with horror. I turned to see what had transfixed her. There, at the end of the alley, was a large dark figure, not unlike that of a man but it was hard to tell from such a distance. The light pole was behind the figure, revealing only a dark misshaped silhouette. Then it moved and I knew the first taste of fear that had captivated Carol so intensely. Its movements weren’t at all natural but sharp and crooked. Joints bent forcefully, like trying to bend glass without breaking it. My brain told me to run, to grab Carol’s arm and run but nothing could move me. The fear was too strong. The next moment the thing was upon me, its terrible grip around my throat. It had eyes, spectral eyes, inside sockets that twitched rapidly with an unimaginable gaze that read the very imprint of your soul.”

  He stopped and took a long breath as though the thought of his creation would end his miserable life right then.

  “Then Carol finally screamed, somehow momentarily free from the fear which imprisoned her, and the thing loosened its grip from my throat. I fell to my knees with my head between them, pleading for air. In the few precious seconds it had taken for me to recover, both Carol and the thing were gone. I got myself to my feet, looked about and found nothing; there was no sign of struggle, not a mark of blood and I was completely sober. Besides the awful knot of fear that lingered within my churning stomach, there was not a single morsel of evidence to be found, that is to say, not a single normal piece of evidence. It is true that I had surveyed for the obvious signs of a kidnapping. But, and I had almost missed it, there was a peculiar growth which had attached itself to the concrete walkway. I crouched down to inspect it and it looked to be a mould; a normal everyday grey mould, not unlike that which would appear on expired cheese, was growing up from the ground. The mould looked as though it stretched on like bread crumbs from those fabled children, urging me to follow. Though I did not want to follow, some foul urge compelled me. The hideous mottled trail of microscopic fungi led me down a series of darkened abandoned streets and alleyways and the farther I went the more I felt the impending danger. After fifteen minutes or so, the mould on the street surface began to grow thick. I took it as a sign that I was getting closer. I had been following so closely in front of my feet that when I looked up, I suddenly stopped. I had come before a large opening that led beneath the city into the sewers. The opening had been grated closed and was covered over heavily with the same grey mould. Two of the steel rib bars had been bent enough to allow me passage, and I did enter.”

  He stopped here abruptly, as though there was nothing left to tell and that I should be satisfied with this as the ending.

  “I expect there’s more to be told?” I asked leadingly.

  He leaned forward, coming as close as he could to me from across the table, then answered in a barely audible whisper.

  “There is, but it cannot be told. It must be witnessed and I will show you, but I warn you detective, your life and nightly slumbers shall never be the same, that is assuming we ourselves survive.”

  I dismissed his overly dramatic warning. In my head, this was now a simple murder case in which I had spent the better part of the evening sharing a drink with the killer. From here, I was no longer a concerned listener but a Senior Detective of New Scotland Yard with a serious and delicate case to handle. I had considered more than once stopping at my flat for my weapon and a flashlight, but was worried this might spook the man and all would be lost. Therefore, I proceeded into the cool night air with the man, leading me through a maze of streets and alleys. We arrived at the grated opening he had described, and it did seem to be covered in a dense grey mould as he had described. He continued to move hurriedly towards the entrance and I followed, advising we should slow our pace. He was nervous and his eyes revealed a legitimate fear which left me feeling increasingly uneasy.

  Only the opening of tunnel was lit by the frail light from the outside street lights. Still, the man proceeded and I followed, doing my best to survey my surroundings as any detective might.

  “At the end of the tunnel we go left.” He kept walking but turned his head over his shoulder. The light played off the whites of his eyes which caused them to take on an eerie glow.

  “Please be prepared as it will become completely black in a few moments. You will need to feel your way along until we reach the lighted portion of the tunnel. Most of the filaments are old and have long since extinguished, but some light will be better than none.”

  We made our way in complete silence, pressing our hands along the wall like newborns, feeling all sorts of unholy things. Our feet plodded along through a wretched soup which had a fetid stench. Finally, my eyes not quite adjusted to the dark, I was able to register a faint light. The man quickened his pace towards it and I did the same, happy to receive the tiny bit of light given off by the single bulb fastened to the side of the wall. The man stopped, turned and approached me.

  “We are close now. Only a few more minutes until we reach the room. I must warn you again detective, what you are about to see will change you.”

  The terror on his face had momentarily convinced me of everything he’d said and then rational thought replaced my fear. I reassured myself that he was no more dangerous than any other person who has committed a serious crime.

  “I am more than prepared to continue,” I said, realizing as did he, that my reply was no more than a whisper. As we walked along, I was reminded of something the man had said earlier.

  “There is something I need to ask,” I started as he continued to walk ahead, as though he hadn’t heard me. “Earlier you said Carol and Terri were here, and then you said that they were all here. What did you mean by that?”

  Still he continued to walk and said simply, “You’ll see soon enough, detective.”

  My shoes were completely soaked through and my feet now felt pruned inside my socks. My hands likewise were also shrivelled from the dampness. We continued along the labyrinth of tunnels and I took careful note of the many directions we’d travelled to ensure my way back, although I was beginning to lose my confidence that I’d be able to do so. Then the smell hit me in such a way that I staggered momentarily.

  I must apologize, as there is no way I could ever hope to explain the stench. The man stopped and signalled for me to do the same. He moved slightly forward as if checking for something, then came back to meet with me.

  “We have arrived and from here you must lead. There is no way I could ever enter that room again.”

  He pointed towards what looked like a large catacomb. The man followed behind me, which was not at all to my liking. I’d be lying if I told you his behaviour had not finally convinced me that this was something far greater than a simple double homicide.

  I shuffled forward carefully towards the catacomb. As I approached, a worm of fear slithered up my spine and burrowed deep within me. I looked back at the man who mirrored my own apprehensions. The smell was almost paralysing. The mould was in such abundance that it resembled fur. It was like it was reaching out for me, stretching its hairy mass towards my body as I neared it. It was alive, more so than it should have been. I hunched over
, my knees buckling slightly to provide me room to pass unscathed and into the great open room.

  At this point, we were slightly elevated, resting atop an eight-foot staircase. If it was possible, the smell had worsened and to my revulsion I discovered why. Beneath the patchwork lighting were the bodies of more than a hundred women. Most were dead and had suffered from what looked like a series of gruesome tortures. A few were still alive, though likely wouldn’t last the night. I covered my mouth as the vomit approached my lips but could do nothing to keep it within me.

  I wiped my lower lip with my sleeve, unable to even utter a sound.

  “You see? I told you, they are all here, every one of them.” The man was clutching my arm tightly from fear.

  “We need to get out of here and get help, we need to leave immediately.”

  As I turned to go, the remaining lights hummed loudly and flicked desperately, then expired. Black and nothing more could be seen. The man, who I could no longer see, whimpered softly and I knew he was only a few feet from me.

  “Do you smoke?” I asked in a whisper. The man only continued to whimper.

  “A light, do you have one?” I repeated urgently.

  “N-n-no.” His voice was a terrible tremor.

  The room was quiet, other than the man beside me who only allowed very faint uncontrollable sounds pass his frightened lips. I too was terrified, trapped atop the tiny staircase, afraid to feel my way out of the room because of the seemingly sentient mould which caked the tomb. I could think of nothing to better our situation. Then I heard it. The man beside me moaned in terror as though he knew a great deal more than I did about its origins. Again came the shuffling of what seemed like heavy feet burdened by a great mass. The movements scratched at the floor and the cries from the still-living audience grew louder. Closer they came, closer still as I stood comatose with fear. I could do nothing and now whatever was moving was close enough that I could hear its body and the unforgettable sounds it made.

  I reached for the man beside me and found his arm. “What is it?” I bellowed, “Tell me!”

  Yet he was a man drowned in fear and dead from it. My eyes had now fully adjusted to the darkness and yet still saw only black in front of me. I now heard the figure begin to tackle the first step, its joints forcibly bending with a crunch and snap. Suddenly, the lights that had gone out hummed and illuminated the room once more. Now I could see. The man screamed in terror so loud I could not hear even my own. On the step before us was something in the shape of a man but not a man, a thing, a wraith, an awful thing befitting our greatest fears. Its neck bent forward in a terrible hunch and covering its awful body was a large black cloak tied about it like a cape. I managed to gather my wits and prepared to turn when I heard the hideous crack of its upper spine allowing its face to rise and become exposed to me. I could not move. No man should ever know such imagery. The man behind me clung to me tightly as we gaped at the thing before us. Its eyes were far worse then the man had earlier described. There was a goose-like flesh which covered most of its body with the grey mould growing prominently out of tears and openings in the skin. Upon its face it wore what seemed to me a mocking smile but I couldn’t be sure.

  Then the thing raised its arm and pointed at me. I am sure my heart stopped and I died for a moment on my feet. The man behind me was muttering something incoherent and it momentarily brought me back to my senses. I put my hand on his, which was gripping me painfully and turned my head to look away as the creature navigated the remainder of the stairs. The man was muttering disordered words to me and his eyes bulged from his head.

  “What? What is it? What are you saying?”

  “The ear, it wants the ear. G-g-give it the ear!”

  I turned back to face the thing which now stood towering before me. I reached into my pocket and searched madly for the bag containing the human part. I found it and pulled it free. I shot my hand out madly, clutching the dangling bag in front of my face. The weight of the small object seemed like ten stone and I dropped it in front of me. The thing’s eyes turned downward at the fallen bag and its contents, then rose and made contact with mine. I was trembling and felt these were most certainly my final moments. My eyes swirled, jumping from the bodies chained and nailed to the walls, dead or decaying and dying.

  The man behind me released my arm. He let escape a shattering scream and ran. I was able to pry myself from my fear and run with all the power my legs possessed down the darkened tunnel behind him. I never looked back as I dashed forward in a mad sprint, following the noise of the man’s constant scream which reverberated against the sepulchral walls as though it were a thousand voices at once. I tell you the truth when I say that I was still positive the thing was at my heels and my life was at its end. The rest of my escape was a wash of powerful and terrible emotions as well as numbness; there was a numbness that overcame me and I think that is what saved me that night. I spent the remainder of the evening and early morning hours with both my hands clenched firmly around my service weapon. My heart raced and beat like a firecracker and at certain moments I was confident it might burst. I didn’t even dare attempt sleep.

  The next day I was early to New Scotland Yard and gathered a large team and took them back to the site, down those darkened tunnels beneath this great city. There was not a single member of the team who were not greatly affected by the discovery of all those bodies and of all those poor tortured women. The creature was nowhere to be found and its presence no longer felt, other than the grim misdeeds which lingered. My partner and long-time colleague disclosed to me that more than half of the women in that awful catacomb were well-known prostitutes. The rest were later identified as the same. The victims had perished due to massive blood loss inflicted by what could only be described as medical incisions running all the way across the abdomen and other parts of the body.

  Why? This is a question every good investigator is plagued by on a case from time to time. Although the team combed the streets for leads and suspects, each one rapidly went cold. In my more intimate moments I’ve developed a theory which borders on mad, especially in the real world where criminals are real people who do really bad things. Still, I’ll share with you that I believe there is an evil presence in this world so potent and powerful it is not meant to be witnessed by anyone else but its victims, and may God help those who suffer at its hands and let them know peace.

  I am much older now and many years retired as I make this final entry in my journal. As I reflect on past events, there are only four things that remain absolute in my life to this very day: I have never seen the man from that black night ever again, nor have I told a soul the truth about what really happened. I cannot sleep without the aid of prescription pills, and lastly and most importantly, I know with a great and terrible certainty that thing is still out there.

  Damned Silverfish

  Everywhere,

  When the lights go out.

  Fast too.

  They smile at me like my cocaine friends.

  At night you can hear them flitting about,

  And talking like a Fitzgerald yarn.

  They laugh,

  And stand as men stand and lie about as women lie.

  They’re funny these fish and they know it.

  Antennae slicked like Bogey, cracking wise,

  Females boasting alloy chests and Dietrich furs.

  They make gay and drink gin in crystal,

  Chink glasses and spill on the floor.

  Bodies rubbing lithely.

  More arrive, there’s music.

  Basie?

  Nothing else exists, not tonight.

  Not for them,

  Not for me.

  I’d join them,

  I would,

  But what to say?

  Through a Window Small

  A HOODED WARBLER PERCHED ON the windowsill and gazed into George’s backyard. The rain came down in heavy veils and the wind acted as a fresh razor blade against the leaves in the trees. The aw
ning above the window offered a small respite for the fragile bird. His feathers, worn and splintered, his paltry onyx eyes focused with intent. The modest creature stood facing the storm just as a human being would in deep reflection.

  George watched the tiny creature from behind the safety of the windowpane and carefully wiped a thin layer of dust from the window with the sleeve of his sweatshirt to get a clear look at the bird. The brilliant lemon colours on the bird’s body burned like a miniscule sun in contrast to the muddled sky. The rest of the world seemed to have been fleeced of all colour and existed in an angry state of muted wind and rain.

  The bright little creature spread his wings to full extension. He was embracing the storm, challenging its fury and mocking its power. Fearless and ready, the bird left his perch and took flight into the magnificent downpour. George watched as he fought valiantly, then frantically against the ferocious winds. The rain was like a thousand copper pellets against his hollow bones that left him battered against George’s backyard fence. He dropped without grace onto the damp earth, succumbing unwillingly to his fate.

  George turned and left the kitchen window and made his way to the living room. He plunked back down into his easy chair recliner with a cheese sandwich, which was the reason for his foray into the kitchen some ten minutes earlier. He took the remote control from the seat of his chair and pressed the rewind button. He had missed the important parts during that brief interruption in the backyard.

  Things just piled up and time slipped away from everyone

  Understanding the Architect

  SHE STOOD UP, THEN SAT down and then stood up again. She paced the smooth, polished tiles and waited for the surgeon to come through the door at the end of the hallway to tell her that her mother was dead. But this part of the story happens on a Monday night, and it is always best to start a day at its beginning.