by Aaron French
So it was that on full moons live sacrifices or dales were made to this spirit in the chalk. That was until the current Lord Crundale forbade the practice, despite the great opposition and genuine concern of the estate workers.
Now, for four full seasons on, the villagers were both fearful and angry. Since the daling had stopped, several of the smaller farms in the area had failed and the harvests were blighted year after year by some misfortune or another. The main diary outside the village had been driven into bankruptcy by the sour milk produced by its down land herd, and the quality of the wool from the flocks nearby had been graded so poorly that the farmers could scarcely get a penny a fleece at the Ashford Town market. Each year without a sacrifice, or so the villagers believed, had increased the wroth of Hengst, and the birth of the second still-born child in the village in as many months finally broke the feudal restrain of the desperate villagers.
***
Alice awoke with a start, hearing doors slamming and the sound of clumsy footsteps below. She felt over the bed. Rupert was gone.
She raced from the grand bedroom and down the great spiral staircase. She could see the dark outline of her husband sitting in the deep-set red-leather watchman’s chair adjacent to the front door with his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he was repeating to himself.
“What is it, Rupert? What’s happened?”
“We were going to lose everything,” he blustered into the dim semi-light of the hallway. “It’d all be gone. We can’t take another year, we’d be finished.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the bloody daling, Alice. You stopped them. Couldn’t you have just let the simple fools carry on?” His voice was full of bitterness.
Alice didn’t really understand her husband but he had never spoken to her in this manner before. “If it’s that important, then let the heathens use a captured hare or something and be done with it, wretched creatures.”
“That’s not enough now, Alice. Lord, that’s nowhere near enough now.”
“You’re not making sense!”
He stood up and grabbed his wife forcefully by the arms. She screamed. “You’re hurting me, Rupert!” she cried.
“Don’t you understand, you stupid fool,” he raged. “It’s been four years without a sacrifice – you think it’d be happy with a bloody rabbit?”
“What will, Rupert? What won’t be happy? What is wrong with you, you’re scaring me!”
He stared at her wild-eyed, his face transformed by the moonlight into a different man, a cursed and tortured man. Suddenly he released, and she raced upstairs with Rupert crying after her, “I’m sorry, we didn’t have a choice!”
Albert’s crib was empty.
***
The cluster of flickering torches snaked towards the base of the Devil’s Kneading Trough, emitting a low mumbling chant and towing behind them a brown hewn bag with a moving object trapped inside. Each shadow was armed with a blunt wooden paddle.
About the author: Sean T. Page is the author of The Official Zombie Handbook (UK) and War Against the Walking Dead. He has clocked up numerous short stories, and he has an over-active imagination and a Lovecraftian interest in the bizarre, older stories of horror.
The City of Death
Jason D. Brawn
It was 08:58 a.m., with impatient people bustling through Mitre Square, heading for work. But not Carol. She was gazing hard at the monument of Christopher Burgess, a statesman—honoured by Queen Elizabeth I—which stood atop a stone pedestal. She had always walked past the granite statue, but today this figure of imposing height nabbed her attention. His bold face stared into the sky with confidence and self-importance.
Mitre Square was the site for historical happenings: the body of Jack the Ripper’s victim, Catherine Eddowes, found mutilated, and the cloister of the Holy Trinity Prior, later demolished under Henry VIII’s orders.
She stared possessively into the eyes of Christopher Burgess, without thinking about getting to the office late or what was on the telly last night. Her thoughts were blank and she expressed no feelings. When there were only a few people passing in the background, the sounds around her faded into silence. The blue sky was changing into a grey and dark cloud, and the sun was gone, sending unsettling darkness into her surroundings. Then she heard an echoing wind.
Finally she snapped herself back, but found that she was in another world. A parallel and tormenting dimension. The sharp sound of a bell tolled... and tolled... and tolled, warning her or awakening something unpleasant.
She was still positioned in the same spot, but instead of the towering office blocks, there appeared crumbling edifices of a Romanesque architecture.
Carol began pacing, trying to figure out where she was. When she checked her wristwatch it was still 08:58 a.m.
She explored further, passing ruined cathedrals, abbeys, castles and guildhalls. Then she remembered what she read last night about Christopher Burgess; that he, as a public figure—poet, artist, mathematician and alchemist—was rumoured to have dabbled in the black arts, a practice which later led to his disappearance.
What should have been a sunny day had turned bitterly cold. Only wearing her business suit, she buttoned her blazer and lifted the collars to endure the gloomy weather.
The streets were deserted and there were no road names or vehicles in this gothic city.
Her eyes caught sight of a belfry—far behind a few houses—and watched the clock hands representing the same time. The brass bells rang nonstop. Carol set out to find the bell tower, but when she did there was no door at the entrance. Just a dark hollow. She stared fearfully into the entranceway, daring herself to step inside.
But what if the place collapsed?
Good point. She retraced her steps back to the main road.
Then the tolling stopped. Complete silence for a brief moment. Carol was motionless and still unnerved, wishing she was back in her own world. Panicked, she raced towards Mitre Square.
As she ran, she caught blurred glimpses of dark figures, but her main focus was on getting back to the square.
Eventually she reached her destination and stopped before the statue, crouching down to catch her breath. Any minute now, I should get back to my civilised world. But what were those things I saw, standing there watching me?
She felt an unusual presence behind her, and jerked wildly around. Standing over the pedestal was Christopher Burgess, now alive, leering down at her.
She backed off, watching his eyes. “Please help me?” she pleaded.
But he would not. He leaped down to the ground, gazing into her frightened eyes.
She was not alone with Christopher.
Ghoulish creatures crept towards her. Their complexion was a dark, greyish mould, with dangling arms, and soon more of them filled the square until she was trapped.
As their appearance became more visible, it was clear these shadowy creatures were only made in the dark. Then she remembered clearly, from one of his published diaries, who they were—his golems. It was believed that Christopher had had a special interest in creating a race of subservient golems—like those found in Jewish folklore.
Christopher stood close to the pedestal. He was wearing a sepia ceremonial outfit and placed the hood over his head, glaring at her. His look signified a command of sacrifice to the anthropomorphic beings. They moved slowly, getting closer... closer to her, while all she could do was scream. A collage of grotesque faces stared hungrily at her, exposing razor-sharp teeth.
Her screams continued.
Christopher grinned as a chorus of groans revealed their hunger, followed by the sound of limbs being ripped and pulled savagely apart.
The creatures waited in a long line for their meal, and Christopher stood away, watching proudly over his babies.
“My Lord.”
He turned to a female golem.
“You promised it would be my turn next,” she implored.
***
Back to reality. Carol still faced the monument. It was sunny and the time had just hit 08:59 a.m. She glared everywhere, confused and perplexed. Then she abruptly ran away from Mitre Square, never to return.
She was ten minutes late for work, and hurried into the ladies.
A few co-workers casually did the usual, as Carol studied her gaunt face in the mirror. Everything seemed fine... until she opened her mouth. Her once fine teeth were so disgusting, they would scare anyone.
She shut her mouth tight, drawing back. The transformation worked, except for her teeth, which would be a dead giveaway of her secret origins.
Once alone, she opened her mouth but the nightmare was still there. Slowly the colouring of her teeth changed and each tooth was altered back to its human perfection.
She smiled, gritting her teeth, then left to join the others in a brand new world.
About the author: Jason D. Brawn lives in London and his short stories and poems have appeared in Static Movement, Pill Hill Press, Wicked East Press, Living Dead Press, House of Horror and many more.
Terror Within the Walls
K.G. McAbee
Life is a hideous thing, and from the background behind what we know of it peer demoniacal hints of truth which make it sometimes a thousandfold more hideous.
—H.P. Lovecraft
Wires.
They snake everywhere, running through the air and under the ground, entangling above our heads, beneath our feet, insinuating themselves into the very walls and floors of our homes. They creep around our beds at night like worms of discord, the eerie power that runs through them eating away at our minds as we sleep. Each instant the wires serve as a pathway, a bridge, an opening to a world which none of us who value our sanity should ever wish to broach.
I am an old man now and the local children here in Innsmouth laugh at me when I take my oil lamps out onto the porch to fill them. They gather on the edge of my ragged yard and titter behind their dirty hands as I measure out the fuel and pour it into the battered lamp bases. And each child stands there with grimy hands busy stroking one of the electronic games which have replaced the toys of my youth. One eye on the game, the other on me, as raucous laughter fills the air.
Their mirth saddens me; indeed, it consumes me with horror at times, for they do not know what it is that they mock, what it is that they scorn with such abandon.
But once I was as they. I filled my heart and mind with technology, with knowledge, worshiping all the benefits they can bring to humanity. Science became my god.
But I found that there are other gods, darker gods.
Stronger gods.
I had no knowledge then, no idea, that science also has its dark side. And that even technology, bright and glowing with the energy of the electron, could yet be interconnected with the ancient and powerful gods of Man’s prehistory.
Death is near me now. I hear the power as it grows ever stronger in the wires surrounding me, the wires that multiply and proliferate as I myself grow increasingly weaker. But I must leave some record of this knowledge that has blighted my life.
I pray I live long enough to do so.
For the pathways grow ever stronger, ever more distinct, from dark realms to our own defenseless world.
***
When I graduated from Miskatonic University with a degree in psychiatry, I was ready to begin a long lifetime of research and discovery, ready to broach the very limits of the human consciousness, the human psyche. I had the notion that perhaps I would be able to help overcome the obstacles that held Man back from reaching his full potential.
In other words, I was the typical young doctor.
But those years were a difficult time, even for doctors. The only position I could find was as resident physician in the State Hospital. The Arkham State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
Still, it was my first opportunity. It was exciting, exhilarating.
I remember my interview as if it were yesterday...
“You do realize, Doctor Gilman,” said Doctor Paget-Lowe as he scribbled his initials on successive members of a towering stack of official-looking forms; he yanked and scribbled, yanked and scribbled, without ceasing. “You do realize, do you not, that this position is no sinecure? We are audited by the state each quarter and our rate of cure is of primary importance.”
I nodded eagerly. It had been difficult to obtain an interview, let alone a job offer, and I was determined not to allow this opportunity to slip through my fingers.
“I am fully aware of my responsibilities, doctor,” I began. “And I can assure you that I will fulfill them in—”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you will do just fine,” he interrupted in a brusque tone, “but please remember that we receive all our funding directly from the state and the only reason you are even considered for this position is the fact that we are currently so short-handed. Our normal procedure is to interview only those of vastly more experience, as I’m certain you must realize. But we have of late lost several of our more prominent doctors due to... unforeseen circumstances.”
“Of course,” I nodded again; I was beginning to feel a bit like one of those toys with a spring in its neck, nodding in ridiculous agreement at the slightest jar. “I am greatly appreciative of the opportunity, I assure you, doctor. I am more than aware of my good fortune.”
He reached the bottom of his stack at last. I suppressed a sigh of relief.
“As I said,” he continued, “normally we seek a more proven psychiatrist, one with some years of experience. But just now, with all the problems I mentioned, and with all the new equipment we’ve acquired, we thought that perhaps we’d take a chance on, well, not to put too fine a point on it—on you.”
Dr. Paget-Lowe jerked to his feet, snowy lab coat tight across his bulky body, avid smile on his face. “Come, let me show you some of our patients and—” he paused for dramatic effect, which I considered quite unprofessional “—and some of our new equipment.”
We left his office; he closed and locked the door with meticulous concern.
All the doors in the hospital, I had noticed, were of uncommon strength and thickness. Not surprising, I’m sure you’re thinking, for a sanitarium. But I had been in many other similar asylums, and I could not recall quite such impressive doors...
I shook the thought away as we proceeded along a hallway, took a series of stairs downward, entered more hallways and crosswalks, then more stairs. I was certain we must be some ways below ground level before we finally reached a short hallway containing four doors even more massive than those in the rest of the hospital.
“This,” said Doctor Paget-Lowe, speaking for the first time as he paused before the second door on our right, “is the ward for our most violent patients. And this is an example of the sort of patient in whose treatment you will be called upon to assist.”
He opened a hatch set in the sturdy door. Behind it was a sheet of wire-reinforced glass pierced through with small holes. I peered through the tempered glass.
For a moment I thought the room empty. I examined every part of it and, as the room was hardly more than eight feet square, it would have been impossible for anyone to hide from an observer.
Then I saw him.
He was huddled in a corner, draped with fragments of the coarse material which covered the walls and floor, fragments that he must have torn loose with his teeth and bare hands. He was still, so still that I could not even see his chest lifting to breathe. His eyes were closed and sunk into an ashen face—the same color as his scanty hair.
“The man is dead!” I exclaimed in concern. I seized the handle of the door and rattled it.
The resulting change was one o
f the most remarkable I had ever seen. From total stillness, absolute quiet, this small fragile-appearing man erupted into a violent cacophony of screams and yells, interspersed with moans and shouts. He flung himself about the room, all the fragments of cloth falling from him, so that he was quite naked. He clawed at his face and body with his ragged nails, bit at his hands and dashed himself against the padded walls. Blood speckled the glass between us.
“Ia! Ia! Hastur, Hastur!” These and other nonsense sounds he uttered in high, piercing shrieks as he hurled himself about.
Anxious to impress my colleague, I took out a small notebook to jot down some of the more outlandish syllables.
“Shub-niggurath, a’llwern qu’notall! Ia! Nyarlathotep!”
Then, as suddenly as the fit had taken him, it was gone.
He paused at the end of one final leap near the center of the room. Still, nearly as still as he had been on our arrival, he stood there staring at us through the glass.
