The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  I inspected my hand. Blood: lots of blood. And two small puncture wounds; one to the base of my thumb, and a second two-inches across my palm.

  I stepped backwards, wanting to distance myself from the thing. Clear of the house’s shadow I called for my wife to open the door, and only then did I see the truth of things. The dragon was grinning at me, and through its maniacal mouth, it hissed a threat of spiteful violence. I froze, unable to fully comprehend what was happening before my eyes. And then I realized an even more dreadful truth.

  This was not Penhale House.

  I was standing in front of a dark and brooding abode.

  In this strange rosewood half-light which had overshadowed the world, there no longer stood the imposing redbrick of Penhale House. The stonework of this building was layered dirty-gray, and aged; dark-wood frames hung loose, rotted to the point where only replacement of both windows and frames would provide sufficient repair. The front door was black, rather than the naval tone blue of Penhale House, and no longer was it decorated with impressive hand-crafted panels, its wood stark and aged. The only item remaining from the original door was the grinning, malevolent features of the serpent which had assaulted me. My mind whirled a nightmare of confusion, but the horror was to prove far from over.

  I heard the creature before seeing it, its porcine grunts revealing that it too had realized the exertions of pursuing us from the Valency Valley. The pig-thing stood just inside the main gates of the property, and it now seemed even taller than I first envisioned. Fleetingly, and with some amount of trepidation, I noted the change which had taken place to my surroundings. A range of cavernous mountains now inexplicably raised in the distance, encircling the property. Their enormity was impressive even though they were miles in the distance, across an open landscape of jagged red rock; many of the huge summits disappeared from view, lost amid rolling blush clouds corrugating this alien, garnet colored sky.

  And then I saw what was surely impossible, even in comparison to all of the improbable already witnessed this day; high to the left of me was a black sun, its incredible stature occupying perhaps a tenth of the overhead panorama. With ebony flames licking and spitting up from its surface, the volatile orb appeared as magnificent as it was frightening. It was a certainty the object’s black-flames could be emitting little to no heat, and just as unquestionable too, was the fact that this was the only cause of my salvation. I am no man of science, but it is surely impossible for two heavenly bodies to co-exist in such close proximity without calamity.

  Piggy eyes watched my distress with what I took to be hateful satisfaction, though even as I acknowledged its presence it dropped to all-fours and began its charge toward me.

  I leapt from the steps, my intention to retrieve the lion statuette before the beast could reach me. All thought of this creature closing on me was terrifying. But it remained decidedly more solid than the pulsating orb previously encountered. It took little more than moments for the pig-thing to close the distance between us. As it did so, I realized the full magnitude of the now bipedal monstrosity. Nevertheless, as fast as this creature covered the courtyard, my actions proved a match for it.

  I hoisted the statuette above my head, and then slammed it with all my might and pent up frustration into the approaching beast. The monster squealed in rage and discomfort as the rock connected with its chest, the pain of my blow dropping the thing to all-fours, its nerve receptors briefly shutting down motor functions. Even humbled, the creature attempted lifting its head, staring me square in the eye with its look of distressed realization. I struck again, quickly, bringing the statuette down with as much venom as I could muster. The figurine exploded into a thousand pieces as it connected with the thing’s skull, fragments of stone mixing with portions of bone, an explosion of black blood staining my vision. As I swiped a hand to clear the beast’s life fluid from my eyes, it groaned and slumped forward on the ground.

  I looked dispassionately at the inconceivable monstrosity lying before me; a six-inch portion of stone remained imbedded in the top of its skull, a gray-blancmange of brain tissue leaking bubbling ooze around the impact area of the wound.

  I turned away, heading for the main gate. I needed help resolving this madness and there was only one place to go. Though the Lord only knew how I would get back from wherever alien locale I now stood.

  As I reached the end of the courtyard a tingle of premonition caused me to stop and turn. The beast, the one whose head I had just moments ago crushed. It was climbing to its feet, its intentions already set to me.

  I turned and ran, though I realized immediately I would not be fast enough to outpace this nightmare...

  Chapter 16

  “Where is he?”

  The old woman who answered the door of the little redbrick cottage stared at the tar-black blood, staining my face, forearms and shirt. She failed to answer the question.

  “Where is George Smoke?” I insisted, my body trembling, my voice ragged with fear and exhaustion.

  “I know you.” Her tone suggested a question, but could just as easily been a statement.

  “What…? I need to speak with George. Please?”

  “Your name is Frank. Frank Tanner.”

  “How? Yes. How do you know that? Never mind. I need to speak with George Smoke. Please. I need help.”

  “You shouldn’t be here. How can you be here?” she said, eyeing my bloody torso with a mix of distaste and horrified concern.

  “Please. I don’t understand. I need help. My wife… I think something really bad happened to her… I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t know what to do. Will you help me?”

  “Rosalind? What happened to Rosalind?”

  “How do you know my wife’s name?”

  The woman faltered, her face twisting to an awkward smile as she reached out and squeezed my bloody hands. It seemed more an act of contrition than comfort, but, as chubby little fingers closed round my clenched fists, comforting warmth swept through me, and for reasons I couldn’t have explained at the time, the fear within my soul lessened. I felt as though I had reached a safe place.

  “Come inside, dear. George was hoping to avoid getting involved with this mess. But it would seem it is a problem that needs sorting.”

  Her words made no sense, but I followed meekly as she led me by the hand, into the comfortable little home she shared with George Smoke. The living room was compact, with low ceilings and dark oak beams, but the white walls and pastel furnishings gave the cottage a welcoming feel. A two-piece sofa was set along the wall facing us. A low, double-door unit, which presumably housed the couple’s television, was positioned against the wall close to the door through which we just entered. An oak dresser rested on the wall adjacent the sofa, and beside this stood an ancient looking grandfather clock – I was sure this was the same clock I’d seen in Northampton, at the home of George and Mary Smoke. At the other end of the room, two Victorian wing-backed chairs rested either side of an unlit open fireplace. In one of these chairs, beneath the luminance of a crystal-shade wall light, sat George, a newspaper spread open in his lap, and puffing merrily on a familiar Calabash.

  As we entered the room he looked up – it would be fair to say his jaw dropped.

  “Good Lord. Frank? What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “I live here.”

  “No. You don’t. You live in Northampton, with Mary. What’s going on? Are you a bigamist?”

  “Oh. Oh dear. I can see this doesn’t seem right.”

  As I took a step closer my legs deserted me, and I found myself collapsing into the Wing-back, adjacent to my neighbor.

  “Nothing about this is right. Everything here is crazy. And you, how can you do this to Mary? That woman worships the ground you walk on. And you’re down here doing God knows what?”

  My words were coming out as a babbling, incoherent mess. I had just survived a nightmare, only to now face
another impossible situation. The woman – who was short in stature and carrying a few extra pounds, but still attractive despite her advanced years – introduced herself as Molly. She stepped to my side and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

  “You are right, Frank; Mary loves this man more than life itself. But this is not what you think. And George is certainly not a bigamist. I’d cut his balls off if he was.”

  George furrowed his brow and gave a slight shake of the head, but she was not to be quieted.

  “No, George, we have to tell him. He needs our help. Rosalind’s in trouble,”

  The reference to my wife’s peril brought George Smoke to his feet – although he stood with a stoop else his head would have grazed the low ceiling. He closed the distance between us, dropping to one knee in front of me. There was compassion in him. He placed his hands on my shoulders and stared deep into my eyes.

  “Roz is in trouble you say? I want you to tell me everything, son, from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out…but first, let’s get you cleaned up a bit, okay?”

  Chapter 17

  I cupped my hands in soapy water and splashed the mildly distracting warmth on my face, then scrubbed energetically at the treacle thick substance staining my features. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and turmoil revealed itself.

  None of this was possible; it was a thought which kept repeating through my head since first encountering the monkeys. Now it ratted around inside my skull like a trapped rodent, the worry rat’s desperation burgeoned by my growing concern for Roz’s wellbeing. My wife was trapped inside Penhale House – or whatever Penhale House had now become. She was inside that house with those creatures…or perhaps even worse monstrosities.

  I found that worse didn’t bear contemplation.

  The pig-man had pursued me as I fled the carmine grounds of the hotel, even though an eight-inch spike of stone remained imbedded in its ruptured skull. How could such a thing be possible? How were such creatures possible?

  Somehow I’d made it away from the weird alien landscape of the grounds surrounding the house, although I had no idea how. Nevertheless, I’d barely traveled sixty meters down the lane before the pig-fiend was at my heels. If it hadn’t of been for an inexplicable convenience my fate would surely have been sealed. At the point on the road where earlier had been the discarded barrow, I spotted a pickaxe. Why it had been abandoned in such a way – on an all but deserted country lane – seemed likely to ever remain a mystery; though it was an act responsible for my salvation. The axe rested on its head, its handle standing vertical as a finishing pole beside an athletics track. In one desperate, though surprisingly fluid motion, I retrieved the weapon and swung an arc as I turned to confront my pursuer.

  It was one of those rare moments in time when fate actually favors the underdog.

  The axe struck the marauding pig-man, the urgency of my swing combining with the velocity of the creature’s pursuit. The hellion squealed – literally, like a pig wrestling a chainsaw – as the spike of the weapon cleaved its head from its shoulders. The slope of the hill combined with the rapidity of the thing’s advance, and as the headless fiend slammed into me I was upended, landing hard onto the blacktop. I lay winded, in severe discomfort for what seemed several minutes.

  Finally, I was able to crawl to my feet, never once taking my eyes from the fallen, still-twitching monster. With a frame which appeared almost impossibly muscled, its salmon-pink flesh was largely obscured beneath a swarthy coat of coarse white hair. The beast’s arms and legs continued to spasm uncontrollably, the corpse refusing to accept its own demise. I began to shake with the realization monsters were real: The impossible is real.

  Rinsing the last of the soap from my face, I once again checked the mirror above the sink, and – after picking and scraping crusty remnants of dried blood off my neck and ears – was ensured of moderate respectability – albeit feeling and looking as though I’d aged fifteen-years in the last few hours. I rinsed myself down and reached for the thick cotton towels Molly had placed atop the linen basket.

  As I dried myself I eyed the pale blue shirt hanging on the back of the door. Molly assured me it was one of George’s best cotton numbers, insisting I wear it as my own polo was beyond salvation, and only fit for the bin. George was long in the body, and for certain I would look all but lost in this garment. Still, needs must…

  Chapter 18

  I talked with such haste I must have sounded like an imbecile, but the craziness of the situation had overtaken my senses and so I continued jabbering inanely, attempting to lay out every bizarre detail of our train journey to – and events since arriving in – Cornwall. Neither George nor Molly attempted slowing my recount, and both listened intently as I talked of disappearing train passengers, unfounded claims of German bombing raids on the West-Country, and the resulting ruination of Camelford, and of mine and Roz’s surprise when we first spotted George, standing at the garden gate of this cottage as we drove through Boscastle. This last topic resulted in a slight, although knowing, nod from George. Other than this he offered nothing, certainly not by way of any explanation, choosing instead to remain silent rather than interrupting the babble and urgency of my words.

  George listened calmly, his eyebrows only arching as I mentioned the attack by the monkeys – I guess he was as surprised as I had been with the revelation of volatile primates inhabiting Cornish woodlands.

  As I moved on to reciting the incident with the light-phantasms, I expected similar looks of incredulity – if not outright ridicule – but instead the couple seemed unfazed. By the time I got around to describing events at Penhale House, and Roz’s subsequent disappearance, I was weeping floods of tears.

  “It’ll be okay, lad. I promise.”

  “But what can we do?” I blubbered.

  Molly patted my back, reassuringly. “Oh, don’t you be worrying yourself about that, young man. George can do a lot. Now, I’ll go and stick the kettle on, and rustle up some sandwiches. You must be starving. Let’s get you sorted with a nice cuppa and a bite to eat; everything will seem better on a full belly.

  Molly disappeared into the kitchen and I slumped back in the chair.

  “Try not to worry, son. We can sort this. I promise.”

  “But how can you make any such promise, George? Besides, what the fuck are you even doing here?”

  A flash of sternness creased the old man’s face. He opened his mouth to speak and I suspected he was about to chastise my profanity, but whatever George’s planned response it was cut short. There was a loud rumbling thud which reverberated throughout the room as something collided with an outside wall. The noise repeated, clattering down the side of the building. Just for a moment I imagined the little house had somehow been transported, and now stood alongside a busy railway track – then just as quickly the disturbance quieted.

  It was a brief repose.

  The look on George’s face seemed to be one of mild annoyance, and it was somehow settling to see him remaining calm. Before I had a chance to question what was happening, something crashed against the front door and I realized the truth of our situation. Even from my position in the lounge I could hear the porcine grunts and squeaks, sounds growing ever volatile as an unspecified number of pig-men gathered at the front of the property.

  Fingernails clawed the chair in which I sat frozen, my face a vision of terror as I contemplated the monsters I had unwittingly delivered to George and Molly’s home.

  “Dammit!” George cursed, as a crash of breaking glass emanated from the kitchen. He moved with a fluidity that belied both age and frame, hauling himself out of the chair and heading for the door, his pace quickening as he heard another clattering of glass. “Molly?”

  I followed at his heels, reaching the door to the modestly sized kitchen only moments after George. The upper-half of the backdoor was divided into four quartered-glass panels, three of which had been shattered. Molly held a frying pan in her hands, wielding it lik
e a tennis racket, swinging wildly to beat at an all-to-familiar looking arm reaching from the darkness beyond the broken panels.

  The creature’s clumsy assault had resulted in it cutting itself, its muscled limb showing a crease of bloody lacerations as rivers of tar mixed with shards of glass along the length of its flailing arm. The thing snorted with rage, its clawed paw desperately seeking the keyed lock. Molly continued striking out venomously.

  “Get out of my home, you foul bastard!” Despite the fear clamping my chest, I found a measure of comfort in discovering the woman had a potty mouth. I found even greater comfort watching the barbarity with which the old lady sought to repel the creature. This is her home and unwelcome callers won’t gain easy access.

  George picked up a cellar of salt from the worktop, flipping its lid and loosing an abundance of grains in the direction of the monstrous hog. The thing squealed in agony as salt clung to bloody fur, its cries intensifying as smoke blossomed from the open wounds. The beast’s discomfort intensified, licks of orange igniting from the smoking ruptures spotting its arm, tiny volcanoes of fire erupting along the frazzled limb. The pig-monster was forced to retreat, its withdrawal marked by high-pitched protestations of pain.