Mutator

by Gary Fry

  MUTATOR

  Gary Fry

  First Edition

  Mutator © 2014 by Gary Fry

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

  www.darkfuse.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Other Books by Author

  Conjure House

  Emergence

  Lurker

  Menace

  Savage

  Severed

  The House of Canted Steps

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  1

  James had just finished mowing his new lawn when he met his neighbor for the first time. It was a fine autumn evening, the sky full of strange clouds. A cool breeze swept across the Yorkshire Dales, bringing with it a scent of moist vegetation and pungent tree bark. For the first time in many years—maybe even decades—James felt relaxed, no longer harried by student grading deadlines or research project responsibilities. And he’d been considering a proposal he’d received from a Central American university—a visiting professorship, six months in Costa Rica—when a voice summoned him from behind…a rather stilted voice at that.

  “I say, we’ve yet to be introduced. I’m Barnes, the fellow who lives in the next house along.”

  At that moment, Damian, James’s aging beagle, who had a tendency to follow him everywhere, started barking at the newcomer, and as James turned quickly to look, he realized why. The man appeared to be defying conventional rules of physics. He was levitating above the fence separating James’s garden from all the rich countryside flanking his detached new home. But then, as a sound of bestial breathing accompanied the man’s presence—a nasally pant from deep lungs—James realized what was afoot. The man was on horseback and his steed was just out of view behind the fence.

  “Be quiet, Damian,” James snapped at the dog, relinquishing the handles of his lawnmower, which was now switched off. Perhaps its raucous sound earlier had drawn his neighbor’s attention. Then for a few awkward seconds he observed the man, whose smile was thin and half concealed by a thin scribble of mustache. As he appeared to want to keep their engagement formal by using only surnames, James replied, “Hi, I’m Parry. Just moved in.”

  “Ah yes, the wife thought she’d spotted activity at the old place. Nice to see it occupied again after…well, you know.”

  James turned to observe his property, a fine country cottage in a magnificent setting. He’d loved visiting the Yorkshire Dales as a child, on the few occasions each year when his undereducated parents had decided to do anything other than watch TV or frequent pubs. But he was over all that, thirty years a professor and now at emeritus status. Only a fool clung to regrets.

  “Thanks. I’m slowly making it my own.”

  Even though James had continued to ham up his working-class accent for anarchic effect, the posh guy went on with communal grace. “You must visit us soon—that is, the family and our menagerie. We have two children, an Angora rabbit, my fine horse, and a couple of house-loving cats.”

  Damian disapproved of either this announcement or the man’s pride, barking loudly again as he spoke. James, privately amused, found it difficult not to reflect on the man’s description of one of the family’s pets: an Angora rabbit. Clearly the common breed James had owned as a child—he vividly recalled mucking out its hutch in his cramped backyard—wasn’t good enough for the Barnes clan.

  “Perhaps once I’m properly settled in, I may take you up on that offer,” he replied, glancing beyond the man perched on his horse, at a much larger property in the middle distance, all brick chimneypots and sash windows. James’s own property had cost nearly a quarter of a million, but Lord knew what the market value of this place might be—a full million? More, perhaps? “Maybe a glass of the fine stuff and a chat about our relative occupations would be nice.”

  “That sounds grand, sir,” said Barnes, responding more enthusiastically to James’s crisper accent on this occasion. Or maybe he was eager to explain how he’d made his obvious fortune. Whatever the truth was, his expression took on a less bullish look and his cocksure voice wavered slightly as he added, “And of course we’ll all look forward to meeting your—”

  “I live alone.” James had already second-guessed the man’s comment but wasn’t about to elaborate on why he had no wife or other relatives living with him. Let the Barnes clan speculate at their leisure; if he ever turned up at their home with a bottle of single malt, it would show James what kind of people they were. But for now, it was good to keep them guessing: Widowed? Divorced? Bachelor? Gay?

  “Ah, I see,” Barnes replied, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. James imagined the man putting such a poker face to good service in a profession that involved bluffing and blagging, the insurance game maybe, or possibly market investment. But James was determined not to be difficult; he’d just moved in and the last thing he wanted to do was sour relations with his new neighbors.

  “Well, I’ll say good-bye,” James announced, keen to put his gardening equipment back in the shed so that he could settle down for the evening with minimum fuss. “I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” the man replied, and with that was on his way, bouncing up the lane that ran alongside James’s new home and then down a pathway leading to Barnes’s larger property. His horse appeared to be a fine, dark-haired breed with supple musculature and a strong stride. But that was when James glanced away, summoning Damian to his heels.

  “You didn’t like the toffy-nosed bugger from next door, did you, you mangy mutt?” he said, stooping on his aging legs to tickle the dog behind his floppy ears. But after standing again, James was surprised to observe his beloved pet continuing to bark on the lawn. The dog seemed restless in a way that suggested more than relocation from an upper-storey campus apartment to a house out in the remote sticks. Maybe the beagle was troubled by some aspect of the garden James had finally tidied, following the previous owner’s neglect. James looked around, at weedy borders and overgrown hedges, but saw nothing of particular import—certainly nothing that might arouse his pet to such irascible insistence.

  “What’s the matter with you, old boy?” he asked, his words ringing in all the silence that had settled around them. The countryside muttered back, a calming combination of whistling wind and rattling leaves. Trees shook at a distance and the faded engine of a solitary car could be heard, resounding in an unseen valley.

  With some force, James was revisited by his new neighbor’s words: Nice to see the old place occupied again after…well, you know. At the time, he thought Barnes had meant that the property had been vacant for a long time. But now, as Damian continued barking and whirling maniacally on the alopecic grass, James wondered whether that was true.

  After putting away his gear in the shed at the foot of his garden, he turned, crossed the lawn, and then reentered his property, eager only for the sedating influence of tea imported from far corners of the world.

  2

  Later that day,
while changing for bed in his bathroom, James found a spider on the wall behind the sink basin. With no garden in his previous campus home—he’d occupied a top-floor apartment with only a window box, growing small flowers and a few herbs for cooking—he’d forgotten all about the irrational fear he’d suffered during childhood. But his later contributions to psychology, to research on perception and cognition, had provided him with sufficient knowledge to make sense of it.

  Cringing and cowering in a feeble manner, he steered the spindly creature under a drinking glass, scooped it up with a cloth over the top, and then, with his free hand, lifted the bathroom window and threw the beast out into a starlit night. It fell into untended undergrowth and presumably scuttled away, its multiple limbs pumping. James shut the window but was unable to combat a shudder at the images in his mind.

  He was mindful of the outrageous difference in size between people and insects, but also aware of how little this impacted elemental human fears. Some argued that this could be explained by genetic factors, ancestral residue from humankind’s evolution in the wilds. People feared what could kill them, simple as that, and even though societies had advanced and most poisonous creatures were kept distant from the great majority of habitats, the body remained what it had always been: a machine loaded with defence mechanisms and just as many that were proactive.

  James shook his head, eager not to dwell on such issues while adjusting to a new environment. There’d be challenges ahead—such as meeting members of the local community: shopkeepers, window cleaners and everyone else who made small places function—but he’d take them one at a time.

  He brushed his teeth and then entered his bedroom, calling Damian after him. The house was in better shape than it had been a month ago, after he’d first moved in. He’d cleaned a lot of grime from every room, preparing all the structural components—walls, skirting boards, and wainscoting—for decorators arriving next week. James had decided to go for a simple, stylish look, with bright paint and plain curtains, a real bachelor’s pad, serviceable and unfussy.

  The previous owner had apparently been an older man like himself also living alone. But other than a few surmises, that was all James knew about him. The agency involved in selling the place had removed all his fittings and furnishings, but the effort hadn’t been rigorous. There were still bits and pieces scattered around the place—old ornaments, scraps of paper, and many empty bottles. The guy certainly hadn’t shared James’s fastidiously hygienic standards, but that was by the by. He was dead now; James had bought the place from what appeared to be an indifferent family, eager for a quick sale. But none of this was any of his business; James was just glad he’d got hold of the place for a decent price, despite having to haggle.

  Summoning the dog onto the bed—Damian was much calmer now, no longer giddy as he’d been out in the garden—James switched off the light. Darkness surrounded him like a primeval soup, full of undetectable threat. He wasn’t sure what led to this interpretation, but as sleep wrapped him in its seductive arms, he was unable to suppress innumerable images in his head, of insects grown large and impossibly monstrous.

  At some point during the night, a thunderstorm filled the sky with light and noise, painting gaudy colors into the corners of James’s room, filtered by temporary curtains he’d hung at the tall window. But all this irascible activity failed to wake either dog or master, who snoozed on after their exertions the previous day. Indeed, not even a tremendous thud out on the lawn, like a heavy hand dropping hard upon a tiny insect, did anything more than merely stir them in their private dreams.

  4

  James had told staff at the Costa Rican university that he’d let them know by the end of the week whether he planned to accept the offer of a visiting professorship. It was an exciting prospect—he’d traveled a lot during his career, but never to South America—though he wondered whether, at this late stage in life, it would be too much for him. Despite enjoying fair-to-middling health—he suffered only high cholesterol, a few arthritic joints, and an enlarged prostate—he’d noticed lately how little energy he often had. He no longer had the same fire in his blood that had driven him to so many career achievements: placing early articles in key academic publications; being awarded a chair by the age of forty at a leading English institution; and of course enjoying worldwide respect in his field. Half the time, he thought he’d prefer to relax and enjoy this final stage of life, without onerous commitments or obligations. He’d certainly earned what many of his students—both undergraduate and higher—might call a “little me-time.” Indeed, that was why he’d moved out here, to the peaceful Yorkshire Dales, where his simple desires were matched by the splendid environment.

  But that didn’t mean he intended to just sit around; there was still much to do in the garden, and he welcomed the opportunity to combine light exercise with a pursuit that offered genuine pleasure. He loved to see pretty flowers and fine plants; even his childhood home, deprived in many other ways, had had a bit of greenery around it. He believed this was another aspect of humankind’s evolutionary history, an innate tuning-in to the powers of nature. It was certainly one of the many things he’d missed while living in the city.

  After washing, dressing in the bathroom (no spiders today, thank God), and then eating a healthy breakfast of muesli and yoghurt, James got up and looked out of his kitchen window. He noticed how wet the ground outside appeared, a consequence of the storm overnight he and his dog had somehow slept through. And that was when his reasoning came into its own: soft earth would make the weedy borders easier to dig, and as unseasonable sunshine was rising over a hill nearby, he should get to work immediately.

  Making sure Damian stayed inside the house—James couldn’t cope with the dog’s muddy paws all over the place, not with everything else he must manage today—he stepped into the garden in Wellingtons, dressed also in a light overcoat to combat a lingering chill.

  It was then that he spotted the hole in his lawn.

  He paced that way, sensing his face flexing into a frown. His heart rate sped up, a savage presentiment of unease. But surely he was overreacting…or rather his body was, drawing on instinctual processes. Then he tried calming himself, using logic to control his thinking.

  His first suspicion was that this damage had been caused by a mole, digging frantically underground and emerging like some surreptitious intruder. But after only a moment’s reflection, James realized this was unlikely. After all, there was no mound of soil to mark the spot, piled to one side. There was just the dark hole, about six inches in diameter, in the middle of his neatly mown grass. And if the violation hadn’t been caused by the only quickly burrowing animal he could think of, what had been responsible?

  Now standing over the hole, James stooped to peer closer. He needed to figure out how deep it was, but even with his head only a foot from the lawn, it was impossible to see farther than a yard down. Shadows cast inside by daylight gave little away, but it was clear that the cavity plunged far. James shook his head, even more confused. He thought again that any creature digging from inside or out would leave fresh earth stacked on the grass, the first by pushing, the second by scooping. But there was none at all. It simply didn’t make sense.

  Struggling not to dwell on his dog’s curious behavior yesterday, James advanced for his shed and unlocked it with keys from his pocket. He’d stored shovels, rakes and hoes in here, but bypassed them and started opening drawers in an old storage cupboard. What he sought was a flashlight and a length of rope, items he knew he possessed. After laying hands on them, he rushed back outside, crossed to the hole, and tried not to think of his neighbor’s comment, which, now James had had time to dwell on the matter, had possibly hinted at disputes with his new home’s previous occupant.

  Thrusting aside these concerns, he tied one end of the rope to the flashlight handle, knotting it good and tight. Then he switched on the device and fed it carefully into the hole.

  The overnight storm had blown all clouds from
the heavens…but what had they let in? This thought accompanied the flashlight’s descent, but James was damned if he knew why it had occurred to him. But he must concentrate on what he was doing. He watched the light splash back and forth in the inches-wide hole, as the device continued snaking down the vertical gullet. He let out the rope half a foot at a time, using one hand to keep hold as he stooped again to the grass. By now, the flashlight had descended a yard and with no sign of reaching a bottom. Just how deep was the hole? By the time he’d released approximately half the rope—about twenty feet—there was still no sign of resistance…until then, with a bump that felt shocking in his current bewilderment, the flashlight struck a firm surface, causing a muffled noise which echoed, as if the place into which it had dropped was much larger than its solitary path of ingress.

  A room underground—was that where the makeshift tunnel led? Speculation left James no closer to understanding what had created the hole, but his latest discovery was a move towards achieving that. Again he squinted down the earthy passage, shifting the flashlight to and fro on the rope. He thought he saw movement down there, like a hundred rats on the prowl, skittering back and forth. But then he realized this was just more shadows, set in motion by the wavering light. After further experimentation, he learned that he could swing the flashlight on only the far end of the rope, its inertia caused by the weight of the device. This implied that, of the fifteen feet the flashlight had plummeted, approximately six at the top was firm earth and the rest was…