Dark Tales From the Secret War

by John Houlihan

  * * *

  The lass were nowhere in sight and why would she be? Last thing she’d told me, she reckoned we shouldn’t be seen together, so no reason why she’d be hanging around waiting for me. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to go home. I were scared of what might be waiting for me there.

  But then I started worrying about what the visitors would do if they went home and no one answered. Were mum safe? I dropped off the main road and into the neighbourhood, walked faster, then ran home.

  Mum’d been ill for some time now, but it’d got worse ever since this rain started. She’d not said owt in all that time. I went in and kneeled in front of her. I’d made a sandwich, and I put it on the table next to her.

  “Mum,” I said. “I’ve got to go out. I need to find someone.”

  She looked at me. There were summat in the look of her eyes that made me reckon she’d heard, and understood. But she didn’t move, and she said nowt.

  “Don’t answer the door,” I told her. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

  But really I didn’t know when I’d be back. I left, and ran back down to the road, and walked up and down it for half an hour in the teeming rain, looking for a lass in a yellow anorak. And after half an hour, first I saw a figure in yellow turn off and head down towards the supermarket next to the brook. And second I saw, cross the road, a car pull over. The driver got out and stood watching me. She were older than me, like Miss Giger’s age maybe, and she were wearing a thick green parka, hood up against the rain. The car were some sort of jeep like they drive out in the country west of the city, and there were mud splattered up against the wheel arches.

  The driver checked summat in her hand — a phone maybe — and leaned into the jeep. I walked away, in the direction the yellow-anoraked figure had gone, heard a door slam behind me. I glanced quickly behind to see the driver following me. Walked quicker. The road curved, I turned, dropped out of sight of the driver — and summat grabbed me from behind and pulled me off the road and into the bushes.

  * * *

  There were a hand clamped over my mouth, and a knee in my back, and I struggled, and a voice hissed “Quiet! Keep still.”

  I recognised the voice, I thought. I were laid on the ground, inside a thick rhododendron bush, someone holding me from behind. I watched and listened as the driver passed three foot away, on the path outside the bush. Rain came through and fell on my cheek. I heard myself breathing. The voice said, “Right she’s gone. But she might be back this way. Let’s stay here for a minute.”

  It took the hand away from my mouth, and pulled away, and I turned, and there were the lass from that morning.

  “Nice to see you,” I said.

  She grinned. “Yeah.”

  “Who’re those spooks in the jeep?”

  “Don’t know. They were outside my house earlier.”

  I told her what had happened at school that day.

  “Let’s see this diary then,” she said.

  I gave her it, and sat watching her while she flipped through it. She nodded. “I can read this,” she said. “But maybe not here. I need to go and check on my dad.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah.” She kneeled, peered out of the bush. “Don’t know what’s out there,” she said, “but don’t reckon we can stay here all night. You coming?

  * * *

  Dom were her name, short for Dominika —

  “My grandparents were Polish,” she said.

  “Whoa.”

  “I never met them.”

  — and she lived with her dad, no mum, no brothers or sisters, in one of the big houses further down the neighbourhood. There were open fireplaces in the big living rooms off the hallway, and bookshelves filled with books, and — bloody hell, great lumbering thing half the size of the room — a gigantic stuffed bison. And there were a fire in one fireplace, and next to it a wide leather chair, and in it her dad, quiet and staring at a chessboard in front of him.

  “He’s eaten,” Dom said, lifting a plate from off the arm of the chair. “That’s good.”

  She studied the chessboard and moved a piece. Then she kissed the top of her dad’s head. She noticed me staring at all this. “Yeah,” she said. “Come on.”

  I followed her up to the second floor, through a door, and then up a final narrow staircase to the attic where her room were. She pulled the curtain across the little window set in the roof, and switched on a lamp — it were dark out now, rain coming on down — and found a towel on the radiator. She gave it me after she’d dried her hair, and I did the same. We’d left our boots and coats dripping in the hallway.

  “How long’s your dad been ill?” I said.

  “Long time,” she said. “But it’s got worse —”

  “While this rain started.”

  “Yeah. And your mate —”

  “Lives alone with his dad.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Dom,” I said. “You got any idea about any of this?”

  “Not much,” she said. She held up the diary. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

  We sat on the floor, leaning against the bedposts, seeing what we could find out. Dom read aloud and pointed at certain bits. I don’t have the diary now. I don’t know what happened to it. This is what Dom can remember from it, or what seems important now. Starting with the letter she found taped up inside the back cover, the letter addressed to Mr Wilhelm.

  2nd December 1964

  To my son,

  You may feel this letter is long overdue, for which I apologise. You may also feel that what I have to tell you may not seem coherent or true, and dismiss it as mere ravings. I only hope that you can find a way to believe me. Since finding your drawings, some of my worst fears have been confirmed. But this also suggests to me that there is some sort of natural order at work here, and that I am meant to write you this letter, and that you might be able to succeed where your father and I could not. Mostly, it suggests you will believe me.

  Either way, it’s difficult, as a mother, to have to write a letter like this to her son.

  The truth, son, that I have to start with, is that we — you, me, your father, all of us — are not alone in this universe, and that we are not alone on this planet. For as long as there have been humans, other beings from other worlds have operated alongside us, and these beings have existed for longer. What they are, and where they come from, is difficult to say succinctly. But you should know that they come from far away, and that they are powerful, and intelligent, in ways we do not fully understand.

  You may be asking yourself what their motives are. Are they hostile? Dangerous? Do they intend harm upon us?

  Again, this is difficult to judge exactly. It is as if they do not want to be known and understood. Each generation that seeks to understand these beings seems only to succeed in passing down differing information and learning to the next. So rumours build upon rumours, whispers morph into new whispers, and so on.

  What I can absolutely tell you with complete certainty, is that as long as these beings exist, there exist also evil men who wish to bend these visitors’ powers to their own, to channel them somehow, in order to subjugate the wills of others, in order, ultimately, to gain power. Be aware, my son, that there are men in this world who wish for nothing but power. And they will stop at nothing to gain it, even turning their souls over to powers greater than them, as these visitors certainly are. We may, ultimately, be nothing more than a game to them, the evil men of this world simply toys. They may delight in the chaos and destruction that men wield on their behalf, in their name.

  I must leave you now, my son. I do not have much time. I hope this letter finds you well. Be brave, be vigilant, be careful who you trust.

  Love,

  Your mother

  I still don’t understand how Sam remembers all this. How she can dictate it back. Maybe she read all them books in her house, and maybe what she’s told me isn’t what was in the diary at all, but just versions o
f it.

  Anyway.

  “How old’s this teacher of yours?” Dom asked me.

  “Not sure,” I said. “Sixties?”

  “1964… He’d’ve been about our age.”

  We kept reading, after we’d inspected the second item that fell out of the diary: a weathered black and white photograph of the tall man who’d visited us both. Thin sandy hair, pursed lips, icy stare. All that was missing was the acne scars. Someone had inked on the back of the photograph: Küttner, c. 1939. His grandfather, Dom guessed.

  10th December 1940

  Raid imminent. We have received word from colleagues in London, Paris and Berlin, which seem to correlate with official reports via the newspapers and radio. Father has of course reminded us to make sure we do not share any secret information at school. I have to be careful what I write here too.

  Later

  The city seems calm and prepared. We have been expecting this, after all. I wonder when the sirens will sound. Reconnaissance along the south coast, we are told. Also, have received word the bombers may approach over the moors from the west, which would again make sense. Father has left for the night; does not expect to return until the morning. Mother v. worried, naturally, especially considering events of the summer.

  Later

  Mother asleep now. Writing at three in the morning. Cold and icy out, but I did venture out the front door to check the city. Dark, except for the clear moon and star light. We may be safe for tonight. Would hardly seem credible to some, I suppose, that a quiet night such as this may soon be shattered. But I have seen the news from other cities. Basinful here soon. Hoping father is safe west of the city. Little news of the Visitors in recent weeks, so this call cannot be for nothing? Fear worst, should retire.

  Dom and I looked at each other. Not all of this made sense. But —

  “Look at this,” she said, pointing to the capital V.

  “Right.”

  She turned the page, and summat fell from the book —

  URGENT + + MR D M WILHELM

  DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR BROTHER PILOT OFFICER JAMES FREDERICK WILHELM HAS BEEN REPORTED TO HAVE LOST HIS LIFE IN ACTION ON 19TH AUGUST 1940

  So… Mr W’s father and uncle? I didn’t know. We kept reading.

  11th December 1940

  Father has not returned. Both v. worried. Mother left early this morning to seek information, reassurance etc. No official word as yet. Writing at school — under desk — want to keep up basic record of events. We have been warned to be prepared again tonight. Sadie’s father missing too — though we dare not talk about it much further than that. Sadie suggests leaving the city, possibly tonight, but can’t see what sort of good we can do ourselves? She claims to know the location of a house in the Peak, where the representatives of the Visitors may be based — I know the basic whereabouts, but again don’t want to discuss too much here. Seems like events are afoot, at any rate; difficult to predict outcome.

  Later

  Father has not returned, nor Mother from town. Writing at home now, in bedroom. Twilight settling over city. Again anticipating the sound of the sirens at any moment. Sadie and I met at the end of the school day and walked home together. People hurrying to get back from town, get inside, though we did notice many of the pubs still full. There is news of some folk gathering at hotels in town — feeling safer there than in their own houses. I can understand it. I don’t feel especially safe right now — cold, and hoping my parents return safely, and worried about the Germans and the Visitors.

  12th December 1940

  Morning — writing on the bus to school. Mother returned late in the night; I had considered going to Sadie’s house, as I had been told I could do if scared and alone, but wanted to be at home if Mother or Father returned. Mother v. weary and chilled to the bone. She recovered after a little broth. She had to go to Rotherham for news of Father, who we are told is safe at one of the Organisation’s houses in the Peak —

  Later

  Decided to stop writing on the bus for fear of watching eyes. At home now. We are told the raid will likely be this evening. Mother is considering going into town to meet other Organisation wives, perhaps at one of the hotels, though I feel we should stay here should Father return (no official word yet). Sadie has asked me to call for her and her mother should we leave the house.

  Yellow alert 6.15pm — Purple alert 6.45pm — Red alert 7pm; as I write can hear noise of bombing and anti-aircraft fire. Mother and I are in the shelter. Writing by what little light comes in from the full moon. Will stop writing now.

  13th December 1940

  Writing in the toilets at school, lunchtime. The bombing went on for nine hours. They hit the city centre first — brick and glass all over the roads, fires everywhere, the Marples gone apparently. Mother and I left the shelter at around six in the morning — our area undamaged, thank goodness, though apparently we can’t rule out a second raid within a week. Good news — found Father in the house, weary but unhurt. He did inform us what had been happening in the Peak, though forbade me to write it here, even in code. Father had been considering taking us away from the city due to the threat from the bombings, but apparently the Organisation’s houses are not safe either — The entry stopped there, and the rest of the page was blank. The next page started with a different colour pen, and Dom couldn’t read it —“I can make out the odd word,” she said, “that’s it.” We searched the rest of the diary for more information. First, a greasy and folded clipping:

  THE INTRODUCTION, SPREAD AND CURRENT DISTRIBUTION OF RHODODENDRON PONTICUM IN THE PEAK DISTRICT AND SHEFFIELD AREA

  I.D. ROTHERHAM

  Department of Botany, University of Sheffield

  INTRODUCTION

  As an invasive alien, the status and spread of Rhododendron ponticum has been studied at a number of individual sites within the British Isles (Cross 1973, 1981; Robinson 1971, 1980; Fuller and Boorman 1977). Its spread over the country as a whole has been considered by Brown (1953a, 1953b), Elton (1958) and Cross (1975).

  The introduction, spread and current distribution of the plant within the Peak District and surrounding areas has received little attention. R. ponticum was not mentioned in the floras of Lees (1888), Linton (1903) or Moss (1913)…

  [we skimmed the next part]

  A major difficulty in tracing the introduction and spread of R. ponticum is that because of its alien status, botanists have tended to neglect it —

  Then summat written on very thin paper, in light grey pencil. I recognised the handwriting. Mr Wilhelm’s. No date.

  I have since managed to piece together the events that occurred in the Peak beginning the night of December 12th 1940, from speaking to my mother in the 1960s, shortly before she left us for good. As the Organisation had expected, The Old Ones’ acolytes had once again conspired with the enemy, intending to bring chaos, disruption and fear to the people of the world, and siphon off great knowledge and learning, to their own nefarious ends. Enemy aircraft approached the city from the west, parachuting a small number of soldiers into the wild moorland around the city, who would then rendezvous with Visitors at stations in and around the reservoirs — namely Howden, Derwent and Ladybower (listed here in order of which the River Derwent runs through the three reservoirs, though at the time Ladybower had not yet been completed [however, it is understood plans for sabotage included the disruption of building]). The enemy would have been aware these reservoirs provided water for local cities and communities. Likewise, the Organisation were aware of Old Ones’ activity in the area — the wild moorland, forests and valleys providing good cover, and the area being a rich source of a variety of rocks and minerals such as lead, copper, and calcite. Thanks to cooperation and collaboration with Allied forces, the Organisation was able to position agents among notable locations and intercept enemy activity. My grandfather and a number of his colleagues, I am told, entered one of the many grand houses of the area, with confidence the owners were acolytes of Cthulhu.
Therein they found an array of dreadful evidence — written records, equipment, and, most chillingly, a subterranean room containing row upon row of glass cylinders, some seven foot in height and perhaps three foot in diameter. They concluded these cylinders were designed to hold human specimens; though none did, one contained the preserved body of an Old One, tentacles, wings and all, floating in some pale green liquid. One of my grandfather’s younger colleagues broke down at this sight, it being the first physical evidence he had witnessed of Cthulhu’s hordes since first experiencing those beastly visions at the age of sixteen.

  Enemy soldiers were then heard to be entering the house, and my grandfather killed two of them, his colleagues more, in an exchange of gunfire that rang out at the same time the city, just ten miles away, was buckling under the might of enemy shelling —

  But at that point we stopped reading. Footsteps and voices downstairs.

  * * *

  “It’s them,” Dom whispered from the bottom of the stairs leading up to her room. “That voice —”

  “The tall one,” I whispered. “With the acne —”

  “I don’t know how they got in —”

  We stood tense by the door, listening, waiting.

  “Okay,” said Dom. “I’m going to go out on the landing. I might be able to see what they’re doing.”

  “Dom, wait — if they see you —”

  “I have to — if they hurt my dad —” She stopped, thinking. She stared at me. ‘You can get out the back,” she said. “There’s just the fence —”

  “Dom —”

  “It’s either that or they get both of us.”

  “I’ll go then —”

  “Nope, because then they’ll know I’m here anyway.”

  She smiled.

  “Come find me,” she said brightly, then she slipped through the door and down the stairs, yelling “Dad! Dad! Are you okay?” and I heard a shout of alarm, a slamming door, and a voice —

  “Two pairs of boots. The Turner boy must be here.”

  “Of course. Upstairs. Find him.”

  I stayed where I were. Feet thumped up the stairs, along the corridor — and into the bedroom opposite the door to Dom’s attic. I fell out onto the landing, ran down the hall, the stairs, shouts of alarm behind me, final fight of stairs, into the lobby, to see the taller man by the door to the front rooms, holding Dom, pinning her arms behind her back with one hand — where were her dad — she shouted “Jordan run!” and without thinking I ran, through the kitchen and into the back garden, over the back fence and into the alleyway —