The week we spent cleaning out Great Grandad’s house was an eventful one. More exciting at least than the days previous spent in various offices gathering the correct permissions to enter the old place. In the oldest parts of the house damp rotted the old floorboards until they warped, collapsing under their own weight leaving perilous apertures eager to swallow clumsy steppers. Agencies were reluctant to hand over the keys without first checking everyone’s insurance ad nauseum.
The old stone stairs leading to the basement, chipped from a thousand previous descents, looked liable to break if one wasn’t selective with their boot placement. It’s funny, I thought, if you fell through one of those holes and ended up in the basement, you’d be avoiding the dangerous stairs; the lesser of two evils. Note to inform the insurance company of a possible loophole. Desperate to avoid litigation on our part, the agencies agreed that we could enter under supervision.
The world had changed since this place was last inhabited. When the door finally opened, stubborn in its frame after years of neglect, it seemed a room unstuck in time. Dust particles hung in the air and as they danced I wondered what secrets they were privy to, and whether they had been the component atoms of a larger host previously. Even her ghosts were bent and haggard with age, bones wilting in the oppressive dank. A hundred years ago the servants were so afraid of the myriad spectres said to inhabit the long halls and shadowed staircases that they had refused to enter certain rooms, but no such reports have been filed in nigh on seventy years. If those same ghosts existed now, they languished apathetically in the walls, stirring only occasionally to rattle the pipes or drag their boots. Curios and trinkets plundered at the height of Empire decorated every mantel in the house and although it went unsaid, everyone in the family was petrified of stumbling across something less than savoury. Just to be sure we cross referenced some of the dates in our literature and found the Nazi party came a little after Bryn’s time. Spared of that anxiety we set to looking, for what we weren’t sure. Something of value, some seemingly insignificant object that might illuminate this murky character.
Bryn, God rest him, was a renaissance man in the style of the natural philosophers of his age; a doctor, an artist, a war hero, an antiquarian and amateur archaeologist all rolled into one. Of course it would be remiss not to mention his more illicit interests like bootlegging alcohol and collecting occult manuscripts, but the more sordid of the two pastimes fell by the wayside when he raised his station in society, becoming an educated and respected member of a prominent archaeological interest group. Selous’ Sweat they called themselves, in tribute to the conservationist and African big-game hunter of the same name.
Selous some of these artefacts for mad stacks, I thought with a smirk.
Everything in the house had a double coating of dust. Doing our rounds and cataloguing the cabinets of curiosities meant that doors long undisturbed were opened, both literally and figuratively. Turning the handle of one particular door, I saw it led to an upstairs sitting room on a landing between two flights of stairs, one spiralling down towards the sitting room, although there was scarcely room to sit amidst the Grecian urns and Japanese decorative plates precariously hanging from the walls, and the other up towards the darkroom on the top floor. The sitting room was strangely devoid of clutter except for an enormous table. The rounded surface was a dark mahogany, polished until shining with a protective glass covering placed on top.
I wondered why a table, even one so fine as this, was given a room to itself above the other priceless artefacts in the catalogue, which included a Han dynasty vase, the glasses worn by W.B. Yeats in his twilight years and an enormous set of ornate mirrors purchased at auction when one of the grand manors in Kilkenny was forced to liquidate all non-holdings related assets following the collapse of the family after the war. The mirrors, according to the former owner Mrs. Fitzbannion, were the pride of their manor house. Mrs. Fitzbannion hung the mirrors in the centre of the main hall, ensuring all visitors knew the extent of their wealth. The frames were carved to represent natural wonders, a pinecone here, an antler there, and each coated in burnished gold leaf. Gold had faded to brass in the intervening years, as if the mirror losing its place of prominence in its household stole the last scion of lustre from it altogether, and I wondered had the mirror ever been so ostentatious as described.
Inspecting the table, I ran my finger along the protective glass panel and found no trace of dust. Doubly curious. Bryn was an adventurer and had no shortage of vigour in his old age, but he was still not one for dusting. Attributing his longevity and stamina to a liquid concoction that he called Lightning Wine, part alcoholic cocktail, part vegetable juice with a hint of soda water. In truth I had only agreed to help with this jumped-up Spring cleaning session in the hopes of finding a vat of the naughty sauce hidden in a secret panel, which I would ferry out under my coat and imbibe later on with the lads.
I knelt on my haunches to inspect the legs of the table, wondering if they might shed light on the mystery. Clean as a whistle below too. Ivory. That was it. The legs were made of ivory. Holy shit, was this stuff even legal anymore? I heard a story in school that at one time ivory was so coveted they had to remove the tusks from museum specimens to discourage robbers, low-hanging fruit and all that. My sister volunteered in the Natural History Museum in Dublin while studying zoology and recounted wondrous tales over dinner about their storage rooms in the inner-city; numerous thylacine specimens, gigantic Irish elk antlers and wooden storage crates full of elephant tusks, corridor after corridor of specimen jars like one imagines Noah’s Ark appeared at capacity. Into the table legs were carved detailed images of warriors armed with spears facing down ferocious lions. No doubt an artwork of such fine craftsmanship was either manufactured by British labourers merely basing their work on an existing tribal peace, or worse, plundered from a deposed native royalty, like that Malaysian ruby. Something else there too, a piece of paper placed under one of the legs to balance it. I pulled the parchment out slowly, like the highest-stakes game of Jenga you can imagine and saw that it was written in blue ink. Unmistakably the spider-like scrawl of Great Grandad Bryn; prone to eccentricity and hyperbole in his cups though. I doubt any of what was written should be taken as gospel, but damned if it doesn’t make for a spooky story. The following are the excerpts from what I assume was a field diary, kept as part of his funding agreement with the local museums. They would fund his expeditions and as long as he provided colourful commentary and witticisms enough to draw a crowd. They proudly patronised his occasional dalliances into the otherworldly in the spirit of derring-do! Bryn mentions early in the text that he keeps a formal and an informal diary, the latter only for his own perusal. If what I read is his own private correspondence, then why hide it?
April 1928.
I, Martin Bryn-Kolkiln, wish to commit to paper the strange events of Friday last, April 9th 1928. For the first time in some weeks I have had time enough to sit down and gather my thoughts, my rest of late being much disturbed by strange fancies and day-time delusions. My postprandial scribblings have long been a stable of my working week and no servant dares to stir past my quarters upon noticing the glow neath the door that signals its occupancy. Lately the notepad remains devoid of ink or flourish and I strain my ears to catch the scratching of a passing servant stepping a mite too hard on the creaky floorboard, hoping to catch some snippet of gossip in the scullery that might rouse my wrist to swiftness. In less fanciful terms I have been much beset by idleness and my usual studious nature replaced by bouts of idleness and procrastination. I do not fear that you will judge me too harshly for my slovenliness though once I recount my adventure in full.
I find the drone of chatter where people gather too distracting to complete any semblance of serious writing. Even the purchase of army-grade ear plugs have not relieved the issue, much to my chagrin. Three pairs for a pound, army surplus. Let me say this; if they cannot stop the sound of idle chatter, they aren’t going to do much when a whizzing mills explodes just shy of your nape. The seller, one Mr. Kieran Malleus – ‘hearin’ Kieran’ to his friends – in due course will read my thoughts on his wares, in so many crass words as can be mustered in the shrill silence they offer.
Recently I have been away from kith and kin, pining for home comforts in the scalding desert sun, an enormous white offensiveness radiating omnipresent heat. By night when the flaming orb retreats beneath the dunes, the shifting sands hold much latent heat. Torturous for a Kentish gent like myself. I will keep complaints brief. I am grateful of course for the patronage of my peers, and for the many strange and exotic sights I witnessed, including the discovery of a buried idol in the former fertile crescent which spurred my journey to action. Natural sights of great wonder met my eyes at every turn; clear skies above the dunes like reflected water, the night a matte-painting of stars in every hue; twinkling blues shining intensely for a moment only to disappear against the force of its own vibrancy, white and yellow dazzling celestial bodies too winking in turn, and a fiery red one clearest of all. Fayzad, my loyal manservant and foreman, informs me this was Venus. Brutal aerial bombing raids and fierce close-quarters combat destabilized the region. A land rent asunder yielded treasures hidden since ancient epochs, including our idol. In the charred frame of a ruined mosque, a set of dusty steps led us to the idol, stark and malignant in its shadow-haunted grotto. The discovery provided ample fuel for speculation among my wider uneducated workforce, whispered stories of Templar treasure and forbidden Rosicrucian gospels abounded, spreading like wildfire.
The journey from the train station in London towards Matfield in Kent where I currently dwell is punctuated with occasional wondrous natural vignettes in the form of wild horses cresting grassy knolls against the backdrop of God’s own country; white blossoms on trees, ranks of saplings, stunted now but enormous come the vernal bloom. I attempted to conduct my preliminary report of sites I’d visited but through my rubber stoppers I made out the voice of an inebriated Scot over the usual din. To make matters worse another veteran was seated in the opposite carriage, alone. The poor creature must have been exposed to gas in some forgotten melee, of which he was perhaps the surviving witness. Across the British Isles there was a thousand such sad scenes. Pineapple gas by the sound of his consistent hacking cough. Each time he did so it knelled the end of my creative spells.
Upon returning I informed colleagues and close friends of my intent to convalesce, retiring to my chambers in solitude for a fortnight to document my trip. It came as a reluctant surprise then when a letter arrived, delivered by hand, requesting my urgent presence at the servants graveyard on the grounds of the Powers Estate. The letter spoke of a strange discovery when work for a proposed pleasure garden began requiring the removal of several headstones. The author of the note, which was neither signed nor written in a hand I recognized, went on to state that he or she supposed that their discovery would be pertinent to my historical interest. This mysterious invitation stoked the embers of my imagination ablaze. I was suddenly keen to reevaluate my proposed ‘mental wellbeing day’, instead thinking perhaps I took those days on the insistence of my wife, nothing more.
I set off that same balmy spring evening, only a light jacket tossed overshoulder to protect, a saggging houndstooth peak unsteady on my crown like an ill-fitting wig; no rain had been forecast, thankfully. The rest of the note described the dig, which had concluded already. My field tools were not required. It was the closing statement though sent shivers of terror through my body. The scribe, although an amateur, was firm in his words and confident in his assessment that they had uninterred the skeleton of an enormous hellhound, three times larger that the most gargantuan canine of Siberia.
My mind was aflame with vivid images of a shadowy hyena howling, cackling, pooling stinking saliva in the sharp corners of its mouth. I wondered might their excavation have uncovered Black Shuck or some folkloric descendant; an enormous dog or wolf-like creature that stalked the leafy abbeys and quiet lanes of Suffolk in the early 15th century. Standing a keen seven feet in length, allowing for an inch either end, 200 pounds at a glance, around the average weight of a heavyweight pugilist, the fearsome beast came without fear. When mist swirled underfoot making each step unsteadier than the list, and the wind carried whispers of movement on the moors, Black Shuck had left his cave. So bulky was he that the thudding sound of its footfalls would rouse the town from sleep and into a panic. He came in the night, a terrible formless thing, gliding unseen like steam. The panicked citizenry heard that same familiar padding and the warning bell sounded, sending the denizens spilling towards the abbey. Room was made for all to shelter in the house of God. Assembled clergymen bolted shut the door placing large timbers across in a x pattern. The beast effortlessly barged through as if hurtling through a wall damp paper, a hulking mass of muscle, rippled and bulging as if cast in alabaster. The archives do not mention how the beast was slain. The last word on the matter is not even a word but a sketch of a boulder by one Father Nestin Goodfaythe, showing where the beast is supposedly interred on hallowed ground, underneath a weeping willow near the west wall of the piper’s rest.
I cycled to the train station within half an hour and caught an evening train toward the site. Upon detramming it was only a short stroll past the hamlet to the Powers Estate, a foreboding stone fortress stark against the pastureland. The sky was flecked with silver dots like an enormous glowing wisp out of space had poked a hole in the fabric of our world, allowing a sliver of otherworldly pearlescence to shine through.
Clouds gathered ominously above the rounded domes of the main compound. Various follies, fountains and statue-strewn walkways decorated the grounds, paling in comparison to the oppressive majesty of the Grand Lodge. The design was an eclectic mix of Eastern and Western classical art styles, rounded arches and marble pillars dappled with grey and obsidian, gargoyles with contorted faces and forked tongues lolling out of their pursed half mouths and other misshapen oddities perched on the buttresses. French tapestries and Roman marbles on every landing, enormous paintings of the glorious hunt in gilt frames on every inch of spare wall, Pictish stones looted from the Scottish soil decorated the fish pond, inscribed with mysterious runes that no doubt held some arcane and eldritch knowledge.
Casement Power, younger brother of the late Lord Richard, inherited no property or bonds but was allowed an extremely modest annual allowance. He spent his days hunting. No scurrying fox or baited badger could satiate his warrior spirit. He traveled to furthest Africa then shooting the largest game. It was there he spoke with cannibal tribes and saw serpents of enormous size unfurl endlessly and slither away into the brown water. He also had collected many curios and tribal artworks on his expeditions. The remnants of his conquests nailed to the walls as trophies. Enormous mammoth tusks from Siberia carved with runes framed every double doors, and crossed spears above every mirror.
Somewhere in the house, although I cannot recall where, the skeleton of the beast that hunted the denizens of Gevaudan. I do know for a fact that this grizzly exhibit does exist as it is listed on the manifesto of items in the portion of Stately Homes of England dedicated to the Powers plot. I cannot verify as to the validity of the article but I’d vouch that many a French peasant eats well selling a hundred such cryptozoological items. Could the hell hound I am to examine be a relation of this come to England, or worse, brought?
I have heard tales from reputable sources of large cats loose on the moors. Some escaped from circuses and private menageries, others former pets released by their owners after quadrupling in size. Perhaps these amateurs had merely uncovered the remains of an exotic pet. The grounds were no stranger to beasts from the dark continent; crimson parrots in enormous metal cages, striped fish that glowed when moonlight struck on the pond, peacocks from India striding the grounds magnificently, ducks from Canada. Would it be completely out of question for a jungle cat to have made this castle its home? I think not.
On his extensive travels around China and Africa studying prehistoric art Richard Power collected priceless artworks and looted great tombs of their treasures years before the arrival of most Western antiquarians. His current horde included petroglyphs, gilded sarcophagi and even a mummified cat from a Witch’s Bazaar outside Khartoum. If Richard Powers was alive today he would sit coiled atop his twinkling doubloons with plumes of smoke trailing from either nostril, content to wait for judgement day in the cavernous treasury rumored to exist beneath the house.
Many of the great houses had fallen to destitution in recent years as their custodians gathered dust on gilded thrones, having sent the best of their heirs to serve in France among the officer classes. Although the bulk of the BEF was made up of working class men, miners and teachers, the aristocratic classes were decimated. Such was the way of war. These men playing chess with the lives of the small folk would, to fulfill their end of whatever Faustian pact could’ve caused such a prolonged and terrible slaughter, had to give up their own sons. Of course not all these elderly Lords were callous in sending their offspring to foreign soil, perchance to die. Many wrote letters to school chums and former colleagues now occupying lofty administrative positions requesting exclusion for their boys in exchange for kind press or monetary reward. All such offers were of course denied. Powers lost three sons in the war, two at Mons, another at Ypres. The angels had not seen fit to protect them. That dread sound of motorcycle tyres scraping on pebbles as it stirs to a halt, the clicking of medals on a uniform breast as the messenger spans the drive, the measured footfalls of a military gait approaching the door, closer now and the parent white-faced behind knowing what dread news awaits.
Folklore and farmyard chatter aside; the Powers had deep roots here. A Powers had lived on this land since at least 1640. Who knew what secrets those whispering old stones might yield to those inclined to hear.
Fortunately the Lord has a nephew, strong, sensible and of age. Lord Nigel Power, Earl of Sookford and 3rd Baron of Westian, current custodian of the Powers Estate was not an unkind man, scholarly and stoic like the Greek philosophers he admired and quoted in his cups, but always keen to share a nod and chat in passing. Not to give the impression that we are acquainted for I hardly know the man but to don my hat in passing, occasionally passing comment if the weather be fine or note-worthily tempestuous.
Already noting my own apprehension, every step measured, holding my breath unless absolutely necessary I proceeded toward the furthest gate. Wintry grass crunched beneath my boots. I stood almost hypnotized, craning to see the lip of the battlements atop the outer wall. A fortress fit for a martial family. Arrows, oil and boulders would have rained down from on high decimating prospective invaders. A mighty gust suddenly swept past violently, lifting my jacket tails, carrying with it the faint sound of distant battle; a prolonged scream, a snippet of intense crackling fire, the rhythmic thwack of loosed bows in tandem. I shivered and begged the spirits leave me and confine their unrest to the isolated places of the world.
The last light faded as I approached the enormous wrought iron gates of the grounds, the rails jagged black spears rising from the capstones, decorated in the middle with a black bas relief. I pushed open the gate and it dragged on its hinges, howling while it swung. The dread chorus was so shrill and how long it lasted – I almost had to place my fingers into my ears for relief! This fright rather knocked my senses. I stirred a moment to gather scattered wits. Every loose stone, dancing leaf and singing spring breeze now whispered portents. I shook my head and ignored whatever gnostic Delphian beckoned. I accepted the languid gate swing as a sign of reluctance to permit my entry on the house’s part. Old places do not lightly relinquish their secrets. It’s well possible some unseen malevolent force did not want me there that night. What happened next only served to exacerbate my fears.
I immediately turned sharply right upon entering the compound, moving from the long and winding gravel drive lined with golden cedars down a snaking path trodden through the grass, towards a distant glow I assumed was the site. With forearm raised to save my eye from grabbing branches, I fumbled through the darkness, taking little note of the uneven terrain underfoot, eventually emerging from the copse near the servant’s graveyard. The site was cordoned off with rope and torches placed in the ground illuminated the site for my investigation. Gathered there was a small crowd, huddled together gnattering around one of the beacons. A man turned and waved, evidently the one who penned the letter. Grass grew grey and sickly inside the fenced paddock. Scions of jagged rock tore through the topsoil giving the impression of a golem just beneath the firmament. This field must have been the only spot of that land that didn’t yield healthy blossom, small surprise it was designated such a dark purpose then. The owner had little use for land that didn’t yield coin. A terrible scream rang out as I took my first ginger step toward him. Shrill, unpleasant, razorlike. The banshee’s wail, a chorus of seven trumpets that toll the opening of the seventh seal, the Howling of the Djinn! Hark! The dread screech of a terrible wyrm, phasing through realities in permanent agony.
A bright spark glowed brightly in the sky above the open grave. Unaccustomed to the light my eyes shut tightly, water welling beneath closed lids like raging floodwaters surmounting an impassable object through the smallest grikes and stony slits. I winced fighting tears and turned, then a strange thing occurred; I found myself back in the thicket where the branches like fingers had caressed me only a moment before, the light of the site up ahead in the distance. What vile trickery was this? I stared at my hands, barely able to discern their shape in the darkness. I raised them and cupped my face into my palms, needing to massage my crown and feel the bone and blood underneath, something tangible now that I was untethered from the real. I needed to be positive this was not a dream but it was so cold, so bitterly cold. Was it possible to feel cold while not conscious? Doubtful. I felt nauseous and keeled over holding my stomach, dry retching onto the damp grass.
The beacons in the distance began igniting and extinguishing in sequence, strobing and contorting casting long shadows. I tucked my head to my chest as a hedgehog does under duress. Then all was dark. The beacons doused simultaneously and the wet grass underneath my head changed to something harder and slick, with many sharp points digging into my cheek. I dared a peek, lifting one eyelid a fraction I found myself again outside the gates. The dark contours of the bas relief were ominous now, the bulbous shapes of the carved images made my skin crawl. Brushing rocks embedded in my palms on the thigh of my trousers, I winced to my feet.
Yes, the beings that had at first seemed Grecian effigies of perfect men hunting now altered in the pale moonlight, one idle moonbeam shining directly on the relief as if a spotlight was held fast by an unseen cherub, perched on a cloud occasionally stirring from peaceful sleep to illuminate some slither of mystery. These hulking icons, although lacking perspective, seemed an altogether forbidden sight. I recoiled in horror but dared myself to investigate further. I stooped closer focusing on one particular figure. Let me first describe the image as a whole; a pitiful scene. By compare I can only cite passages from Revelations, and even they do not convey the full horror I beheld. Lacking the vocabulary to describe the ‘otherness’ of its shape Revelations must serve as an imaginative stimulus; the beings on the relief were contorted demons with bodies and genitals like men but coated every inch with coarse black hair, spiny and spidery. Their eyes enormous round things like that of a fish, but where a fish emits vacancy and the black of their eyes reflects rather than radiates, these implied great wisdom. Enormous eyes omnipresent to witness all events in all of time, as Mathesula. I shudder to think. Where their mouths should be instead jutted an enormous pair of jaws like that of the snapping Nile crocodiles who since antiquity have smiled menacingly beneath he murk – a menace I am reluctantly familiar with, having seen men dragged underneath the murky water while bathing or labouring near the shore erupting in fountains of blood, never to surface. The figure I was hypnotically drawn to inspecting had an enormous stinging tail protruding from the end of his tailbone, hanging low off the ground before looping up into the sky, the stinger slick with dripping venom poised at the shoulder to strike. He was the only one among his number armed with such a ferocious pestilent whip, which was clad in hard black plate no sword would dent, distinguishing him as a leader of sorts; if any rank exists within an anarchy of grotesques. Even as a fantasy this folly is something gratuitous altogether. The metal seemed slick, oozing, though no rain fell that night and no hint of varnish in the air. Perhaps twas merely the combination of moonlight trickery and the all-night reading sessions of yesteryear where I filled my mind with all manner of sidhes, dobhar chus and mushrooms out of space. The relief was a ballroom fancy and no more, a remnant of the freakshow era leftover, like some stately houses with curiosity cabinets intact.
I pushed open the gate as a matter of promptness. Again it swung slowly and screeched, reeeeeeeeeeeeeeee – like a vixens wail. Events were playing out exactly as they had only moments ago except now when I entered the dig site was to my left , and much closer besides.
I was sure I had turned right last time. Did the last time really happen? A trick of my own mind or by something darker. Some benevolent being drawn to bored mischief interfering with the lives of mortals. Perhaps twas some fancy I took outside, a moon dream. Lord knows I had heard enough tales of inebriated farmers trapped roaming around small paddocks unable to find an exit, while the faeries peered through the barbs of the hawthorn in hysterics. While we are in the realm of loons, perhaps it was an angel’s vision of the future. Warding me away from the toothed darkness inside the grave.
To steady my nerves I decided to voice the inner skeptic aloud. I spoke into the night about how the gases and wisps in marshes were spirits to feudal farmers before wise men came and dispelled their ignorance with the torch of logic. Perhaps all I was experiencing now was merely some as of yet unexplained phenomena. An unseen chemical in the air released by the digging causing hallucinations, or a fever perhaps? I had been travelling recently. Any excuse that steered my mind from the abject terror I was exercising in the face of the unknown I was eager to embrace.
I proceeded to the site, only this time no sliding mud prevented passage; the thicket of thorns where I stooped and spied the distant braziers nowhere to be found.
There was still time to turn for home. Trains would not run until morning, I might safely walk the tracks and upon reaching my station fetch my bike to cycle the remaining distance. If I departed and kept a keen pace I would be abed before the witching hour. Whether the men disturbed the rest of a hellhound or just the bones of a dead doe, expanded over generations by the freezing and thawing of the soil, could be left exactly that, a question to ponder on Samhain, to tell over a crackling flame and scare the boy scouts.
How unprecedented that a man as stubborn as I would talk myself out of a venture that promised much mystery. I knew fear that night, true fear rooted deep, some primordial doubt freezing me where I stood, sending shockwaves through my body rousing every nerve and impulse I had screaming retreat, retreat! I willed my legs forward another few steps. I must have looked a forlorn statue. A fitting garden ornament for such a strange place, amongst the cherubs and marble harpies.
Taking stock of my surroundings I noted a faint dust visible in the air, a golden haze like spores or sparks from a foundry taken flight, shifting in the air constantly reforming, though I felt no breeze. Whether the miasma was a result of occult practices or a sign from a benign celestial to warm me of impending spiritual disaster I do not know. I did know to follow my gut instincts.
Turning, I sped out the gate, avoiding its siren song having left it ajar when I entered. I kept a blistering pace. Soon the lane melted away behind me, my feet scarcely scraping the ground with my pace. Gravel gave way to slick grass and then the tracks opened up before me. An enormous corridor of steel teeth slicing the meadow in twain. Due to the negligence of the maintenance crew the wild grasses growing trackside grew enormous casting ominous shadows which obscured any assailants that might attack from the side. I slowed briefly ensuring my stride matched the distance between planks so as not to trip.
After a time ambling I heard from behind the definite sound of paws plodding rhythmically. Four distinct footfalls increasing pace to match my own. I suddenly sprinted forward with such intensity that I near lost my balance but I pushed my arms out sideways and flapped like a terrorised bird and steadied. Paws clacked on the timbers of the track. Something emitted a low, deep growl. I ran then fast as my legs would take me, with no regard for form or poise, relying on my quickened panic instincts to keep me steady. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead, past my eyes which I had shut most tightly, to rest on my lip. Tissues, coins and scraps of paper fell from my pockets but I continued unperturbed, propelled by some primal strength.
The gnashing darkness felt an oppressive presence. I was sure no fevre dream had taken hold unbeknownst. What gave chase was a tangible and definite evil, slipped through the curtains into our reality, or perhaps pulled. Mayhaps some naive servant read the words aloud from one of the many Egyptian execration texts dotted around the house in glass cabinets and dredged a being from another world. Putting distance between I and it, still the fetid smell of rotten meat on its breath caused my nose to wrinkle.
I could feel intense heat too, along my shoulder blades, beneath my collar. At first I thought twas the humid panting typical of a sprinting canine but it got warmer and warmer as the footfalls increased their pace until it was near unbearable. I reached my hand to my collar, placing the backside of my cool fingers flat to my neck and felt the heat of infernal Hades. I did not turn. I did not delay, keeping pace well beyond my natural exhaustion threshold. The swiftness of the stag when the wolf is near. The swiftness of the salmon in the bear’s shadow.
I imagined behind me an enormous fissure in the rows of planks, of a tunnel hewn of riven flesh where spindled fingers tipped with curled nails grabbed at my tails, the red veined limbs of broken souls rising to aid Cerberus. Eyes of every size with no other human form attached blinked embedded in the soil, green pupils slit like cats. Enormous black ones like an ink filled bubble swirled apocalyptic chaos beneath the gelatinous covering. Oh three headed guardian of Hades, who bid you give chase, I am not yet bound for your kingdom!
The beast thundered along behind me, faster now, growling and snapping its enormous rows of teeth, sharp as daggers, serrated for tearing ragged strips of flesh clean off the bone.
At times the thing was so close I could feel drops of reeking saliva raining down where the beasts tongue had whipped at the empty space I occupied not a moment earlier. In truth I cannot recollect much further than this, I was gripped by an adrenal berserk and time held no meaning, new memories ceased forming, all non-critical faculties switched off. After an eternity I emerged into the light of the train station and dared to slow for the first time. It seemed the chase had not been so rabid these last moments. The spell which coated those bones in living flesh expired now that morning sun threatened her light.
The horizon turned red as iron ore. Hours faded like charcoal met by floodwater. The dawn was upon us, silent, chorusless dawn. I turned gasping but no snapping Cerberus or terrible extinct mastiff, like those the Romans had employed in Carthage, waited there. Just a dizzying corridor of shifting darkness stretching to infinity. No idle moon beam pierced the veil of night, if the vermillion caul draped over the vista can be called true night. In my relief I spared a laugh, noting aloud that this was likely a record time for this particular journey, surpassing even the no-stop trains that carried resources to the Hebrides and further overnight.
In spite of all that happened I had to question then and there if a creature had ferociously pursued me at all or whether some friendly dog had trotted alongside me for a time, or whether my own footfalls speeding up subconsciously sent me into a panic. I was unsure. Should I be terrified, relieved, embarrassed or a combination of the three?
Next came the darkest revelation of all. I sat and dangling my legs over the lip of the train platform lit a cigarette. I inhaled deeply, held the breath, allowed the smoke to permeate, absorbing my woes before exhaling. I shivered as a draft met my black and the sodden shirt plastered thereupon. No, more than a breeze, a sharp pain. I dropped my cigarette onto the tracks and reached back, gingerly pawing with my index finger, if the phrasing can be pardoned. I recoiled in agony, even now my back throbs and smells fetid when the bandage is not changed and let steam under a basin of boiled water. Three enormous slashes, rifts of gnarled flesh raked across my skin. Dark pus oozes from the wound and I have worn a corset of gauze this last week. A paroxysm of pain sent me to spasming and I could take no more, fainting into a heap there on the platform.
I suppose it was near enough to morning then and some commuter or station man took notice and fetched a doctor, but in truth I have no memory of this. The doctors have informed me that it will be some time before my wound heals and it should require much observation to prevent tetanus. Yes, you read that right. Tetanus. The lacerations were proved to have been made by a dog using the latest scientific tests. The doctors, veterinarians and trappers consulted have so far been completely baffled by the breadth and width of the scrapes, reckoning a creature capable of such assaults to a man grown should require enormous size and strength, and belonged to no creature native to this country.
With this nightmare put to page I hope the oily tendrils of it are scraped from my mind. I must retire to chambers and steam the wound again, left overnight the sickly sweet smell of the warped and bubbled flesh becomes unbearable. The doctors and I hope I will be free to return to work by June. In the meantime I will stay active with my research and dispel any thoughts too fantastical. My spirit is largely shaken and I have not felt an anxiety like it since the weeks at the front. I cannot complain, having most of my wealth and still a sliver of health but Damn! Curse! Blast how I loathe sleeping on my front! How anyone finds solace in this pose is beyond me, I feel like a lizard basking on hot stones.
I leave you now to ponder what I saw that night, and I will do the same. Perhaps another time it will be revealed to me, in a dream or a whisper of the babbling brook, what is the given name of the darkness I encountered. Or suppose you think maybe the stories of jungle cats loose on the moors hold more than a nugget of truth; a jaguar or cheetah gave chase, stirring from its home in the neglected grasses along the tracks? Perhaps. I do not like to speculate. I leave you then and as stated at the beginning of my recant, I hope you will not judge my case too harshly, noting that I am not a man of ill repute or third-rate education. I am a simple antiquarian bottling the dust of the lost things. The truth is an amnesiacs labyrinth.
April 20th, M Bryn-Kolkiln
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