THE PLACE STANK. Harvey Dellar groped blindly for an adjective or metaphor adequate enough to describe the rank scent. He failed. The writer’s block was more potent than ever. He couldn’t even find a way to describe just how shitty the smell was. He grumbled incoherently, his head drooping as he peered at the ground, searching for the source of the smell.
The warm summer air ripened the fetid odour, giving it substance. Harvey hawked up a glob of phlegm, spitting it out violently onto the ground. He could even taste it.
Harvey’s neck began to spasm. He looked back up, arching his neck to drive the stiffness from it. He pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, savouring the blue-grey smoke. The smoke masked the rotten odour that hung over his property like a cataclysmic stink bomb.
This was ridiculous. He had already wasted the best part of an hour searching for phantom cat shit. Mrs Speakman’s ancient tabby seemed to have a fondness for crapping in his garden. The haughty feline treated his garden like its own open latrine, wandering in with its tail held high. He had taught it a lesson or two when the opportunity had come. The animal was too old and too slow these days to escape from a well-aimed boot. He smiled maliciously. Maybe the old creature had met its final end. He hadn’t seen it for a few days.
He stood over the patch of bare earth, hands on hips, and let the warm sun embrace him, closing his eyes for a moment. It was supposed to be a good summer this year. Knowing the vagaries of the British weather, he really ought to make the most of it. The weather was rarely predictable these days.
He stretched, murmuring with pleasure, his back clicking and creaking. Too many hours had been spent hunched over a keyboard trying to string words together into coherent sentences only for their coherency to fall apart.
Where’s the mojo gone, man?
Frustration welled up inside. It was a new and unwelcome feeling for him. The fear that had dogged him from the earliest day of putting pen to paper had come to pass.
Harvey Dellar—up and coming horror writer, winner of Best Newcomer in the Saturn Awards, and the hot tip to take over from the master, Stephen King—had writer’s block. No, not just a block. It was a veritable Great Wall of China, imposing, frightening and impossible to scale. Straits of Cthulhu, his first novel, had been a tough book to put together, but he had managed to pull together the plot strands, ride it out and turn a mess into a coherent story.
Even Clive Barker liked it, according to an interview with a well-known horror magazine. ’Raw, intense and imaginative’, a good quote to have on your next novel, especially by someone as well respected in the genre as Mr Barker.
The roller coaster had started from there. He quit his day job working in a call centre—an experience that he never wanted to repeat—and began writing full time, his mind going into creative overdrive. His next two novels, Death’s Benefactors, a darkly comic tale of two demonic gangsters, and Silently Wishing for Death, had stormed the e-book bestsellers list. The money poured in, invitations to conventions and university speaking gigs flooded his inbox; people wanted to know him. In those quiet moments of clarity, he sat behind his desk, chin resting on clasped hands, and thanked whatever forces governed the universe.
He now cursed those very same powers. The new novel had stalled. The idea was dynamite—a man trekking around the world on a sightseeing tour of the globe’s darkest and most haunted places—but it just didn’t seem to be hanging together. Three chapters in, and he felt the whole thing slipping away from him. His character, a worldly news presenter named Jay, was evolving into a thoroughly unlikable man, the supporting characters were two dimensional and about a clichéd as you could get, and nearly all the locations he had picked, he’d never visited. He had no idea what the swamps of Louisiana smelled like, or how big Stull Township was.
He couldn’t give in. The act of writing was a grind. When a writer was stuck at the coal face, he or she, had to keep chipping away, no matter how difficult it was to coax out the words. It was a matter of professional pride. Dellar hated the thought of being defeated by his own imagination. He had to find a way to whip the little bastard into submission and get it to work double-time again.
Harvey dropped his cigarette, crushing it into the ground with a vicious swipe of his foot.
This is fucking ridiculous. And a colossal waste of my time. Why bother searching for the source of one smell when the whole world stank anyway? Would it really make his situation any better? He shrugged. It wasn’t as if he had anything better, and the obsessive compulsive within him wouldn’t let this lie.
He continued to scan the ground, his eyes searching for the tell-tale signature of Mrs Speakman’s tabby. Something caught his eye in the shade, under the mammoth thorn-filled bush by the fence. He had no idea what the plant was. It had been there when he had moved in.
Hold the fucking phone, ladies and gents. I think we have a winner.
He moved in closer, crouching down to get a better view. The stench became stronger, a cloying rancid fog that emanated from this spot. He hawked another ball of phlegm, grimacing as he spat it out.
The grass was dead, withered and grey, coated with a clear sheen too thick to be dew. The patch was roughly circular, with lines of dead vegetation erupting from it at random angles. An image of tentacles closing on prey briefly flashed through the author’s mind. He filed it away for later use. Bare earth dotted the circle, patches where grass had rotted away totally. Harvey, his curiosity aroused, poked a finger tentatively into the mud. He cursed, whipping his hand back as if he had been stung. The ground felt warm and gelid. He wiped his soiled finger on his jeans, trying not to vomit at the sensation. It felt like he imagined it would feel to jab a corpse that had been pulled up from a warm swamp. Harvey shivered, feeling a slight sense of dread.
The patch of earth felt wrong. He couldn’t say why. There was a quality to its look and feel that tickled the older part of his brain, the part where irrational fears took on a life of their own. He wiped his forehead, his hand trembling. The dread increased a notch as he looked over the oddity. Splinters of white protruded from the ground, all different shapes and sizes. The ground was littered with flecks of the substance.
Can’t be—
He stopped himself from finishing the train of thought that had started with the cat and ended with bone. There was only one way to find out and that was to dig. Not an option. He was already on the road to total panic. The thought of what he might find under the earth was close to tipping him over the edge.
Fuck this, I’m out of here. He stood, giving the dead ground one more look.
What the fucks wrong with you, eh? Getting spooked over a patch in the grass.
The self-admonishment brought a half-smile to his lips. The fleeting sense of panic diminished as he walked back to the house. His knees creaked with every step and his legs trembled from crouching for too long. His body was showing definite signs of wear and tear. Harvey still looked good for a man in his early forties; his black hair was still intact, although short and tidy, not wild and youthful anymore. The few wrinkles around his eyes weren’t conspicuous unless you were up close, but no one had come close enough to him over the last year or so to notice.
He was too busy to even think about women at the minute, and the wedding band that he still wore out of habit tended to put admirers off. The divorce had been amicable enough, and the ring brought him comfort and helped him to centre his thoughts when he was stuck for a word, a sentence or a story. He fiddled it with it, spinning it at varying speeds depending on how agitated he was.
Harvey stretched and sighed. The day was beautiful, but he had work to do. He took one last, lingering look at the patch on the grass and walked back inside, leaving the door open. .
Trixie watched the scary man-beast carefully. He reeked of fear. She could smell the tang of it exuding from him. Hunger gnawed at her. The missus, the old human whose company she kept, hadn’t put any food out for her. She hadn’t seen her mistress for days. Starving, the old tabby had gone on the hunt, trying and failing to capture anything bigger than an emaciated shrew. Pickings were slim these days. The neighbourhood, once teeming with frogs, mice and other appetising morsels, was now sparsely populated.
The only animals that were left were the loud, smelly long-jaws, barking and slobbering. Trixie knew well enough to keep away from those creatures. It was a lesson hard-learnt, but after losing an eye to a mean and cussed old Shih Tzu named Teddy, she gave them a wide berth.
She watched the two-legs walk back into his box thing, and crept out from her hiding place. Humans had food aplenty in their boxes. Sometimes, they would even leave food out in plain view. She might get caught, but hunger had overridden her keen sense of self-preservation. Keeping low to the ground, she slunk toward the open door. A tantalising aroma of flesh came from its opening, driving her feline senses wild. If she was a barker, she would have been dribbling by now.
Trixie stopped. Her senses rang with a warning. There was danger close by. She couldn’t tell where but she could feel the malignancy around her. The smell of food was masked by a scent that she had never encountered before. It was the odour of death. The tabby looked around. There were no long-jaws nearby. She felt uneasy and began to walk around the patch of ground, unaware that she was even doing it.
The earth erupted next to her. Sticky globs of soil showered her. She whirled around, hissing, her ears flat against her tiny skull. A long, red coloured limb, covered in festering yellow sores, was flailing around, as if trying to scent her. She squalled, frozen with fear and adrenaline. The feline had never seen or smelt anything like this before, even when she’d lived with the female human. The smell that came from it was raw and hot. The limb paused. In a flash too quick for her acute senses, the flexible member wrapped around her, and began dragging the cat towards its patch of earth.
Trixie began to scream and yowl as her skin burnt from contact with the stinking fluid that coated the limb. Her fur slid off her and floated to the ground as her flesh dissolved. The cat howled, struggling to escape, her strength failing. With a savage jerk, the appendage pulled itself back into the soft ground. Trixie was sucked under the earth with it, her weak yowls giving way to way to a choking sound as the force of the motion shattered her bones and pulped her organs. The silence returned to the morning air, a few sticky clumps of cat hair and blood being the only evidence of Trixie’s fate.
What the fuck was that? Harvey sat up, startled by the screech from the back garden. It sounded like a hurt animal, but the tone of fear and pain was unlike anything Harvey had ever heard before. As a child, he’d witnessed a dog being run over; the thud of the car hitting its midriff and the yelps of pain and fear were still fresh in his memory, after all this time. That was nothing compared to this; there was a crippling fear conveyed by those frenzied sounds.
He walked to the window of his writing room, pulling the blinds to one side. The garden looked normal. The sun still beat down. The sunflowers that he’d planted as a gift for his wife, swayed gently in the breeze. His breath caught in his throat. The dead patch on the grass had grown! It now extended out beyond the shade of the spiny bush. The primal fear returned. His heart hammered in his chest. How could it have grown that quickly? Harvey wiped his face. He had to go and look. Fighting the fear, he pulled his slippers on and trudged downstairs, his unease growing by the second.
The ugly bald patch had grown. It was now over a foot in diameter. It sagged in the middle, giving it the appearance of a shallow crater. The white bonelike shards were gone now, replaced by what seemed to be clumps of hair or fur coated in clear fluid. Harvey frowned and pursed his lips, whistling in disgust at the stink emanating.
I’m not picking that shit up, he thought, looking around for something to scoop the strange fur-ball up with. He stopped for a moment, cocking his head. A strangled cry came from the crater, muffled by the wet ground. The earth at the centre of the depression pulsated for a moment, fluid leaking up through the already soaked soil. The cry stopped. The earth settled. Harvey stared for an eternity, his mind blanked by what he had witnessed. Or at least, he thought he had witnessed.
I’m losing the plot. The stress is getting to me.
Yes, that explanation suited him. Things like this only happened in the books he wrote. Monsters weren’t real, demons were just part of the religious propaganda machine, and ancient gods were just fairy stories. The fear receded, not entirely gone, but reduced to a low level hum in the back of his mind. He stood and walked back into the house, a little faster than normal. The sun may have been shining, but at that moment, he wanted the safety net of the house and his writing room.
The sun danced through the slats of the blind, throwing long shadows across the room as evening drew in. Harvey’s long fingers ceased their dance across the keyboard, as an alarm broke the silence.
Three hours. Not too shabby, son. Not too shabby.
He rubbed his aching eyes and sat back. The words on the screen blurred for a brief moment before coming back into sharp focus. The writer’s block was going. The Great Wall of China was coming down, brick by brick. The words, once so difficult to prise from their hiding places, were now jumping into the light, jostling for attention, begging to be written down. The fear he had felt earlier must have acted like some kind of mental emetic, clearing out the crap in his head to make way for regular movement of thought. It was a disgusting analogy, but then again Harvey was a disgusting person at times.
Beer time. He had earned it. Ok, it was a Thursday night, but it wasn’t as if he had a regular job to go to. The days of calling in sick, or stumbling into work encased in a boozy fog were long gone. Not having a wife to nag him about it was also a bonus. In a way.
He still missed her. There had been a few half-hearted stabs at relationships since the divorce, but nothing concrete. Company these days consisted of drink-sodden one night stands, events to be regretted in the morning, especially if they made tabloid news. Which they didn’t. Reporters weren’t interested in authors in that way. Rock stars and actors were fair game when it came to sexual indiscretions. Writers only made the news when they were the subjects of religious fatwas. Harvey didn’t mind. He enjoyed the anonymous celebrity status. Not only could he afford to get shit-faced, he could also do it safe in the knowledge that it just wasn’t newsworthy.
He stood and stretched out, the clicks of his joints and spine loud in the silence of the room.
All work and no drink makes Jack a dull boy. He rubbed his grumbling stomach. He would have to feed the beast before even thinking about drinking.
He looked around the room, happy and satisfied with the day’s work.
The light in the study changed, colour phasing from orange to a sinister red. Reality shifted for a moment. He became dizzy to the point of nausea. The light seemed harsh, almost alien. The clean lines of his desk and computer took on a bizarre appearance, almost unrecognisable to him, as if he was seeing it for the first time. He felt an aching loneliness, a sickness of the heart that had him reeling. Harvey gripped the back of his chair, closing his eyes and breathing heavily. A babble of voices, harsh and monotonous, filled his head. The language was rough and glottal but he recognised the meaning behind the words. A death sentence was being passed and there was no escape.
He began to count backwards, slow and deliberate, in an effort to retake control. The moment ebbed away, leaving him sick and shaking. He opened his watering eyes. Normality had returned. His breath slobbered in and out. Harvey straightened up, confused. He must be more stressed than he had thought. His body and mind were both depleted. The time for work was over, so he left the room behind, still quivering.
The shadows lengthened and thickened as the sun dipped in the orange sky.
Stigger was a crackhead. He knew this. His family knew it, as did the local police, his probation officer and anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck behind him in the queue at the local shops. He didn’t care what people thought of him and his habit. He wore the stigma like a badge of honour, sneering at those who looked down on him. He had the last laugh on them.
Crackhead that he was, he was also an expert burglar. The need for money to feed the gorilla on his back had honed his skills, as had the ‘holidays’ he had taken at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He had learned more about his craft on the inside than he would have thought possible. Lags liked to talk, to show off their skills and impress the youngsters. There was a lot of useful knowledge to be gained inside, if you were prepared to listen, and listen he did.
He had learned the value of patience and observation. Pick a target, stake them out, learn about their habits and routines, sort your escape route out—all of this and more he had committed to memory.
Stigger had been watching the writer fella for weeks now. The man was a creature of habit as well as being stinking rich. He had often wondered why a best-selling author still lived in a semi-detached house in a small Midlands town. Maybe the guy didn’t like showing off. Respect to him if that was the case. It didn’t really matter anyway. This would be a grand payday. Who cared about why he was still here?
Stigger had waited in the alleyway that ran along the back of the houses, for fifteen minutes. Three o’ clock. The writer would be fast asleep by now, as would be most sensible people. It was time to move.
He threw his bag of tools over the fence, wincing a little at the thud it made. The burglar counted down twenty seconds. No lights came on in the street. There was no tell-tale twitch of curtains.
Sweet.
He shinned over the fence, dropping to a crouch in the dark. Years of drug use had reduced him in size from hefty to skeletal, an advantage for someone in his line of work. There was always a fence to climb over. You couldn’t do that easily if you were a fat bastard.
The house was dark, it’s rear illuminated weakly by the solitary streetlight out on the path. He would have to get the back door open quickly, even though the light was not great. Stigger couldn’t take the chance of anyone seeing. The writer was a popular guy around town. He always stood his round in the pubs and did a lot for the community. Getting caught robbing the man would be a good way to get railroaded out of town. He couldn’t leave his mum behind. Not now. She was too sick to leave.
Gathering up the little strength he possessed, he dropped onto his front and began to crawl through the dark towards the house. He stopped for a moment to collect his bag, returning it to his back, before resuming his crawl. The place stank to high heaven. Stigger fought the urge to cough, fearing detection. He held his breath for a few moment until the tickling ceased.
Jesus H. Christ. Has he been shitting out here?
The smell grew in intensity. He grimaced as his fingers sank into the ground. The earth was warm. And wet. Stigger frowned in confusion as his hands sank further into the soil.
What the fuck?
He shivered as he felt something lightly brush his fingertips.
Worms? Must be worms. Bollocks to this.
He pulled.
Strong hands gripped his wrists, pulling him forward. His face smashed into the stinking mulch, his nose cracking as it broke. Stigger tried to scream. Sticky, wet mud flooded his mouth, his tongue slick with the taste of rot. The hands, if that was what they were, released his arms and gripped his head. Stigger convulsed. Nails pierced his eyes, pulling them from their sockets. His skin burned as fluid washed over his head. The hands kept pulling at his loosening skin, pulling him further and further into the ground. His mind buckled under the white agony as more fluid erupted from beneath him, a stinking acid that ate into him, dissolving flesh and bone. He could feel things ravaging him, tipped tendrils that broke through his skin, eagerly tearing organs loose and squeezing the juices from him.
A tentacle wrapped gently around his still beating heart. Stigger, blind and mad from the pain, wished for death. The tentacle squeezed, bursting his heart and granting his wish. He became limp. The limbs pulled him deeper into the ground.
His bag sat forlornly on the lawn, a forgotten relic. The earth beside it heaved and bled, grass dying as the chemicals beneath dissolved the roots.
Harvey sat up, regretting the suddenness of the movement instantly. His head pounded monotonously, the repetitive beat of a hangover in D-Major. He groaned and fell back into bed, his skin goose-pimpling with cold. The sheen of sweat had cooled him and the sheets beneath. He felt and smelled awful. He lay there for a few moments, fathoming the reason for his abrupt waking, and the moments before. Fleeting scraps of dreams came to him—impossibly tall creatures with spindly arms and faces hidden in shadow, pointing at him, screaming in accusatory tones.
A purple tinged sky, illuminated by the light of a ringed gas giant, the ground below burning and littered with broken, oozing bodies.
The smell and taste of alien flesh filling his mouth to bursting.
There was something familiar about these random fragments, as if he had lived them. Memories of a former life perhaps. He dismissed the thought. Reincarnation held a fascination for him, but only as a plot point. It was, like all religious theory, a total load of bollocks, only fit to fuel the imagination of backwards Third Worlders and horror writers looking for an angle.
Still, the imagery was striking. Harvey sat up, looking for his notepad. He had kept one on the bedside cabinet ever since Stephen King had revealed that he did the same. Unable to and unwilling to find it, he collapsed back.
Fuck it. If the images were strong enough, he would remember them in the morning. If not, it was no great loss. He had more than enough material to keep him going, even if the writing of it was torturous. His breathing slowed and deepened and his eyes began to close. As he fell asleep, he heard a voice cry out faintly. Sleep took him before he could dwell on it. Within moments, he was snoring.
“For fuck’s sake”, he muttered. “Really?”
The knock on his front door was insistent, heavy. Harvey stirred his coffee, swallowed two paracetomol dry and walked through to the living room. He felt good this morning, surprising given the amount he’d drunk. The usual fog of fatigue, along with the taste of stale ale, were absent. He hadn’t felt this way after a session since his late teens.
Maybe my mojo’s come back. He smiled, catching sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace. He even looked more alive, rested and healthy. The bags under his eyes, the pallor, the defeated set of his face, were no more. He clicked his fingers, pointing at himself and smiling.
“Looking good, kidder.” The knocking at the door continued. Whoever it was had heard him. He went to the door, limbering up for confrontation. If it was those two dappy old Jehovah’s Witnesses, they would be getting it with both barrels today. His mind felt keen, razor sharp and full of witty comebacks.
He opened the door, mildly disappointed. A man and woman stood before him. The woman, clad in the uniform of the Constabulary, flashed him a winning, even smile. Harvey smiled back in spite of himself. He wasn’t fond of the police. Too many encounters with them at football matches of the past had soured him to the boys—and girls—in blue. It was hard to see the good points in someone when their brethren had smashed you over the head with truncheons. Still, she was pleasant enough, an attractive brunette. He idly wondered how he could go about getting her phone number. It had been a month since he had enjoyed a good hard fuck.
The man cleared his throat, ruining the moment. Harvey regarded him with curiosity and a little amusement. He was clearly hungover. The blue eyes, set deep into his long pallid skull, were tinged with red. His greying hair was slicked back, tufts sticking out from the top and sides. His rumpled clothes had clearly seen better days. Harvey felt a twinge of pity for the man. He was clearly going to seed, his soul being relentlessly squeezed by a lifetime in a thankless job. He crushed the feeling of empathy.
Fuck him. He’s a copper. Taken aback by the sudden viciousness of the thought, Harvey put his hand out. There was nothing else he could do to hide his discomfort. The man stared at his hand for a moment, as if he was trying to remember what came next, before clasping it in a limp grip.
They shook hands quickly, Harvey resisting the urge to wipe his on his jeans afterwards. The man’s hand reminded him of the dead patch in his garden.
“Are you Harvey Dellar?”
Harvey nodded, forcing away a smile. The poor guy sounded rougher than he looked. His voice had the nasally twang of too many cigarettes and far too much alcohol.
“Sorry to disturb you. I’m Detective Constable Toseland, this is WPC Mann.” Harvey winced as he caught a whiff of stale alcohol from the Detective Constable. He must have really overdone it last night.
“Pleasure to meet you both. How can I help?” He flashed another smile at the WPC, pleased when she responded. Toseland cleared his throat noisily.
“Just a few questions. Nothing major. We’re just following up a couple of missing persons reports.” Harvey frowned at this. Missing people were major, especially in a town like this. The one murder they had had a few years back had rocked the place to its core.
“Who’s missing?”
“Your neighbour, Mrs Speakman”, Mann piped up. “Her step son hasn’t heard from her in over a week. She doesn’t appear to be home. We’ve checked.” Harvey thought for a moment. He hadn’t seen her for a while either. Mrs Speakman’s house was directly behind his. She often popped her head over the fence to say hello. Why hadn’t he noticed this?
He knew the reason why. He had been too preoccupied with his own writing to notice. Feeling shame, he asked about the others.
“Young lad by the name of Tim Maitland. His mum hasn’t seen him for three days.”
Toseland handed him a photo of a young boy. Harvey studied it. The boy had a cheeky grin on a face framed by an untidy but fashionable haircut. He was clad in a Liverpool FC shirt, holding his thumbs up at the photographer. Harvey shook his head.
“I know him. He lives with his mum and aunt just up the road.”
Harvey knew the women through his ex-wife and he had chatted to them in the pub a few times, but they weren’t close friends, more acquaintances. Timmy’s dad, from what he knew, was a lazy shit who had become a bit too fond of battering the boy’s mother about. The thug had left them a couple of years ago. Soon after that, Denise Maitland’s sister had moved in with him.
“Last time I saw him was last Saturday morning outside Tesco with his mum. Just to say hello. I was off to Birmingham for the Comic Con.” Harvey smiled at the memory. It had been a good day, a panel appearance with some other British horror heavyweights, capped off by meeting two Doctor Who actors, and Avon from Blakes 7.
Toseland looked crestfallen. He was probably under a lot of pressure from his superiors. Mann, on the other hand, seemed thrilled to be talking to a writer, a successful one too. Harvey calculated the odds of getting her phone number to be extremely high.
“Ok, well thank you for your time. If you see anything, please give a call.”
Toseland handed him a card, Harvey feeling a mild twinge of disappointment when he noted the number on it. It was the DC’s number.
They said their goodbyes, WPC Mann giving him more than a cursory look over and a flirty smile. There were possibilities there. He could sense it. He could almost read her mind.
Harvey closed the front door and made his way back to the living room. His coffee was cold. He left the cup where it was. He stood for a while, debating his next course of action. Part of him wanted to go and check the strange markings in the garden. Every time he thought of it, the image disappeared, as if his mind were pushing it away. Anyway, the urge to write was upon him. He could feel the fire in his fingertips. His imagination awoke, roaring.
Fuck it. This was too good an opportunity to pass by. He could sort the garden out another time. Humming an old UB40 tune, he bolted upstairs, eager to begin.
The day passed and the evening drew in. The sun sank, leaving behind streaks of orange cloud and a lingering heat. Harvey sat, hunched over his keyboard, the writer’s block gone, the pent up story now breaking down the huge wall in his imagination that had seemed invincible before.
His back was sore, his eyes hurt, but the sheer joy of creating numbed these pains. He had written for most of the day, only stopping for a piss, a beer and a cigarette. One of the perks of being divorced was that he could smoke in the house without receiving a barrage of abuse. That had been a definite no-no in their married days. If he’d wanted to smoke back then he had had to go outside, day or night, rain, sleet snow; it didn’t matter. Now he didn’t have to set foot in the back garden unless he wanted to. He stubbed the cigarette out and took a long swig of his drink, grimacing. The lager was flat and warm. It was gin and tonic time. After this chapter.
He fell into the work, thoughts of booze now swept away as the story came together, piece by piece.
It was dark outside. The street was quiet, apart from the occasional person walking to the pub, walking the dog, or just walking. People chatted, argued, made love, jeered at the telly, drank and generally lived out their normal, everyday lives. It was a normal night in a normal town.
In Harvey’s back garden, there was an unnatural gloom and a tension in the air. He would have felt it himself had he gone for a smoke outside. The air was heavy with a sense of foreboding and menace.
At around eight o’clock, the widening patch of polluted earth cracked open. A clear fluid flooded out of the cracks, pumping up from somewhere deep below. It soon filled the crater with a stinking miniature pond. Pockets of gas exploded on the surface, releasing more decay.
A man walking his dog past the fence noted the smell and wondered if the drains were blocked around here. Certainly smelled like it. As he walked on, the smell was quickly forgotten. Time was getting on and Match of the Day would be on soon. Let the owner of the house sort his own drain problems out.
The earth heaved and roiled as it began to give birth. A pair of mud covered arms slowly grew out of the puddle, hands gripping the dry edges of the bare patch. The arms flexed, pulling at the earth. A dripping form pulled itself from the mud-pool and onto the grass.
Friend rolled onto its back, breathing in rasping gulps of air. Ribs and other bones protruded from its half-made chest. The creature grimaced as it struggled against the constraints of half-life. More substance was required to keep cohesion. The raw material it had been lucky enough to gather so far was at odds with itself, unstable. It needed stability.
Friend held its hands up, inspecting. The hands were skinless, raw and dirt-covered, twisted coils of muscle and tendon exposed to the air. The dirt scratched at its exposed nerve endings, driving the creature wild with anger. It had to get clean before the fury took hold. The thing slowed its breathing and closed its eyes. Clear liquid seeped from the cells of its skinless body, becoming a torrent and a balm, washing the mud away and soothing its dangerously raw flesh.
Friend stood. Slime and mud sloughed from its tall, thin form. It felt its face, its touch deft and light. Its face felt oversized and exaggerated. It was hardly surprised. The creature had relied on its own memory of how it used to look in order to put itself back together. Reconstruction was not an exact science, or so it had been told.
The nubs of its teeth felt large, sharp and overexposed. It had no lips. It staggered, trying to reorient itself. This world’s air was rich and heavy, its gravity stronger than the creature was used to. It would take some time to adjust. It had to buy itself that time. The creature was exposed and vulnerable. The forces that had almost destroyed it would come searching, sooner or later. It needed refuge.
The creature looked at the house and sniffed. The mind that had drawn it to this location burned as bright as a star. It could sense the frustration and longing in the dark, twisted consciousness. This mind had drawn it, as it had tumbled through the Schism, an anchor point in which to enter this world. There were so many twisted minds to choose from on this planet, but this particular one held a fascination for the creature. The mind’s owner was like Friend itself, in many ways—both were bitterly disappointed with their fellow species, both were striving to make their lives better, both were sacrificing much to gain their objectives.
It had made mental contact subtly at first. A forceful, direct contact would have destroyed the other’s consciousness instantly. Even the lightest of touches had disrupted the human’s train of thought.
He could be left to scribe no longer.
Friend was not strong enough to fix the damage. The animals had been too small, their minds too primitive to nourish Friend’s own consciousness. Magicks required raw power. The older humanoid and the youngling had boosted it, giving it much-needed strength. The ravaged one, however, was the key. His physical form was revolting, but the decay and corruption in his soul was energising. Friend had reached out to this human, stroking his nervous system back into place so that he could scribe better.
Friend was pleased. This human had enabled it to escape and hide. It had even given it a name, after a fashion. The creature had found this word in the human’s mind, liking the sound and the imagery associated with it. It was time to make acquaintance with this human, this Haaarvey. Friend gingerly made its way to the house, eager to meet the scribe. There was much to discuss.
Harvey was deep into the book. He was outlining a part with a new character, a young policewoman, Maisie Donovan, and her older, cynical, alcoholic friend, DC Mcdonald.
He crinkled his nose against an itch.
The words unfurled thick and fast, paragraphs taking shape before his eyes, powering the plot to new and unexpected levels.
He sniffed.
This is going to be the best thing I’ve ever written, he thought. Discordant synth music filled his ears, a haunting lamentation that spoke of frozen landscapes and shape-shifting monsters. He readjusted his earphones and continued to type.
He rubbed his nose, pulling with his thumb and finger, sniffing out of habit.
His hand stalled mid-pull. He sniffed slower, his back becoming rigid. A familiar smell painted a miasma across the back of his throat. It was the same as that ball of slimy fur he had found on the grass earlier. He shook his head and paid it no mind. Some of it had got onto his jeans earlier. Nothing that a hot wash couldn’t sort out. Besides, he was getting tired. His eyes burned furiously.
An insistent droning suddenly filled his ears, obliterating the music. He shrieked, yanking the earphones out. The sound echoed around his head.
“What the fuck—”
“Waaaa-zeee-fooooook.”
Harvey froze. His heart smashed against his chest. He stiffened. That was not real. He gulped.
“Izzzzzel reeeeeel. Mmmm, aye zzzzzzreeeeel.”
The voice had a buzzing, clicking tone to it, the sound of an insect trying to form human words. The tone was cold and bleak, no inflection to be heard.
What the fuck is in my house?
The smell was overwhelming and thick, permeating every corner of the room. Harvey began to tremble. A cold sweat washed over him, brought by the malignant presence now sharing his space.
“Aaaalarm not needed. No harm. I mean you no harm.”
Harvey frowned despite his fear. The voice was becoming more coherent by the second. The buzzing in his ears also faded.
“Magicks take time to work in this realm, it would seem. Apologies of mine, you must accept. No harm to you, do I intend?”
His confusion grew.
Has Yoda invaded my house? That’d explain the stink. Fragrance eau Dagobah. He laughed, a brittle splintered sound.
“Is my syntax more understandable now? I hope so. It would be so much more favourable to our friendship, if communication was clear and understood by both parties.”
Harvey laughed again, harder and louder this time. The situation had gone from terrifying to incongruous. Yoda had turned into a bureaucrat.
“I am not Yoda, whoever that may be. Nor am I a bureaucrat. It was that kind that sentenced me to death. I have no love for cowardly pen-pushers. In this, we are alike.”
Harvey swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat.
“Who are you? How do you know me?”
“Formal introductions work better if we converse face to face. If we are to become friends, that is.”
The chair, unbidden, spun around.
Harvey looked up and pissed himself at the sight of the dripping, malformed creature that stood before him. Its eyes fixed on his. The dark orbs glittered with intelligence, malice and hunger. The creature’s face was almost skull like, the teeth too sharp to belong to any man. Its features were lop-sided, its head oversized and bulging. Bright, bleached bone showed up through open wounds, reminding Harvey of the bare patch of grass. Harvey’s mind jabbered at him, trying to convince him that this was not real.
The creature dipped its head close. Harvey gagged at the stench. It stroked his cheek tenderly, leaving a snail’s trail of stinking slime.
It whispered. “Friend. Your mind guided me here. You must give me succour and shelter from my enemies. In return, I will help you.”
Even in the grip of terror, Harvey couldn’t help being curious. How could this half-finished creature help him? And what it did it mean by guiding it? The creature began to cough, a hacking sound that gave way to a bubbling, gurgling laughter.
“Such impatience. Such curiosity. I was correct in my assessment. We truly are kindred spirits. All inquiries will be answered shortly. First, I must present to you a token.”
The creature put its hand to an exposed piece of green bone at its temple, slicing through the growth with a razor talon. Its fingers gripped the squirting extension and it tugged. A fragment of wet bone splutted onto the floor.
Harvey whimpered and bit his lip, bottling the scream that longed to explode within him. The creature forced two fingers into the hole and wrenched hard, pulling free a piece of itself and holding it in front of Harvey’s eye. He curled his nostrils against the stink wafting from the lump of dripping matter.
“The Token”, the creature said breathlessly.
What was he meant to do with it? Eat it? The creature shook its head energetically as if it was offended by the thought. Harvey’s curiosity grew. If this thing meant to harm him, it could have done so by now. It was strong, despite the decrepit state of its body. The randomly sized talons on its spindly fingers could slice through his skin with ease. He relaxed slightly. The creature put its hand out, the green mass on its palm quivering and contorting. Insectile legs sprouted haphazardly from all over the token’s surface, a gristly sound. The many legged blob stood on its owner’s palm, legs shaking. It began to sway side-to-side as if it was searching for something.
“What…what is it?” Harvey asked, at last finding his voice. The creature made a strange sweeping gesture with its head.
“The Token”, the creature repeated, its voice solemn. “With this, we join. I will have refuge, you will have stories to tell and magicks to work. Nothing will ever be beyond your reach again. This I swear to you.”
Harvey considered this for a moment.
Never stuck for inspiration again.
It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. Harvey nodded. “I accept. What do I do?”
“Nothing at all. The Token knows what it must do.” The creature sighed, its breath smelling of rank, abandoned tombs. “Please relax.”
Harvey exhaled.
The little blob leapt onto his face, landing just under his nose. The writer fought the urge to sneeze as he felt two gossamer thin appendages explore the opening of his nostrils. The creature held its hands up in an imploring gesture.
“Relax, Haaarveeee.”
The thing erupted with a delighted sqee and scurried up his nose. Panicked, Harvey shouted and squeezed his nose, trying to squash the little bastard.
Too late. He could feel the mass of the tiny abomination squirming into his sinuses, blocking his airway.
Desperate for breath, Harvey opened his mouth.
“Get it out of me,” he cried in panic. The creature shook its head again.
“The Token does its work. We will be joined.”
Harvey fell to the floor and began banging his head, trying to dislodge the intruder from the micro-caverns of his skull. Pain flared as the creature nibbled, biting hard through the soft tissue as it burrowed deeper.
Harvey sobbed. Bone crunched. Pain speared him as the creature bit through into his cranial cavity, where the lack of nerve endings made the intrusion unfelt and unknown, save for the sounds filtering through his inner ear.
Blood and tissue leaked from Harvey’s nose and he began to convulse. The thing wiggled deeper into his brain tissue, causing him to fit. Harvey trembled and rolled onto his front, beer leaking from his mouth along with strings of mucousy vomit.
The world darkened. His face crashed to the floor.
Harvey wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror, and inspected his face, looking for blemishes. His skin, still pink from showering, radiated perfection. He smiled, his teeth whiter and more even than they had ever been. The wrinkles around his eyes were now gone and the paunch he had been developing from too many liquid lunches was gone too. He was a new man.
The creature, now known to him as Friend, had explained everything when he had come to. Friend had pulled him to his feet and apologised. The creature hadn’t come to hurt him, only to save him from a life of mediocrity and failed dreams—the future he faced if his writer’s block returned. They were now joined. The thing in his head was a part of Friend. It shared its and Harvey’s consciousness, as well as some of Friend’s abilities.
As the creature healed and grew stronger, so did Harvey. There would be such sights to behold and many magicks to learn and put to use. Friend was going to make Harvey rich and powerful. Nothing would ever be beyond the writer’s reach ever again. In return, all Harvey had to do was keep Friend safe and feed him when necessary.
With what?
An image flashed up in their shared mind. The rational part of him, the old Harvey recoiled at the sight. The new man embraced the vision in all its blood-soaked glory. There was still an element of caution however.
What if people suspect?
No one will suspect. My magicks will keep you in shadows. No one will remember your face unless we will it. Besides, one cannot write of murder if one never experiences the sheer delights of taking life. It is a privilege few ever experience. You will enjoy it. I sense that much.
Harvey smiled. Friend was going to show him a new way of living, one he had only ever imagined and lived on paper. He dried himself and walked past his study. He had considered getting back to work, but that could wait.
Friend was hungry, and as a good host, Harvey had an obligation to make sure that his guest was fed. He’d pick something up on the way back from the pub for them both.
What do you fancy, Friend? Blonde or brunette?
An eager thought came back.
Let us be extravagant on our first night together. That policewoman, Mann, was it? I can show you where she lives. I can also weave a little attraction magick. She will be eager and suppliant.
Harvey laughed and clapped his hands. Friend mirrored the gesture. The writer put on his coat, eager for his new life to begin.
[bctt tweet=”OCTOBER TERROR 2018 Short Story Award – Entry #54 ‘THE WRITER’S FRIEND’ by JG Clay – Enjoy all this terrific, disturbing material you have in your hands, lots of horror stories at your disposal for your dark delight and vote!” username=”theboldmom”]
On October 23rd we’ll close submissions and open a poll for the readers to choose their favourite one! You’ll have a week to make your choice and on October 31st we’ll announce the winner!!!
