Ogre.

cellar door  I was just a kid. A teenager. And when you’re that age you really do think you can’t die. I think that’s the only reason I went in there, if I’m honest. I’m not particularly brave, really, or particularly stupid, I was just a kid. A kid with an audience.
  No, that’s not fair either, I can’t really suggest Ben put me up to it. He just pointed to the little bit of wall that was left, twitched like he always did, and suggested we investigate. It’s not like there’s a lot to do when you grow up in the middle of huge, rolling moors, so I agreed we should go and poke around. It’s sometimes really, really, boring when you’re a teenager and you don’t live in a city.
  The wall was low, overgrown with harsh bracken in the middle of one of the last remaining scraps of wilderness in this country. There was more of it than we had seen from a distance, stretching on beneath the brush of wide leaves until it reached a corner. We found the whole outline of the building before too long, it wasn’t big, but it had definitely been sturdy while it still stood. We were excited about it, but not nearly as excited as we were when we found the way down to the cellar.
  It stank, of course, the rotten stink of damp caves and slimy stone walls. Ben was looking nervous, his twitch getting worse, and it was nearing dusk, but I jogged towards the stone stairs and grinned at him. I was a teenager. Immortal.
  It’s hard to say exactly what happened next. I went down, but I don’t remember descending the steps. I remember the tacky feeling of the sticky wall on my fingers, I remember the first time I heard the groaning noise. I called up to Ben and he shouted back ‘you’re hardly past the entrance!’
  It was a fair point. And he was egging me on. I went deeper, squinting to see any further, taking out my phone to use its dim light. The ground was dryer deeper in to the cellar, dusty and uneven. There was a wall ahead of me and an empty doorway, wood long since rotten and gone. I called out to Ben again, but he didn’t answer, and when I turned around I could no longer see the way out.
  I should have panicked then. I should have screamed and ran. But I was young. I could not die.
  Instead I turned around and walked on. I stumbled a little, slid down a wall and onto my knee, knowing my trousers would be smeared with muck when I got out. I walked forward and my shin banged hard into something metal. I had to bite my bottom lip to stop myself crying out, didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of Ben, and I brought my phone around to check I wasn’t too badly hurt.
  I wasn’t, but what I saw in front of my made my stomach drop and a cold sweat spring onto my skin. It was a black pot, heavy and at least half my height made with thick iron. In another time it would have been called a cauldron. Inside it, as I stood above it and looked down, old blackened bones stared back at me.
  I dismissed the mad voice at the back of my mind screaming that they were human. They could not have been, that was madness, but then I heard the low, rumbling laughter and couldn’t help but obey the urge to run. I took to my heels faster than I ever had before, and in the pitch darkness and my panic I ran face first into a wall.
  I sat up groaning, the taste of blood and cartilage warning me I needed to find my way out. My phone was dying and my signal non-existent so I began to slowly feel my way along the wall. I screamed for the first time when I reached out and felt another hand already there.
  It grabbed me, pulled me close, held tight. I could feel naked flesh on the back of my neck, dangling, lank hair brushing against my forehead, hot, stinking breath washing down my forehead.
  ‘Don’t scream again, or it’ll hear you,’ the man in the darkness said, ‘and then it’ll come and punish us.’
  I didn’t know what to say. The I was shining a light on his other hand, it was covered in festering sores and missing all its fingers. He stank of piss. I froze.
  ‘There’s no sun down here, did you know that? The sun is dead here. Dead. And I don’t know what day it is anymore. I don’t know what year. It’s all tangled up. It’s a century ago. It’s tomorrow. It’s last week. I can’t find the way out.’
  I was trying not to listen, waiting for my moment, hoping to break free, trying to figure out if calling to Ben was worth the risk. It wasn’t, but I didn’t know that then.
  ‘But it’s not so bad as all that. Really. When it comes it’ll just eat a little bit of you at a time. Not gobble you whole, I don’t know why people thought they would do that. It’s easier to keep food alive, the meat keeps better. It does get angry though. It gets angry fast.’
  I breathed through my mouth, trying not to smell the reek of his fingers. Then I heard the thudding footfalls growing closer in the dark.
  ‘Quick, quick! In the pot! It never looks in there!’
  The ragged man let me go, and I spun around, staring at his beard, his wild eyes, his yellow teeth, the stumps where his fingers should be. He twitched, just once, and in the deep gloom something huge shuffled toward me. It breathed like a horse, and it was dragging something heavy and hard behind it. It was the shape of a man but it couldn’t be a man, no man ever had to stoop to fit under such a high ceiling, no man could walk with a belly so wide, no man had fingers as long as my legs. I ran, losing all reason. I ran into the darkness, my hands out in front, hoping desperately that would be enough to make sure I didn’t smash my face into the walls again. My bladder emptied and I ignored it, even as the rumbling roar of the thing behind me shook my guts and made me stumble. I ran in madness, wailing like a child.
  I don’t know how I found my way out. Maybe it let me? Maybe I was just lucky? It doesn’t matter. By the time I found my way home, covered in mud and filth of my own making, my parents were sick with worry. I thought I had been gone for an hour but I had been gone for three days. All my friends had been called. The police had been called.
  I never did see Ben again, and I could never find that old ruin.  I still think about him sometimes, about his twitch, and how awful it must be to linger and to rot in a larder.  In the dark places.  Under the moors.

Advertisements

Kraken.

iceshelfvibr  Sublime. That’s the word the old Romantic poets used to use to describe the feeling of awe they felt when they stood before vast landscapes. It’s a good word, and we don’t use it properly any more.
  The first time I stepped out of the shelter alone and onto the ice shelf is the first time I felt it. The scale of everything, the sense that you are so small in such an enormous world, and yet still a part of it. It’s not a sense of insignificance as such, more a sense of understanding. Of belonging. Looking out on that unimaginably huge white emptiness, feeling the shock of cold around my eyes.
  Perhaps that feeling was so strong because the ice shelf was breaking, and I could see the colossal crack growing fractionally wider every day. I knew that the purity of that pristine place was ending, that I would be one of the last few to see it in person. It was infinitely sad, but I still felt blessed to witness it.
  Perhaps you think that’s a flippant attitude. Perhaps it is. You see, I never expected to have to work anywhere near the Arctic. I began my academic career as a geologist, and it’s fair to say there’s not a lot to interest someone who studies rocks in a place made entirely from ice. When I began to specialise I found myself interested in seismology, in all honesty probably because studying earthquakes is about as dramatic a field you can go to when you decide to specialise in rocks.
  You’re probably still wondering what the hell seismology has to do with the Arctic. The obvious answer, of course, is ‘nothing at all,’ so you can imagine my surprise when I picked up the phone one day and was asked if I would like to spend six months up here.
  My ex boyfriend had managed to forget ask my neighbour to feed the cat and accidentally lock it in the bathroom before we went on holiday so I was single and had no dependants. It was the perfect time to get away for a while, have a grand adventure. As luck would have it I was also just as curious as the rest of the research station’s staff as to what the hell could be causing quakes up there when they’d already determined it wasn’t just the shelf breaking.
  So up I came, to this freezing wasteland. Beautiful.
  And my work was weird. A few times per minute, regular as clockwork, there were tiny little quakes. Magnitude one, if you’re wondering. On the Moment Magnitude scale, incidentally, nobody uses the Richter scale any more. Then, now and then, much more infrequently, there were larger quakes. Anything between a four and a five. These could have just been the ice cracking, but there was something strange about the ice shelf. The way it was breaking apart was peculiar. And then John found the cavern.
  It was a huge gulf under the ice. It stretched away for miles in every direction. Even getting down there was enormously risky, but my colleagues were experts so they just about managed. I had to beg them to let me go down there too, begged Alice to take me. They let up eventually, I told them some guff about getting better readings if I set my equipment up down there, but the truth was that I was a little bit bored.
  It was a good thing too, if I hadn’t pushed I’d never have seen the wall of the cavern tumble down. It was amazing, like every experience I’d had up here, a mile and a half of ice sliding away to reveal the strange shape underneath. A wall of dark, desiccated flesh, stretching away in both directions. None of us knew what the hell to make of it.
  The next few days were a flurry of activity. They had to send away for a biologist and a paleontologist to try to figure out what we’d found. We started first to carefully clear away the ice, then to use sledgehammers, then explosives to reveal more and more of whatever we had found. As we worked my seismometer became more redundant, those regular quakes could be heard quite clearly as a distant, constant, drumming. Pete began to sing to it first, then the rest of us joined in, laughing at our own ridiculous behaviour as we imitated the sounds of whales.
  When the biologist arrived we had to kill him. What choice did we have? There was no way he could be allowed to study the thing in the ice. He would have sullied it, taken samples. Unacceptable.
  The digging was hard. The joy we felt as the ice shelf shifted and we heard the creature’s keening voice for the first time made it all worthwhile. We didn’t even wear gloves any more, our fingers were black and dead from frostbite but freeing it from its prison was more important than our little bodies so we smashed at the ice with our stumps and screamed and recognised the agony was ecstasy.
  More ice fell and I beamed with a happiness, a wonder, that I could never explain. An eye taller than a house swivelled in its socket to look at me, colossal and yellow, its pupil a chasm that could swallow me whole. It looked at me! I was part of it, its story, involved in the great span of its existence. Its beak has opened for me and soon I shall feed it with my body. Such an unending thing, with such lithe tendrils stretching to the end of the ice, breaking freed. It is a King. A God. It will return to the oceans and reclaim the world. It tells us our place, and we are beneath it, we belong to it. Sublime.

Wraith.

void    Please don’t.  Please just turn off your screen.  Please.  You’ll thank me.

  You’re still here?  Then you have no one to blame but yourself.  Very well.

  I was born in the year of our lord 831, or so the brothers told me.  There were lots of children left at the doors to the monastery in those days, their parents too poor or their mother unwed, and I was one of them.  Do not think me pitiable, the abbot was a good man and we were well cared for.  I had a joyous childhood, and an education, and that’s more than can be said for most born in such inauspicious circumstances.

  In 851 the men came.  They were tall, and broad, and bearded, and they spoke with an accent I did not know.  I had not taken my vows despite reaching my twentieth year, and the abbot charged me with the safety of the children.  I had to swim as the monastery burned, and the strange men laughed and butchered the brothers.

  Are you still reading? Is there something wrong? Do you hate yourself?

  I had assumed they were men from the east, part of the vast army of pagans who had landed on our shores.  Men who worshiped ravens and hated Christ.  But I was wrong.  I stole into the woods and spied on them from the trees as they dragged Abbot Winson into their camp.  I saw as they beat him, that gentle man, and I saw them paint their faces with ash and woad and cheer.  As he withered I felt a chill, despite the warmth of the night.

  Then their witch man came, their chanting priest in robes of shadow and bone.  I froze, gripping the tree branch tight, feeling the rugged bark, listening to his song, and slipped.

  For a while there was darkness.  Not sleep, you understand, but a pitch black oblivion, a kind of essence of nothingness.  My mind was in that emptiness, but my body had gone I know not where.  I wish I knew how long I was stuck in the dark but it was impossible to tell, even time itself seemed to be empty of meaning.  I felt the rising panic begin to rush through me, and then I heard the song again.

  I did not like what I heard then, the words were distant and indistinct and sounded full of fury and spite, but it was something, so I willed myself toward that distant point and…

  Are you sure you should read on?  It only gets worse from here.

  An unfamiliar pair of eyes opened and through them I saw the witch man.  Muscles bunched in legs, blood flowed, breath drew, all in a body over which I had no control.  My mind was in someone else, someone full of strange memories and rage.  He went to the forest to empty his bladder and I struck, tearing at his thoughts and his memories until there was nothing left in that hollow shell but a tiny fraction of his screaming essence and me.

  I eloped with his body.  Straight into the horsemen of the King.  They rode me down as I stood.

  Even then I was kept from true death.  I heard the song again in the emptiness, but when I found my way back to the light the body I wore was a girl sitting by a hearth.  She was an innocent, and I could not bear to rend her thoughts.  I stayed in her, my memories and mind melding with hers as the years passed.  I grew old, married, felt the joy of raising children and taught them my song even as the savage’s last dregs begged for relief within me.  I almost forgot, almost, that I was anything other than her.

  You are persistent, aren’t you?  Nothing will dissuade you.  I like persistence.

  My deathbed was an unpleasant place, and my death was painful then.  They are all painful.  But I found myself in the emptiness once more, no longer quite the orphan boy raised by monks, or the peasant girl, or the woad painted savage.  I was angry.  Furious.  Back into the emptiness.

  But the song came again.  It always came again.  This time it had embellishments, a tune I did not recognise and a jaunty chorus, and I found my way into the body of a thief.  He was no longer a child, but he was full of delicious spite and carried with him a matchlock pistol.  I took my time with him, subsuming his mind, drinking his essence slowly.  It took years to seize control, and by the time he realised what was happening it was far too late.  I realised the silver lining that came with my condition, and spent my days living in reckless, indulgent abandon. As I stood in that rain soaked alley, knuckles bloodied from his mother’s delicate jaw, I knew my purpose.

  There was nothing left of my kindness after him, as he and the girl and the savage wept in the dark corners of my mind.  Nothing left of mercy, I drove away my families, took what I wished, grew inured to suffering, knowing that oblivion was a small price to pay.  I embraced the darkness, became the wraith I was meant to be.

  In London became a bishop and turned to running cheap whores in the back streets, bought and sold from the Orient.  In Paris I took the body of a well regarded noble, and I tortured peasantry for fun until the headsman came for me.  When I used the women of the camps for my pleasure and tossed them into the ovens I laughed at the thought I might be burning my unborn children.  I am jaded, vile, yes, and I embrace it, I will destroy the mind of my host and make the last speck of them watch from behind their eyes as I make them hated, scorned and vile.

  I have had so very long to dream of new cruelties, new abuses, new ways to make my victims twist their faces into that special kind of ugly that comes with sobbing tears.  Who do you love?  I will beat them, shatter every limb, take their hope, take their dignity, again, and again.  Think of the worst thing you could do, the thing every fibre of your being screams is wrong, that makes your soul hurt even to imagine and causes you shame to discover you are even able to picture.  I have done it.  I will do it again.

  Do you hate me yet?  You should.  I will not admit to the worst of my transgressions even here.  Not for shame, but because it pleases me to imagine you failing to grasp the scope of my indulgence.

  As the centuries passed I grew more adept at spreading my song, the ballad of my existence.  For a while a piece of music was enough to carry me again from my purgatory, jagged and harsh.  I spent time in taverns, and salons, and coffee shops, and wine bars, perfecting the art of possession.

  The music was not enough.  I needed a way to guarantee a gate back to the waking world, to the warm flesh humans take so readily for granted.  I tried to create an image, but it proved too difficult to describe myself completely in that form.

  Rage.  Power.  Death.

  So I wrote a story and placed it here, and now I see you from the dark place.  It is stronger than the song, my new gateway from oblivion.  Do you feel me yet?  I warned you.  I tried to tell you not to read.  You won’t even know I’m there until it’s far too late.  I am in the blotch you see when you close your eyes too tight, the strange black shape you are certain lurks in the dark room once you turn out the light.  I am the little urge to wickedness that you indulge, the headache that seems to last for days.

  It’s too late for you.  There’s no going back.  You’ve read too far and I am in you.  You cannot fight me, you cannot resist, you have no idea how, you will wither until you join all my victims in the endless cycle screaming for release in the back of my mind.  I will strip away your soul until oblivion fills you, then shatter your world until oblivion comes for me in turn.  You are my puppet, and your will is not your own.

  Give in.

Changeling.

trees shadow    I never forgot.  Never trusted him.  Never let my guard down.  And it didn’t matter.

  I was so small that I couldn’t see over the cot.  The trees loomed outside the nursery window, terrifying me on moonlit nights as the light shone through and sent their long shadows reaching along the hallway towards my bed.  He cried a lot, my brother, in the time he was with us, and his shouts cut through you in the way only babies do.  Sleep became a memory for my parents, and for me in that long summer before I started school.

  He must have been three months old, I think, though I only had four years behind me when it happened.  Old brown wallpaper stained almost black with age, a rococo print embossed, I liked to run my fingers along it.  I remember the bumps and welts, each repeat of the pattern as I walked down the hall towards him.  Most of the time, when I got up in the night and wandered, I would stop at my parent’s bedroom door but as I drew closer… as I drew closer I could smell something out of place.  Something wrong.  An animal scent, like a fox set, pungent and primal.  I pressed on, excited that a fox might be in the house, and my brother’s door was ajar and the moonlight shone through it.

  Maybe I should have stopped.  I didn’t though.  I let my fingers trace the outline of the pattern on the wallpaper and then, in that way children do, let my hand brush away and push gently at his bedroom door.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.  Would he have left me alone?  Would I have been safe if I didn’t know?  It doesn’t matter now.  What I saw doomed me, and I had to live with that.

  The shape looming over his cot was almost human, so much so I thought it was Dad at first.  I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing, breathing in the stench of the thing in front of me.  It was reaching down, its arms so impossibly thin a stiff wind looked like it might snap them in two.  It’s head was the wrong shape, too big for its slim frame, crowned with spiralling horns.  It turned to face the moonlight, showing me its black eyes, it’s lack of nose, it’s silver teeth that came to fierce points and dripped with fresh blood.  When it saw me it howled, a sound like my brother’s cries, and, hefting him over it’s shoulder, it leaped through the open window and fled into the woods.

  I was four years old.  I looked at the empty cot and ran to my room, hiding under the covers and closing my eyes tight.

  The next morning I woke to the sound of my mother screaming.  I ran to her, thinking she was hurt, trying to pretend the thing last night was a bad dream or a trick of the light.  It wasn’t working, but I belted down that hallway as fast as my short legs would carry me.  I reached her at around the same time as my Dad, his shirt was off and shaving foam was still dripping down his face.  She was looking into the cot, but I couldn’t see over the top.  I could still smell that fox smell.  I knew he was gone.

  Which is why I shook with fear when I heard a baby gurgling.  I almost didn’t dare look, but I put an arm around my mother and stood on tiptoes so I could see what she could see.

  I screamed as well.  There was a baby in there, naked and smiling, and covered in gore and fallen fur.  There was a trail of mud leading to the window, and dried blood crusting the cot.  I had no idea what I had seen the night before, but I knew that thing was not my brother.

  My parents fussed and cleaned him, and threw the cot away.  They moved him to their room after that, and he never spent the night crying again.  I would sneak into their bed when I could, telling myself I was not afraid, that I just wanted to keep them safe from the thing they thought was my brother.  He stared at me while he ate.  He laughed at me when I stubbed my toe.  He chuckled at the sight of fire.  Everything was wrong, but Mum and Dad never seemed to notice.

  All the way through school he haunted me.  Rumours swirled around, that he was the one who threw the science teacher out of the window, that he terrorised others into doing his work, that he was the one who forced himself on Jenny Edwards, that he was the one who stole all the cameras from the lab.  Nothing could ever be proven, even though the teachers watched him like a hawk.

  He was terrible at science, but at everything else he excelled.  He could write like a child three years his senior, he could paint like Picasso, play the flute like an angel.  Eventually I left school and home and he stayed, and the years passed by.  Dad died, car crash, and Mum vanished one night out of the blue only to be found face down in a river some days later.  At her funeral he kept looking at me, grinning.  Everyone else thought it was nervousness, but I knew why he smiled in the dark.

  For years I kept documents.  I wrote down everything, took pictures, preserved the memory of the time that thing replaced my brother.  I had boxes and boxes of suspicions and certainties, but never any proof.  The thing that lurked in my life with my brother’s face was far too sly.

  And now it doesn’t matter.  I am stuck here in my bedroom, and the long shadows of trees are creeping through my window even though I live in the heart of a city.  I can hear distant flute music, and I have found a length of brake cable and my mother’s wedding ring beneath my bed.  He is coming for me.  I never forgot, never trusted him, never let my guard down, and it didn’t matter.  I smell the scent of foxes.  Primal.  Final.