The main beach remains completely deserted. Once again, I walked down there this morning and as always saw only the pristine curve of the sand and the placid motion of the tide. Many have speculated that the beach must be, one way or another, the source of the trouble: some dead thing washed ashore. Yet the open vista offers no sign as to where it might be harbouring the offending carcass. The rocky headland at the southern end has been thoroughly searched by now, several times, as has nearby bushland, even though the strongest concentration is right in the middle of the beach itself. Breathing is unbearable in that spot, making it impossible to remain for longer than it takes to inhale once or twice, no matter how shallowly. Yet there’s nothing there—nothing except a clean stretch of unblemished sand. The tangible sense of rancid presence is oppressive.
Heading away from the central focus of the smell, head down and dizzy with the foul odour, I found myself entangled with someone’s fishing gear—the someone being a large slightly threatening shape named, I later discovered, Ezra Zabriskie.
“Careful, lad,” he muttered, words issuing from his bearded face with apparent reluctance.
‘Lad’ is not an epithet that accurately describes me, but underneath his broad, cloth hat and straggling hair, Ezra could be aged anywhere from 30 to 80.
I apologised then queried the fact that, against the odds, he appeared to be planning to do some beach fishing.
“I’ve come here to fish every day for the past 40 years,” he growled. “Won’t be put off by no bloody fish-fart.”
Good luck to him, I say. He’s made of sterner stuff than I.
The circumstances of my coming to Mollymook presaged the possibility that I would find something strange in the vicinity, but a bad smell from nowhere wasn’t what I’d anticipated. The surviving notebooks and activity logs of my great-grandfather, Dr Hugo Drakenswode, are filled with myriad accounts of his interaction with the unexpected and the strange, even the impossible. I peruse them constantly in my ongoing attempt to unravel the Mystery he spent his life seeking to expose. Generally, his writings are personal but distant in tone, rarely directed toward a specific audience. Therefore, I was surprised when I came upon the following note, hand-written, as is typical, but on a paper-scrap ripped carelessly from one of his notebooks. The note was remarkable in that it must have been penned when I was a child of 8 years or less—or even more likely, before I was born. Hugo Drakenswode died in 1981, at age 106, after a long debilitating illness. Yet the words contained an immediacy that suggested the letter had been composed much more recently than that.
Douglas,
Pardon my interference in your current activities—and forgive me too if receiving this missive comes as a sharp surprise. I do confess to having trouble keeping up with our temporal interactions, so it perchance may be that you have not as yet had occasion to speak with me since my passing.
None of that matters. You will come to learn more as time goes by. Right now, it is imperative you travel to the colonies, specifically to New South Wales in Australia, which I assume is still under British Imperial influence—I can’t recall its exact status. What I do know is that in a place called Mollymook something of grave consequence is about to happen. I believe the town is situated on the south coast some 140 miles from Sydney and is to be developed some time around 1990 as a retirement-cum-holiday area. If nothing else, you might find it a pleasant break. Go there. Now. A reality loop or temporal break may soon be activated there. If so, you must use your insight to assess the situation and to end it. You should be on site by the 8th of January in the year 2018 at the latest.
In preparation, I suggest that you find and read my Journal entries for January 1913. They will explain the nature of my suspicions. I think it would also be prudent at this juncture to obtain, if possible, a copy of the fiction of an American pulp writer by the name of H.P. Lovecraft. I assume you have not heard of the man. He is something of a penny-dreadful sensationalist, but his view of reality contains more truth, I am beginning to believe, than at first appears plausible.
Above all else, however, take great care. I need you to give me a full report. Much depends on your judgement.
Yours
HD
Receiving such a message was not in itself as profound a surprise as you might assume. For one thing, I have indeed spoken to my great-grandfather since his death, under circumstances that put a considerable strain on both my credulity and my general state-of-mind. But that’s a story for another time.
Enough to say that I took heed of what he wrote and immediately prepared to travel from Gate’s Way in Queensland, Australia, where I was living at that time, to Sydney and thence to Mollymook. Unfortunately, I had no immediate access to the journal entry Drakenswode was referring to. Much of his vast archive had been lost a few years ago when his family estate in Britain, which I had inherited, was completely destroyed by “unknown causes”—though I believe it was some monstrous entity that was to blame, even if the official history says otherwise…But never mind what I think of that incident. The point is, all that remains of his writings is whatever I had with me at the time of the “accident”, as well as the contents of a number of boxes I had re-located to New Zealand in a futile attempt to save my then floundering matrimonial situation.
So Drakenswode’s admonition to read his January 1913 records could not be honoured, though I did locate a rather large tome of tales by Lovecraft. I had already heard of his work, of course, as he had certainly not fallen into the obscurity to which my great-grandfather would have consigned him. What to make of it was another matter. Surely Drakenswode did not suspect that Cthulhu himself had retired to Mollymook?
Though part of my mind whispered: “Stranger things have happened”, I smiled ironically at the thought—and looked at my fellow occupants of the township with a suspicious eye.
January 13, 2018
I have no idea how long this can continue. I’m a stoic man, but even I cannot tolerate much longer the acrid putrescence tainting the atmosphere. The inside of my nostrils and throat feel as though they have been scoured with sandpaper and I have to force my lungs to work, as the body’s subconscious reluctance to inhale grows stronger daily.
Today began unexpectedly cold and drizzly and got gloomier as the hours passed. Despite the tightly closed windows, the Bad Smell was more oppressive than it had ever been, having escalated over the past few days. I hunkered down, blankets over my head, breathing in short, shallow gasps. By the time I staggered into the kitchen of my rented cottage this morning, I did not feel at all like eating breakfast. I forced myself to do so. A warm shower helped to revitalise my spirits.
As a result of this languid approach to the day, I got to the beach later than usual and found it taped off as for a crime scene. Police were searching the area. Activity was concentrated on a part of the beach I estimated was in the general vicinity of the Bad Smell’s strongest concentration. A lengthy, gently flapping canvas enclosure had been erected there. That piqued my interest. Obviously, there was now something to see.
Curiosity impelled me onto the sand, oblivious to the situation, at which juncture I was bailed up by a policeman set to stop sightseers from contaminating the scene. I asked him what had happened.
“A death, sir,” he said.
“An accident?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Who was it?”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot discuss a matter under investigation. I’m sure you understand.” His tone suggested it didn’t matter whether I did or not.
“Do you have some personal interest in this?” he asked, granting me a distrustful stare.
I smiled as though he’d made a rather quizzical joke and retreated from the beach back onto the grassed area. The usual group of idle residents had begun to gather. One was Tangerine Harken, a woman who lives a few houses along from my cottage. She wore her usual handmade hippy dress—colourful, with a loose weave—and tie-dyed smock. On her feet were sandals ma
de of hemp. Her hair was black, long and loose, with a few streaks of grey, often lying on her shoulders like a shawl, as it was now.
Her surname—Harken—suits her well. She “harkens” to everything that’s going on thereabouts and is very keen to talk about any topic that might arise. She blames the foul-smelling atmosphere on our “wantonly cannibalistic” society—all animals being equal to humans, aquatic life included—and our failure to pay proper attention to the world around us.
We first met when I found a letter addressed to her had been erroneously sent to my rented cottage. I took it to the correct address and when she answered the door said: “I think this was meant for you, Ms Harken. It was left on my—”
“I’m a married woman,” she snapped.
“Sorry. Mrs Harken, then.”
She took the letter and studied it with an ambivalent stare that might have been meant to convey anything from curiosity to disgust. “Yes, it’s for me.”
“Good then. Well, it was nice to meet you. No doubt we’ll run into each other again.”
I was about to leave when she stopped me by saying:
“Would you like to come in for some tea? My husband’s not here. He died a few years ago…seven, to be exact.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I’m fairly sure it wasn’t your fault. He ate too many hamburgers and took too many sea-lives—anything he could catch. When we take others’ lives into ourselves, we eventually transform our soul into a spiritual wasteland.” She paused for me to digest her words. Then added: “A shark took him when he was scuba-diving.” She waved her hand in the direction of the ocean. “It’s not a shark-infested area, so they claim it was just bad luck. I think it was revenge.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Tea?”
“Um, I—”
“I can’t offer you dairy milk with the tea, though I have some soy.”
“I always have my tea without milk, Mrs Harken.“
“I hate being referred to as Mrs Harken, too. Call me Tange.”
“Tange?”
“Short for Tangerine. That’s my name. Everyone calls me Tange.”
“Right.”
“It rhymes with Ange as in Angelina. A few idiots persistently call me just that. Come on in! I’m not after a replacement husband, so you’re safe enough.”
I followed her in. Tange is the only person in Mollymook I’ve come to know at any depth. Our meeting was wonderfully fortuitous, in fact, as she proved to be a useful source of local knowledge—snippets she tosses in my direction when she isn’t berating whoever it was had most recently committed some unforgivable crime against the Earth Mother.
Today, she waved to me as I returned from the sand, patting the wall on which she was ensconced. I sat next to her. For a while, we both stared across the beach toward the police activity, saying nothing. I eventually gave in.
“What’s going on, Tange? Have you heard whispers?”
“Some.” A sudden gust of wind swept over us, laden with a noisome reek so potent that everyone there gasped and turned aside, hands to mouth. All except Tange, who kept talking, oblivious to the potency of the stink and the shrieks of complaint. “I heard the dead person is Old Ezra.”
“Ezra Zabriskie?”
“Who else? He’s here every morning, fishing. Has been for…as long as anyone remembers.”
“I spoke to him just the other day.”
“He arrived early this morning, as usual, before everyone else. They say he discovered the empty beach wasn’t empty any more. He went to investigate, bent to touch whatever was there, and now he’s dead. Or so they say.”
“Do you have any idea what exactly it was killed him?”
She scowled at me. “Maybe all those dead fish he’s slaughtered. The spirits of the ocean are increasingly vengeful.”
“Do you really believe that?”
She gave an impatient smile and turned away.
We sat for a while after that, in silence, while a miasma of complaint, gossip and general chatter from the other bystanders thickened around us. Out across the beach, behind the “crime-site” enclosure, the policeman I’d spoken to earlier stood guard, looking rather unimpressed and uncomfortable. He was, after all, closer to the probable source of the stench. I wondered if there was anyone on the other side of the canvas wall. No doubt Zabriskie’s body was still there, along with whatever had killed him.
Tange started weaving theories about what this was about, all of which, unsurprisingly, involved the spectre of environmental catastrophe. Sadly, most sounded less like the ravings of a crazy person than they might have just a few years ago.
After ten minutes or thereabouts, three figures emerged from the Ulladulla District police incident van, which was parked on a fenced-off area of grass on the other side of the public carpark. One was a female police officer, from what I could see from this distance. Of what rank, I don’t know, as I remain unfamiliar with Australian police organisational structures. The others were wearing archetypal lab coats: a man and a woman. All three had white anti-pollution face masks that covered their nose and mouth.
We watched them as they headed toward the canvas barrier. The hum of chatter, which had died off somewhat, was re-ignited. After five minutes or so, one of the scientists, the woman, staggered out from behind the canvas, pushing the flap aside in what amounted to panic. She staggered about five or six metres, collapsed onto her knees, tore off the mask and vomited. The others followed, obviously affected as well, but holding it in better. The police woman helped the first scientist up, while the other spoke loudly and earnestly. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but there was a definite edge of hysteria. Suddenly, he glanced back, yelled “Just stay away from it ‘til we can get some hazmat suits!” Then he staggered toward the incident van. The policeman who’d been on guard came over and talked to the senior officer. She pointed toward the scientists. He nodded and went to help the other scientist, who looked worse than he had at first, off the beach. When the policeman returned, he took up a station much further away from the site. The senior officer came toward the crowd. During all this, the noise from the onlookers had fallen away to a low hum. Now they were completely quiet, obviously anxious to hear what she had to say. I noticed a tall, thin man push to the front, along with a photographer.
“Sergeant Sandros!” he yelled. “What on earth is over there?” He jumped down onto the sand to get closer to her. “Can you take us to it?”
She gestured him away. “Stay off the beach!” She spoke with some force and the man backed against the wall.
“The fact is,” she said, talking to the thirty or so people that constituted the crowd, “some sort of toxic matter has appeared on the beach. It’s killed one man, through contact we believe, and, as you have seen, seriously affects anyone who goes near it.”
“Just what is ‘it’ exactly, Katherine?” the man interrupted.
“I’m sure you meant Sergeant, Mr Waldmar. Can we please manage some journalistic professionalism for once?”
He huffed.
“What it is, we don’t know as yet.” She spoke to the crowd. “It appears to be biological material, in an advanced state of decomposition. It’s about ten metres in length, but appears to be part of a long-dead carcass. Of what, is hard to tell. How it came to be here, we don’t know. It would all be very straightforward if not for the strangeness of its appearance and the unfortunate death of Mr Zabriskie—not to mention the reaction that affects anyone who goes near it.” She paused. Waldmar began a question, as did a few others, but she cut them all off. “A formal statement will be made once we have something to report. A Hazmat team is on the way. In the meantime, everyone is ordered to stay off the beach, along the whole stretch, from here to Bannisters Point and further both ways. The Coast Guard has been alerted and will check the waters up and down the coast. More of this carcass may be anywhere, and accidentally treading on it could be
fatal. We will be checking the beaches and the rock platforms, but until an all-clear is given, you must stay away. Thank you.”
Questions swept toward her, bursting from Waldmar and others like a plague of locusts. The officer waved them off and headed back to the police van. Gradually the crowd began to wander away, especially when a police team proceeded to distribute themselves along the foreshore, erecting BEACH CLOSED and WARNING: HEALTH HAZARD signs at key points, and suggesting less than politely that the bystanders should disperse. Another sudden gust of wind coming off the sea, carrying the appalling stench with it, further encouraged a general exodus.
“I guess we might as well go,” I said to Tange. I was beginning to feel nauseous.
Without looking at me, eyes on the flapping enclosure, she whispered to herself, “This isn’t right.”
“What isn’t right?” I asked.
She looked at me, making her face into a comment on my obtuseness. With a toss of her hair, she stood and turned as though to proceed along the walkway. “I can’t take the foul odour any more right now. I’ll catch you later.”
I said goodbye as she headed off. After a few long paces, however, she stopped and looked back. She stared at me, frowning, then came closer again. Very close. Her green eyes dug into my brain with the force of a migraine.
Raising her right index finger, she poked it at me without actually touching me. “I don’t know why you’re here, Mr Douglas, but I suspect…well, never mind what I suspect. But I strongly suggest you ignore that thing.” Her poking finger left me and pointed toward the hidden secret on the beach. “Leave it be! You understand me?”
“Um, not really. And how did you know my name is Douglas?” Douglas is not the name I’ve been giving out.
“You look like a Douglas.” She huffed. “Just forget the whole thing. It’ll come to no good.”
Then she strode away, turning right along the road and disappearing into the nearby streets.
January 16, 2018
The past few days have seen a gradual escalation in the adverse conditions plaguing the area. The smell is unbearable. I kept the usual fruitless vigil at the beach, sometimes accompanied by Tange, sometimes not. She seems increasingly edgy. Nothing much was happening, though the police appeared more and more agitated. I was told the promised Hazmat team had finally arrived by midday of the 15th, but nothing had been reported. I spoke to Waldmar the journalist at one point, but he knew little—and was extremely vocal in expressing his disdain for the police and their “blatant disregard for the sacred role of the Press in a so-called democracy”. At one point, he let slip a rumour that one of the Hazmat team members had fallen terminally ill as a result of Whatever It Was on the beach, but he hadn’t been able to confirm it.
Cthulhu Deep Down Under Volume 2 Page 4