New Tales of the Old Ones

by Derwin, Theresa

  I was only sixteen when I first went there to visit Mom, back in the 80s.

  I knew about the nightmares of course, from Mom and from having them myself, but I had no clue about Nan.

  I raised my gaze to meet Albert’s piercing stare. “So,” I said, a bit shakily, “I take it you’ve read these. Otherwise why would you know about the nightmares?”

  “I did”, he answered honestly, “but only after ya Mam said I could. And she told me enough about them. I’ll leave ya now,” he said, getting up out of his chair and grabbing his cap. “She said you’re ta read them. That they might help before ya end up where she is now, God rest her soul.”

  “Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand briefly and seeing him out through the crowd of family and friends still mingling quietly in our lounge. When would they ever go?

  I glanced across the room of chatting family and Chris caught my gaze following me into the kitchen.

  He sat at the table and took a sip of his own Isle of Jura, hardly noticing that the ice had melted.

  And then I told him everything.

  Weeping, I lay my head on his comforting shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him.

  As I told him about the diaries, I could almost feel their slimy, dark tentacles touching my cheek in the quiet room that was starting to darken as the evening drew on.

  X

  The last of the mourners finally left and I got myself comfortable in Chris’s study upstairs to read the diaries in private. Chris called it his study but in actual fact it was more like a Geektastic paradise of memorabilia; a dark room with each wall decorated floor to ceiling in books, comics and collection figures from a whole host of films such as Hellraiser and Star Wars and the like. The only spare wall boasted his desk and his PC where he did an online blog of his photography. It was where he went to relax and be creative. It was perfect for me now.

  Chris brought me another Jura, kissed me on the forehead and left me to it.

  I opened the oldest of Nan’s diaries first, the one dated 2nd March to 2nd April 1925 and started to read:

  2nd March 1925

  If this diary reaches you, then I am most surely dead. I write this to help my family understand what plagues me in the hope that it shall not afflict anyone else.

  I do not know where to start. I shall start with the dreams I suppose. They started two nights ago, 28th February. It was the end of the month and Father generally requires assistance with his accounts. It is a task I enjoy, for I get to spend time with Father, who is always so busy.

  The task kept us occupied most of the day, so I went to my bed quite early that night. It must have been no later than 9pm. I read a little Austen before drifting off to sleep. After a day of mathematics I required literature to ease my sore head and relax into my slumber.

  The next thing I knew I was suddenly awake, my heart beating faster than lightening, jumping almost from my breast which was drenched with perspiration from an unnameable, hazy fear of which I could not remember.

  The nightmare, for a nightmare it was, had evaporated like quick sand. All I had left was a palpable fear and the suspicion that the nightmare had been horrific.

  I attempted to sleep again but the fear still gripped me so I read until dawn and then rose for breakfast.

  The next day passed swiftly with an enjoyable visit from Cousin Emily.

  I was really quite tired by the time Emily left so I again departed for bed at an unseasonably early hour in the hope of recovering from the previous night’s lack of sleep.

  Again I read a little Austen to ease me into sleep.

  It seemed like mere moments later I was awoken, covered in a sheen of sweat, my heart galloping away like a bolted horse. I am even sure that I let out a stifled scream as I awoke.

  I took a sip of the water I always kept close by and switched on the light by my bedside.

  This time I remembered something of my nightmare.

  I found myself lost in the strangest of places, a city of some sort. However, it was not of this earth of that I am sure.

  A myriad of outlandish buildings rose miles and miles into the sky, the oddest shapes and angles made of some stone I did not recognise from the semi-precious stones I know of. I had taken a passing interest in geology as part of my studies. These buildings, of which there were enough to compose a city, stretched up and up, twisting and turning, coated in a putrid black-green slime, such as of rancid moss. These gigantic monoliths, all reaching to a murky red sky, dripped with nauseating, greenish ooze. And the smell. I could remember a smell so foul I was nauseated again. It was as though a thousand hunts had taken place in this city leaving behind the slaughtered, bloodied remains of animal carcases, pungent and stale. It was the stench of death.

  3rd March 1925

  Try as I might, I have been unable to leave the dreams of last night behind me, of that foul gargantuan and foreign city. Yet my mood remained sour today. I have been quite out of sorts, arguing with Mother and unable to focus on any one task.

  If possible, last night’s dream was worse than the night before, even though my dreams depicted this very same Cyclopean city.

  12th March 1925

  I have been far too exhausted these last few days to write in my journal. But today I have decided to write down a retrospective account of the nightmares that continue to plague me.

  I continue to dream about that city, but it is far far worse. I now dream of the creatures that reside there.

  There was a trap door, built into the foremost building. Its walls were inscribed with vague hieroglyphics. The door began to open of its own accord. The heavy, massive door as long as ten men lying end to

  Then I saw the creature. Oh Lord in Heaven please please, remove such sights from my mind and memories.

  The thing, the heinous thing, was a monstrous hybrid of real and mythical animals; a colossal winged beast, though its wings were puny compared to the scale of its bulk. Its hide was the same foul black-green of the buildings in the city of my nightmares. Writhing tentacles sprouted from its head, dancing out to touch my skin. I could feel their ghastly texture as the mountainous febrile appendages caressed my cheek, squirming, oozing a blackish slime. As one tentacle inserted itself into my mouth I screamed and woke, free at last from the feverish nightmare.

  But only free for one night it seems.

  Every night since I have seen, smelt and been touched by that foulest of creatures haunting my sleep.

  17th March 1925

  It touches me, playing with my hair, stroking my cheek. Every night. Spawn of Hell. Should I call a priest I wonder? Or a doctor? It knows where I live. It knows how to find me. And I’m sure it wants to destroy me. Perhaps, like some cannibal it wants to eat me. I fear before long I may find out.

  20th March 1925

  Everything I look at oozes green. Even awake I only seem to see the green now, the blackish-green of the creature who invades my nights. I fear – I fear I am losing my grip on reality. I should not like to be locked away like Jane Eyre’s madwoman in the attic. If I pretend that all is well, Mother and Father may not suspect. Though they do look at me quite strangely now.

  24th March 1925

  It visited me again last night. It

  25th March 1925

  I see its scaly body, its membranous wings. I can hear those wings flutter loudly like a symphony of birds. Tweet tweet. Ha ha. It’s not like a bird at all you know. It’s a monster, a vile creature from the darkest of stars of a denizen of hell. I can hear the wild chanting in the background, a chorus of worshippers. I know its name now. It is Cthulhu.

  The words. The words they chant sound like joy, “Cthulhu fhtagh, Cthulhu fhtagh.”

  I sang those words with the worshippers in my head.

  31st March 1925

  Father called the doctor out to see me today.

  And I told him about my god Cthulhu. I told him how I dreamt of its return.

  And I laughed at him.

  X

/>   I snapped the diary shut at the last entry.

  I looked at my watch. I’d been reading for hours. The diaries had gone on and on like that, getting progressively worse until the last entry way into her incarceration. I might as well write that one down. It’s freaking weird, but, I don’t know.

  31st January 1965

  The doctors and nurses here all want to kill me. I can hear them whispering through the walls. They want to destroy me. And I know it for sure now, after last night. They think they’ve found all of my journals but they haven’t. I hid them. I gave them to Albert. I don’t trust Henry anymore. He’ll give them to Patricia to look after. She’ll keep them safe.

  Last night the pain was horrific.

  The nurse came in, the little Caribbean one. She came in with two of the orderlies.

  Before I could stop them they pinned me down, they put me in the jacket.

  I screamed and screamed but no one would help me.

  Then he came in, with his wild brown hair, his spectacles, his ruddy face and his sparkling eyes. Henry and Patricia don’t believe me when I tell them that he’s evil. I can see it in their eyes. But they’ll believe me now, that is, if they ever let me see them again.

  Albert believes me though. Nice boy.

  I can’t tell my family what he did to me. They made sure of it.

  Doctor, doctor – I can’t remember his name any more, he came up to me and smiled.

  “You have to stop telling your stories,” he said, “You’ve been very naughty.”

  I snorted, I couldn’t help it. Stupid of me. I know that now.

  The doctor nodded at the two big men in their white jackets.

  One of them held me from behind.

  The doctor came forward.

  He smiled again, then took something shiny and silver from his pocket and moved toward me.

  I started to fight and tried to squirm backwards but it was no good.

  The nurse grabbed my chin.

  I finally saw what the shiny thing was; a pair of hedge clippers, its claws looked just like the talons of a tiger, metallic, sharp and ready to attack.

  Nurse started to squeeze my cheeks inward until my tongue popped out of my mouth and my eyes flew open in a wide stare as I realised what was happening.

  Leaning in, doctor clasped my tongue in the clippers and cut half my tongue off in one fell swoop, the end of my tongue dropping to the floor, like a dead slug.

  I gagged, vomiting and choking on my own blood as it bubbled up from my mouth and spewed out on the floor.

  I think I must have fainted from the unbearable pain.

  When I woke up I could smell the acrid stench of burning flesh.

  That was when I realised he’d cauterised the wound. I wasn’t wearing the jacket anymore and the room was empty. But they didn’t find this journal.

  This will be my last entry in my last journal.

  I know it won’t be long now.

  Albert will help me.

  He’ll give them to Patricia when the time is right.

  X

  Jesus Christ, Nan was nuts! No wonder she’d ended up in an asylum. That’s what they called them back then, asylums. The nightmares had made her insane. And God, could I relate? They’d done the same to Mom and Christ, what if they did the same to me? And why had we shared the same dream, or at least, why did we appear to share the same dream? And while I was at it, how old did that make Albert exactly? He had to be older than he looked by at least ten years.

  Nan’s description of the city and the monsters that lived in it could’ve been my own. Though mine was a little bit more like something out of Hellboy meets War of the Worlds.

  Albert had told me I needed to read the diaries, to understand, to save myself. Looked like it was my sanity I needed to save. I couldn’t tell Chris about what was in Nan’s diary, not yet. Not until I had a clue what the hell I was going to do. It wasn’t as though I could call Buffy the Vampire/’Freaky Green Monster’ Slayer to come and help me.

  Oh Hell.

  Taking a deep shuddering breath I stood up from the desk, cricking my neck. It bloody hurt like hell. I so needed another whisky.

  I headed downstairs to the kitchen for a breather and a good slug of the amber nectar. We weren’t massive drinkers, me and Chris, but we did like a drink after work. My job was at the mobile library and was pretty cool, reading and buying and promoting books for a living, but Chris’s job was really stressful, working in a local government office for crap pay.

  A couple of shots later and I felt brave enough to go back upstairs and tackle Mom’s diary next.

  Patricia Yeoman’s Diary

  Feb to April 1965

  28th February 1965

  The loss is an ache so deep inside I can’t breathe. My Mom is dead. The doctor said it was, well, he said she – Somehow she got hold of a knife. She’d been getting worse. They’ve diagnosed her with dementia praecox.

  Apparently she’d refused to see me and Dad anymore. At least that’s what Doctor Storer told us. He’s a strange chap with wildish brown hair with a hint of salt and pepper grey. They won’t let me or Dad see her – the body. Doctor Storer said, well, he said she looks too awful and it will be disturbing for us to see her that way.

  I think that’s why I’ve started to have the nightmares.

  3rd March 1965

  My dreams started with visions of a strange city, its walls, its strange, abstract buildings, like twisted skyscrapers reaching up into a dark red sky. The buildings are a phenomenal height in my dreams, towering above me. But the colour of them, I can’t describe it. It’s a green so dark it’s almost black. I think they call it British Racing Green. Yes, I’m right. Michael would know at least. But the material the buildings are made from is incredibly unusual, a mineral of some sort not quite granite. But on the exterior is an oily, greasy substance like putrid lime jelly turned almost black with mould.

  9th March 1965

  My strange city has occupants now, and they scare me so very much.

  They are grotesque creatures at least a mile in height, like something from a drug induced fever. Their skins are leathery, the same putrescent colour as the skyscrapers, octopus tentacles attached to their heads, and an octopus’s beak with a snake’’ forked tongue that flicks out. The tongue is a dark deep blood red.

  When the creatures move they stalk with a horrible slurping sound and it sends shudders down my spine.

  And the stench of them – an ungodly stench of rot and ruin, like a charnel house, an abattoir.

  I don’t think I can take the dreams for much longer.

  I need to tell Michael.

  I watched Mom die piece by piece in that insane asylum.

  It won’t happen to me.

  X

  With every entry I read my heart was beating ten to the dozen. It was scaring the crap out of me. Nan and Mom’s dreams were almost identical. From the description of the city to the vile creatures, all the same. And all the same as my dreams too.

  And the worst thing of all was the name – Cthulhu. The same name I dreamt of every night.

  Before I could stop myself I felt dizzy, then sick, throwing up in the wastepaper basket in Chris’s study.

  I needed sleep and proper rest if that was at all possible.

  Tomorrow I would deal with it all.

  Just as I snapped Mom’s last diary shut, a slip of paper fell out of it onto the floor.

  I leaned over and retrieved it taking a look thinking it might be a missed page.

  It wasn’t. It was Albert’s phone number and a briefly scrawled message of ‘Call me’.

  X

  Chris had gone to work by the time I woke up. For once I hadn’t dreamed, or maybe I just hadn’t remembered them. I glanced at the bedside clock and winced. It was after 11am. My mouth felt like dry rot and my head was pounding, one of those blinding headaches that seem to pierce just the side of the temple and the left eye. It could’ve been the whisky, but I doubted it. It wa
s more likely the stress of yesterday’s funeral, my grief and my night of reading endless diaries. Chris, bless him, had left a pint of squash on my bedside cabinet and I took a long swig before attempting to get out of bed. A hot soothing shower and a piece of toast with two cups of coffee later and I felt almost human. I dressed in jeans and a black top still feeling immensely funereal and sat down at the kitchen table with the diaries, my mobile phone and the scrap of paper. The whole thing was insane, of course it was, but I didn’t see any other option. I had to phone Albert Devaney.

  “Aah ya called,” he said on answering, before I’d said hello.

  “How did you know it was me?” I asked, vaguely wondering if he was a psychic or something.

  “You’re the only one I gave me number ta who I don’t already know.”

  “Oh, okay, fair enough. Look, I think we need to talk. Is there any way you can get over here?”

  “I have a better idea,” he answered. “Meet me in the café on the main Bristol Road by Breaside. It does a nice cuppa and we can talk in private there. Besides, I’m guessing ya may want ta be talking ta some of da staff there.”

  “You’re guessing right,” I said.

  “Great. Say two o’clock. Is that time enough for ya?”

  “Yep, see you there.”

  I hung up the phone, grabbed my black leather jacket, car keys and set off.

  Traffic wasn’t too bad as the kids were still at school so it took me about thirty minutes to get there. I parked at the hospital. The café wasn’t hard to find from there. It was one of those roadside builders’ cafés, with plastic chequered table cloths in red and white over basic Formica tables, and a blackboard declaring specials that boasted a great ‘Full English’ and cheap frothy coffee in large white mugs. It reminded me of where we used to go to as hard up students at college.