The Eldritch Isle

by Michael H. Kelly

  “Okay,” he conceded after several minutes of horror struck staring. “I get you, I'm not well. I'll go see the doctor in the morning.”

  “How could you not notice this?” asked David. “This is no flu, Martin. You've got some sort of skin disease. And the smell … It's like the reptile house at the zoo! You need to get to hospital right away.”

  “Listen, I said I'll go and see my doctor in the morning, all right?” snapped Martin hotly. “I've not been well, but I'm okay. Right now, I'm going to finish my drink. Are you coming?”

  “Sorry, mate, but what if it's catching?” said David, shaking his head. “We don't even know what it is, and I've got kids to think about. I'm here because I'm concerned for you, but this is my limit, I need to go. I've offered to help you get to hospital, but it you won't go ...”

  “Damn right I won't go!” shouted Martin. “I'll go see my own doctor in the morning, and he can give me some ointment and an antibiotic if I need one. Maybe some blood tests. But I'm fine! Just when everything starts working out for me, everyone starts acting weird. What's the matter, David? Are you jealous of my money? Is that it!? It's mine!” His eyes glazed over and he bared his teeth, advancing menacingly on his friend.

  “Calm down, you idiot!” said David, backing away. “I haven't the faintest idea what you're bloody talking about! If you won't listen to reason, fine! Just get out of my way, you ungrateful shit. That's the last time I try to help you.”

  Martin's pulse was pounding in his temples and he felt dizzy and angry as he watched David leave. He breathed deeply, trying to recover his composure, then returned to the bar to finish his drink. He glared at the other customers, who kept staring uneasily at him, and kept themselves on the opposite side of the room.

  Martin didn't make an appointment to go and see his doctor the following morning. He was too tired. When the sun began shining through the curtains, he simply crawled completely under the duvet, covered his head with his pillow and slept, curled up in a ball. The only times he emerged from his bed all day were to pay a couple of visits to the bathroom, when he stumbled around in a daze, hardly aware of what he was doing. He returned to bed as soon as he was finished.

  When night came, he grew increasingly restless, tossing and turning in his sleep, moaning and whimpering. He was pouring with sweat, his hands and toes curled up resembling claws. Occasionally, he would kick his legs spasmodically. His pillow was thoroughly coated with loose hair, fallen from his head. The sheets were greasy with shed flakes of dead skin.

  The following day was spent in exactly the same way. His throat parched beyond endurance, Martin slurped litres upon litres of water direct from the tap when he went to the bathroom. But then he returned to his bed, effectively sleep walking, dead to the world.

  He suffered another rough night, with terrifying nightmares of great columns of fire, reaching from earth to the sky in a smoky, choking world. His dreaming self crawled through this hellish domain, always seeking money he had lost or mislaid.

  The next morning, Martin was even worse. He was practically comatose. He didn't hear his phone ringing when David tried to contact him several times. Nor did he hear the banging on his door when his worried friend called round to try to see if he was okay. He slept through it all, unmoving and barely breathing.

  Then, after the sun had set, his eyes suddenly snapped open. Yellow, feral eyes, his pupils tiny dots in the centre of the ghoulish glare. His heavy lids blinked slowly and he levered himself out of bed, no longer weak, but unsteady on his feet. His weight and centre of balance felt different and he walked with a pronounced stoop.

  He stood there for long minutes, breathing deeply and noisily, gradually becoming aware of his most pressing need following his illness: he was achingly, ravenously hungry! He groaned aloud as his hunger twisted in his guts like a knife. But instead of opening the fridge or the kitchen cupboards to look for something to eat, he was compelled to fumble clumsily with his front door till he succeeded in opening it, then shambled out into the night.

  Mercifully, David never saw Martin again. He tried calling on him repeatedly throughout the next week, but never got a reply. He knew somebody had been home, though, because the curtains would sometimes be opened and yet closed at other times, and the milk would be taken from the step. He felt very disquieted, but had to leave the Island for a fortnight's training course. He resolved that if Martin had not become less reclusive upon his return, he would notify someone. And so he missed the terrible events that followed.

  A growing sense of disquiet spread over the west of the Island as the nights passed. It began with the mutilation of chickens at farms, so savage and bloody that it was feared that foxes might have been imported. But this notion was quickly dispelled when the slaughter spread to pigs and cattle. Disquiet became alarm when a prize bull was devoured in its field, bloody chunks spread all over. The police became involved, and the tracks they discovered in the mud worried them greatly.

  Then three children went missing as they played outside after dark. A panic stricken search was mounted. The discovery of their small bones, stripped of flesh, filled the community with maddening horror and grief.

  The following night saw hundreds of people sweeping the western fields, beaches and glens in organised search parties. No one knew what manner of animal or man they were looking for, but most were armed: some with cudgels or farm implements, others with shotguns.

  The hue and cry began at Glen Wyllin shortly before midnight. A group of locals had seen a 'beast' near the campsite and raised the alarm. At first, they feared they had made a dreadful mistake, for the bulky shape they had spied in the gloom came after them like a runaway train. But their yells of alarm quickly drew attention from the many hunting parties and soon shouts were resounding all around as the hunters closed in.

  The hue and cry seemed to panic the beast and it ceased its chase. As the hunters closed in, it turned and ran back up Glen Wyllin towards Kirk Michael at great speed on all fours. It managed to evade the torches that cast about looking for it, but in its haste the sound of its flight was unmistakable and it could not shake its pursuers off. They chased after it as it burst from the trees and entered the village, and now the sounds of pounding feet could be heard coming from other directions, encircling it.

  There was no sight of the thing when the hunters entered the village, but they knew they had it trapped and it could not possibly have broken through their lines. “What does a beast do when it's chased?” growled old Kneale, who had lost several of his herd to its predations. “It runs back to its lair and goes to ground. It's somewhere close hereabouts.”

  And so the hunters began going door to door, knocking and asking if people had seen or heard anything unusual. They poked into every nook and cranny in every yard and outbuilding. And at last, inevitably, they came to knock on the door of Martin Teare.

  The lock – indeed the whole door handle – inside Martin's porch was broken away, splintered and useless. This led the hunters to be very wary. They drew the attention of all their fellows, ensured the cottage was surrounded, and then went in in force.

  When David arrived home from his course, his friend Martin Teare was no more. He was desperately saddened by this and he made inquiries to discover what had happened. He was informed that Martin had perished in an accident when a paraffin heater had fallen off a wobbly table, dousing him in the burning liquid. When he learned of the hunt for the beast, he pushed for further information and was told that the searchers had indeed entered Martin's cottage that night, chasing the animal, and that the heater had capsized in the struggle, leading to Martin's tragic death. The animal – a large dog – had been shot and killed.

  This story did not sit well with David. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that something was being hushed up. Had Martin been keeping a ferocious dog as a pet? He had certainly been acting strangely just before his accident. Or had the search parties killed him in some trigger happy accident and tr
ied to cover it up? By all accounts, there had been some very influential people involved in the hunt for the bestial killer. If it was all as simple as they said, why hadn't they been open and told David first time?

  According to the gossip, most of the adults from Kirk Michael had been involved in the search that night. It was the Kirk Michael hunters who had entered Martin's cottage, of course. And that meant that one of them must have been Johnny Kaighen. Johnny was a regular figure down the pub, a sad, permanently inebriated individual. And that made him the perfect person for David to have a little chat with.

  David took an afternoon off work, visiting the pub at a time when he knew there wouldn't be a lot of other people around, so he could talk with Johnny at the man's customary little corner table without worrying about others interfering. When he entered, he was in luck: Johnny was in his usual place, and there were two other men sitting a distance away at the bar, talking with the barman. Hopefully this meant that none of them would pay any attention to David when he sat down. He bought himself a drink, plus one for Johnny, then went and sat beside the man.

  “Hey Johnny,” he said. “How are you doing? I bought you a drink.”

  “Oh, thanks John,” said Johnny. For some reason, he always called David John. He'd obviously confused him with someone else at some time and it had been going on for so long now that David didn't have the heart to tell him he was mistaken.

  “That was a bad business over at Martin Teare's place a couple of weeks ago, wasn't it?” said David.

  “I still can't sleep at night,” shuddered Johnny. “It was terrible, John, just terrible. Were you there?”

  “Of course I was there,” lied David smoothly. “Wasn't everybody? I didn't get to go inside, though, I was one of those who kept watch. Do you know anyone who went in, Johnny? Anyone who saw what happened with their own eyes?”

  “Do I know anyone?” blurted Johnny. “I was one of them! I'd had a few stiff drinks for courage that night, and everyone knew it, so they made sure I was part of the group who went in. Dear God, I'll never get it out of my head!”

  “Tell me about it,” said David soothingly. “Sometimes it helps to talk about these things with an understanding friend.”

  Johnny looked up and there was terror in his eyes as he fixed David with his haunted gaze. “We knew there was something wrong when we got there. The door handle and lock were all busted up, like someone had broken in, or hadn't been able to use the handle properly. So when the place was surrounded, it was the farmers who led the way in, with their shotguns. I went in too, carrying an axe. We weren't taking any chances. It was so dark, there were blankets covering the windows, and mattresses propped against them to keep out the light. It was like walking into a cave instead of a house. And the stench...”

  “What kind of stench?” prompted David gently as Johnny trembled and swallowed hard.

  “It was thick and rank and tinny,” he muttered, “like rotten meat. And that's not surprising, because as we shone the torches around, we found the remains of bodies in the front room. Just scraps of raw flesh and bones; the rest had been eaten. We couldn't tell then if they were human or animal. Turned out they were human when they were examined later. But there was another smell too, acrid and sharp, like some kind of animal.” He shuddered again. “I could feel the bile rising, but we pushed on through to the kitchen, making sure the torches were shining all round us. It was waiting for us there in the kitchen...”

  “The kitchen?” said David. “That's where Martin died, isn't it? Was the animal there with him?”

  Johnny fixed him with haunted eyes. “Lord bless you, John, didn't they tell you?” he sobbed. “You're so lucky not to know. I wish I could forget.”

  “Please,” insisted David. “I need to know what happened.”

  “On your own head be it,” whispered Johnny, “but you'd never sleep soundly again if you'd been there to see it. The thing we found in the kitchen was more crocodile than man. Its skin was rough, thick and scaly, with a great, flat head full of teeth. And it stank, oh, how it stank. It had stubby little clawed hands, the fingers too fat and swollen to work the door handles any more. The body was a mass of corruption, all yellow and purple. It hissed and tried to lash out when it saw us, but it didn't like the light.”

  “And did it have Martin there with it?” asked David.

  “With it?” asked Johnny in an awful whisper. “Oh John, don't you get it yet? It was him! Don't ask me how, but it was him!”

  David blanched, recalling the changes in Martin's appearance and demeanour the last time he had seen him. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely, knowing what was coming.

  “Old Kneale shot him, point blank with his shotgun. He was a child murderer and a cannibal, John. Then we all joined in, shooting and beating and stabbing. Don't look at me like that, this thing wasn't human! I swear, it wasn't! When we were done, Inspector Lawrence told us what we were to say had happened, then we poured paraffin over it and burned it, so that you couldn't tell that the remains weren't human. And that's what got buried, after Martin Teare's 'accident'.”

  David had wanted answers and now he had them. Or at least he had the wild ramblings of a drunk, and maybe it would be for the best if that's what he continued to believe they were. As it was, he didn't know what else to say. He patted Johnny Kaighen on his arm to comfort the trembling man, bought him another drink, and left the pub without another word.

  David managed to stay away for three days, but he couldn't let matters lie. He had to know. So it was that he drove to Kirk Michael late one evening and visited his old friend's former home. The cottage was now still and dark, windows and doors boarded up, its rear smoke-blackened from the fire in the kitchen.

  David made his way around the back, out of sight of the road. A couple of boards had been nailed across the kitchen door frame, but the door itself had been charred and weakened by Martin's funeral pyre. David forced the flimsy door open easily, ducked under the boards that had barred it, and entered the dark interior.

  For a place which had known such destructive heat, the cottage was now very chill, dark and dank. It felt empty and forbidding, and yet … there still seemed to be a faint presence here, something tugging at the corners of David's mind.

  He shone his torch back and forth, illuminating charred floorboards, abandoned kitchen utensils and greasy ashes with a sour, fishy odour. He didn't know why he had come, or what he had expected to find. Only the confirmation of a horrifying death and the strange circumstances that had surrounded it.

  He turned to go, but as his torch beam swept round towards the back door, he spotted a gleam. Something shiny had reflected its light. He turned back and stooped down, discovering a small gap in the floorboards in the centre of the charred ashes. Gingerly, he probed the crevice and discovered a heavy golden ring, which had rolled into the crack between the boards and remained lodged there. David carefully prised it out, marvelling at its weight and beauty. He closed his fist around the lovely thing, planning to study it more closely when he got back home, away from this house of death. To his delight, when he put his hand in his pocket to place the ring there, he discovered a crisp ten pound note that he must have forgotten he had.

  · Moths to a Flame

  I love the sense of isolation that comes with being a lighthouse keeper. I'm not alone here, you understand, I have my wife Margaret with me, and our young son Sam. But they understand me and my ways – they share them, to an extent, they'd get driven mad here if they didn't. So they give me my space and leave me alone when I stand out on the balcony by the light when the storm winds are blowing and the sea comes driving in, borne upon the wind's fury.

  Everybody knows what wind is, of course, but very few can believe the ferocity with which the wind sweeps over the northern plains of the Isle of Man. The waves pound against the rocks, hurled skywards in great plumes as the raging currents of air and water throw them mercilessly landwards.

  When the fog rolls in, of course, t
he situation becomes much more dangerous for shipping. The sea comes in so fast here that a ship can be on the rocks before it even knows land is near. Thus the light, to warn them off before it's too late. Some idiots would argue that with modern technological methods of navigation, a lighthouse is a thing from a bygone age. How little they know. Instruments can be ignored or unnoticed, and an experienced sailor will want to keep his attention focused on the sea and the storm. He may not see a blip on his monitor, but he won't miss the light sweeping through the fog, or the sound of the booming foghorn close at hand.

  But all of this is by the by. I didn't choose the life of a lighthouse keeper for its functional purpose, though I'm proud of the service I provide of course. I chose this life for solitude, for the chance to feel at one with nature in its most wild and elemental forms. Some would find this place wild and inhospitable, but for me these raw elements are what life is all about.

  I met Margaret, a woman who had wearied of noise and cities, and in time she became my wife. Her extensive library now lines the walls of the second storey of the lighthouse, and there she reads and draws, enjoying the solitude of her inner world as I enjoy the solitude of my outer one. Young Sam joined us in our world a couple of years later and he is a fine boy. He does not find our environment strange, nor does he yearn for city life. This is all he has known. An hour's visit to the town for groceries each week is sufficient social interaction for us. We like our isolation.

  Except, we aren't truly alone out here. The heath teems with wildlife: birds of all descriptions, and many thousands of rabbits. The sea is not empty, but full of fish, and every now and then a seal will bob its head out of the waves to curiously survey our tall tower upon the shoreline.

  Then there are the others. They have always been here, though few have seen them. I have, leaning upon the lighthouse railing in the early hours of the morning, watching them spread their great wings as they flutter before the full moon. There are never more than two or three of them, and they keep their distance: great, furry creatures like moths, with diaphanous wings, huge glittering eyes and long, spindly limbs that they tuck up when they fly. They are about four feet in height, with a much larger wingspan. A long, thin proboscis juts from their faces and I have seen them swoop down to skewer careless rabbits with these wickedly pointed tubes. The next morning, I would always find the desiccated remains of their meal left among the rushy grass, a withered bag of parchment, fur and bones, as if all the fluids had been vacuum extracted.