The Eldritch Isle

by Michael H. Kelly

  Then the moment was past, and any onlooker would have witnessed nothing. Harry's bike continued to ride on, powering along the mountain circuit, just as it had done seconds earlier, without so much as a blip. But something was different.

  It would be no good asking Harry Fenton what had happened, though, for Harry was no longer there. Something strange and unutterably wrong moved about in his body, grinning and staring with gleaming eyes. But it was not Harry Fenton. Where Harry Fenton had got to, none could say.

  · Regenerator

  I remember the old generator in the shed from my childhood, Brown with rust, grimy with oil, lurking at the back of the shed in my uncle's garden. It has haunted my dreams ever since and soon I must see it again, confront my fears.

  Both my parents worked, so during the long school summer holidays, I would be dropped off at my uncle's and aunt's house each day, until my mother collected me late in the afternoon. My uncle was a farmer and my aunt a housewife. They lived in a picturesque house, overgrown with honeysuckle, on the edge of Sulby village. My uncle's fields backed onto their enormous back garden.

  My Uncle Jack kept pigs, chickens and a few sheep. In the back garden he grew peas, potatoes and other vegetables, as well as gooseberries and a large patch of raspberries. The garden was huge and rambling, with bushes everywhere, a maze-like place of wonders for a young boy to explore. My uncle and aunt had two daughters: Edith was quite a lot older than me, so we were respectful but distant; Jane was only a year older, so sometimes we would play together. More often, though, I would play on my own, as she would have her girl friends around and I felt awkward around them. Sometimes, even if Jane's friends weren't around, I would still go off and hide in the garden so she couldn't find me. This was because I hoped she would stop looking and do her special thing.

  If she thought I was away out of sight at the bottom of the garden, Jane would sometimes creep into my uncle's shed. I would be peering from the bushes, and as soon as she went in I would scurry over to the rear of the shed and press my eye against a knothole to peep in at her. My eyes would boggle as she would pull down her jeans and knickers and proceed to masturbate.

  I had only recently started to become interested in the opposite sex, and was relatively new to the practice of masturbation myself, having discovered its pleasures whilst absent-mindedly rubbing myself under the bedclothes one night a few months previously. As the successive waves of overwhelming delight rushed through me for the first time, my first thought was that I must have damaged myself in order to produce such intense sensations. When no hurt ensued, and cautious experimenting repeated the delicious feelings the next night, I was hooked. I rapidly put two and two together and linked this pleasurable feeling with the dry text book descriptions of intercourse I had read (none of which had mentioned such ecstatic bliss), and the naked photographs of women I had stared at, fascinated, in my father's hidden stash of pornographic magazines.

  Jane was the first real live girl I had actually seen naked in the flesh, however, and I watched hungrily as her fingers rubbed vigorously at the thatch of wiry dark hair between her legs. It still ranks as one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. When she began to squirm after a few minutes, jerking her legs spasmodically, her face screwed up in the exquisite intensity of the moment, I wondered how it felt for her, whether it was the same as it was for me when I rubbed my penis.

  When she finished, I would sneak into the shed after she had left. I would rub my face against the warm spot where she had rested her bottom, and I would wank myself furiously until I came, letting my seed fall upon the dirty, dusty floor. I would fantasise that maybe she was now peeping through the knothole at me, just as I had earlier been at her.

  But all of this pleasure and desire was purchased at a heavy cost: a cost that was paid in fear. For in the shed, lurking in the shadows right at the back, far from the grey light that filtered through the grimy windows, was a thing of darkness and malign evil, a brooding, watchful presence that stared back at me as I stared at my frigging cousin, or whose baleful attention was turned full upon me when I sneaked into the shed to pleasure myself in my turn. Even as my excitement mounted, my blood would turn to ice if I glimpsed or thought upon the massive shape in the corner. As I came, the ecstasy would be counterbalanced by terror that the horror might choose to snuff out my life at any moment, slaying me even as I writhed in life's greatest joy.

  This monstrous presence was an old generator. It must have lain in that shed for long years, unused and abandoned. It shunned the light, looming at the very back of the dark hut. It was a massive silhouette of utter blackness in the gloom, dominating the consciousness of any who entered, a threatening mass that could not be ignored. To me, it was the dormant, but only sleeping, figure of some dead God, lying in state at the rear of the shed until terrible tribute should once more be paid to it.

  I learned the nature of that tribute a couple of summers later. Jane was older now and had a regular boyfriend (not the first she'd had by a long chalk). Yet still she would often make her way down to the shed to masturbate. I saw her meandering down among the vegetables, and disappearing into the old shed. I hurried to my peephole and was surprised to see that Jane was pushing her way right to the back of the shed. She stopped in front of the generator, gripped its starter cord and pulled hard.

  Despite its age, the generator fired up first time. It then sat there, chugging and shuddering as the old demon-god stirred into wakefulness and found that it was hungry. Instead of using her fingers to rub herself off, Jane now pressed her eager crotch against one corner of the generator, grinding against it, riding the vibrations. She panted and sobbed as her gyrating became more frantic, and the generator sputtered and growled greedily, feasting on her pleasure.

  When Jane had finished and returned up the length of the garden to the house, I crept into the shed in awe. The dominant mass of the generator made me cower in terror, its head silhouetted against the dirty window. But still I crept closer in abject supplication to this nightmare machine demon. I knelt before it and placed my face close to where Jane had pleasured herself. The mingled smells of petrol, oil, old mouse urine and Jane's sex stimulated my nostrils. I began to lap at the wet spot hungrily, but stopped when I realised what I was doing: I was partaking of the demon god's feast! In so doing, I had made myself its disciple and servant.

  This being the case, I had no wish to anger my new master, for I retained a terrible fear of the dark generator, a fear that has lasted till this very day. I resolved to feed it afresh with my own essence. I reached out, my nerves shredded, and pulled the starter cord. The generator roared into angry life and began juddering and throbbing, its head vibrating and its belts humming around. The god was alive!

  I masturbated madly, weeping prayers of adoration, apology, supplication and terror to the grimy machine, then I added my sperm to Jane's juices and cut the power. The generator trembled to a halt, slumbering again now that its hunger was satiated. I quickly darted to the shed door and peered nervously out in case my aunt – or worse, Jane! - had heard the rumbling of the engine, but the garden was still and peaceful. The house was a long way from the shed, and the noise of the generator might not be heard at all, or could be mistaken for a nearby car or lawnmower.

  I crept back into the shed, tucking my penis away, and I stood again in awe before the silhouette of the demon god's great 'head': the broad, blank face of the petrol tank that stared down at me. I dropped to my knees before it and I rubbed mine and Jane's combined sexual fluids over the metalwork, feeding the generator with our own generative cells. I kissed the corroded oily surface devoutly, my lips coming away with the acrid taste of old oil and fresh sex.

  It was shortly after this incident, when the god who abode in the machine had been stirred into life, its engine started, fed by our pleasure and body fluids, that I began to notice some odd things in the garden. The first thing to catch my attention was when I spotted the biggest bee I had ever seen bumbling by.
It was so fat and heavy that I could scarcely believe it could fly, fully two inches long and nearly as broad. It bobbed slowly from one flower to the next, collecting pollen. I watched it, awestruck.

  After that, I began to notice all manner of peculiar insects in the garden. Some, like the bee, were simply much larger than those I saw elsewhere. But there was also a species of flying insect that I never saw in any other place than my aunt and uncles' garden: a strange, long-bodied flying insect, mostly pale brown, but with a blood red abdomen.

  It wasn't only the insect life which was unusual. That summer the raspberries were gigantic, and of such a sweetly tart succulence that they were breathtakingly delicious. Indeed, I got in trouble for picking and eating so many, but honestly it was impossible to leave them alone, I just had to have more.

  It became obvious to me that when my cousin and I had fired the generator into life and had then anointed it with the sacrifice of our physical pleasure and our sexual fluids, we had sufficiently fed the dormant god that it had reached forth its hand and blessed the garden with fecundity, engendering insects of weird power and causing the fruit to burst with vitality and richness of flavour. Truly, we had been blessed!

  I knew that as an appointed priest of the god in the machine, it was my duty to continue to feed it, and to increase the frequency and quality of the offerings. I masturbated in the shed as often as I could, and I started the engine up as often as I dared, but I knew that more was required. I realised that it would be necessary for Jane and I to both feed the god with our sacrificial fluids simultaneously, either by both masturbating at the same time, or even better, by having actual sexual intercourse over the generator while it was running. I knew that my aunt and uncle would be out the following Wednesday, so I resolved to share my plan with Jane then, certain that she would be as keen as I to offer due sacrifice to our god.

  When Wednesday arrived, I made sure that I had bathed and put on clean clothes, looking and smelling my very best. But when my parents dropped me off at my aunt's and uncle's place, I found much to my chagrin that there were intruders present, who might make my plans more difficult. Edith had gone to a friend's for the day, so she was out of the way, but Jane had been tasked with looking after two of our other cousins, a couple of young boys named Tony and Bob. To make matters worse, she had also invited one of her friends around to help her with this burden. This friend, named Maggie, had always very much looked down on me. There was only a couple of years' age difference between us, but she firmly believed that boys younger than herself were stupid and a waste of space. Older boys were apparently a different matter altogether. The presence of these three interlopers irritated me beyond measure and threatened to put a spanner in the works.

  Nevertheless, I had a sacred duty, and I determined to carry it out to the best of my ability. Since we would not be alone, I decided that I would need the assistance of the demon god itself to win Jane over, so it was imperative that I should get her into the shed, where the influence of the generator could exert itself upon her and compel her to acquiesce.

  This was actually made easier by the presence of the two boys, who insisted that we all play games with them out in the garden. Maggie participated with very ill grace, suggesting at one point that she might actually go home rather than play with 'little kids'. To my regret, she didn't, she just sat to one side reading some silly romantic book. But I managed to plant the suggestion with Tony and Bob that we should play cops and robbers, which they were terribly enthusiastic about. It was decided that Jane and I would be bank robbers who would hide in the garden and the boys (the cops) would have to find our hideout and arrest us. I told them they would have to give us a few minutes' head start.

  Naturally, I led Jane directly to the shed and opened the door, motioning her inside.

  “Kind of an obvious hiding place, isn't it?” she said. “You might as well put up a big sign, reading 'Bank Robbers' Hideout Here'!”

  “They're just little kids,” I told her, “we can't make it too hard for them or they'll get upset. Besides, they'll want to run around in the bushes first before coming here. Then this will be a good place for us to pretend to have a shoot out.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “It's just a kids' game,” she shrugged. “To be honest, I'd expected much better from you, since you're a few years older than them.”

  I flushed crimson. “Actually, you're right,” I said, standing up straight and clasping my hands behind my back, trying to put on an adult, authoritative air. “In fact, I'm not interested in the game. You should know that I actually had another, secret reason for wanting to bring you into this shed.”

  “Really?” she asked, folding her arms and leaning back against the wall, raising an amused eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

  I could sense that she was humouring me and wasn't taking me seriously. I felt angry and humiliated and shot a look of mute appeal in the direction of the dark, silent generator. Help me, I willed it, we need her to comply so that we can worship you properly. But I raised a cool, appraising eyebrow of my own and aloud I said, “Well, while those two little boys are running around outside, we can do more grown up things in here.”

  She smirked. “Such as?” She wasn't going to make it easy for me, I could see that.

  I took a deep breath and puffed my chest out, ready to tell her. Then, to my annoyance, the two brats Tony and Bob peered through the hut window and spotted us in there. They began whooping and hollering, shouting out that they had found us and that we had better come right out with our hands up.

  But I had to go through with it. I looked Jane sternly in the eyes and said, “Jane, I want you to show me your fanny.”

  “What!?” she demanded, almost laughing in indignation. “You must be joking! Besides, there are little kids out there.”

  “We can send them away,” I insisted. “They may be little kids, but I'm not and you're not. We're almost grown up. So it's only reasonable that you should show me your fanny.”

  Tony and Bob had overheard us, however, and now they started dancing about the garden, loudly singing, “He wants to see her fanny! He wants to see her fanny!”

  I made one last attempt to appeal to Jane's better judgement and responsibilities. “We need to start the generator and have sex upon it together,” I explained, “so that we can give it more power.”

  But now Maggie had been alerted by the boys' shouts and jeers. Suddenly, she was there in the doorway, having yanked the rickety old door open. “What's going on in here, Jane?” she said. “What's this freak trying to do?”

  Jane laughed aloud. “He wants to shag me over my dad's old genny!” she said. To my horror, she walked out of the shed, leaving me on my own.

  “Fucking weirdo,” muttered Maggie as the two girls walked off together.

  I wasn't left on my own for long, however, for the two boys came dancing into the shed, laughing and shouting. I couldn't listen to them. I stormed off down to the bottom of the garden and hid on my own for the rest of the day.

  My parents came to pick me up as usual late that afternoon, when they had finished work. They never said anything to me about it, but they simply stopped taking me to my aunt's and uncle's after that unless they were with me. When I asked them why I didn't go there any more, they would simply say that my aunt and uncle were very busy. But I know that Jane – or more likely that sour bitch Maggie – must have said something to my aunt or uncle, and they in their turn must have informed my parents. So they stopped taking me there.

  Instead, I was taken to spend my days at my grandmother's little cottage, situated on a rural lane a couple of miles out of Ramsey. This wasn't actually too bad. She was a sweet soul, who used to let me help with her gardening, rewarding me with far too many sweets than were good for me. Sometimes at weekends I would be allowed to stay over. I would sleep on the sofa in her living room, with a fire in the grate, all very cosy. And she would always turn a blind eye to me switching the television on to watch the late night
horror movies, deliciously shivering to creaky old black and white films, such as The Creature From the Black Lagoon and Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman.

  It has to be said that I quite enjoyed this arrangement. My grandmother spoiled me terribly and I loved watching the old horror films and reading the books of horror stories she kept in her bedroom. But gradually, my sense of duty regained the ascendancy and kept nagging at me to fulfil my service to the god of the generator. But I knew that I couldn't simply ask to start going to my aunt's and uncle's once again; I would have to use my initiative.

  I had a Raleigh Chopper bicycle at home that I was very proud of, and after I had spent a few trouble free weeks visiting my grandmother, it was an easy task to persuade my parents that I should cycle to her cottage every day, unless the weather was bad. This would save them time and petrol and give me some exercise. They agreed to this very readily.

  So it was that I would ride my bike to my grandmother's. I was very careful to keep up the appearance of normality. I would spend some time helping her in the garden and reading her horror books, then in the afternoon I would say, “I'm just going for a ride down the lanes on my bike, Nana.” She would smile benignly and make me promise to be careful and off I would go.

  By taking the back lanes and cutting across a couple of fields, it was only a twenty minute bike ride from my grandmother's cottage to my aunt's and uncle's home. I then hid my Chopper over the hedge in a nearby field, scurried down behind the hedge and stealthily clambered over into the large garden at its bottom corner. Keeping a wary eye upon the house, and an ear open for my cousins, I crept into the shed, pulling the door closed behind me.

  Here I once again offered worship to the god in the machine, revelling in its greasy, dirty, rusty earthiness. My aunt and uncle may have chosen not to have me around after Jane's immature response to my suggestion, but I could at least feel satisfied that in coming here by stealth I was honouring my god and my sacrifice was also keeping their garden fertile. They could thank me for the size and juiciness of their raspberries, as I offered my seed to the generator so that it would make their garden flourish.