The Eldritch Isle

by Michael H. Kelly

  I continued to make these secret visits every weekend, slipping away for an hour in the afternoon or early evening when I stayed with my grandmother. Nobody was any the wiser. I had to put extra effort into my masturbatory offerings, though, because I didn't dare risk the noise of starting the generator. Also, I was now sustaining the god on my own, for it became obvious that Jane was no longer offering up her orgasms here, not now that she had begun dating in earnest. The short-sighted, selfish cow!

  As a reward for my continuing faithfulness, the god bestowed a benediction upon me: the power to curse my enemies in his name. I had an impulse to collect a few of the large red insects that had been generated in the garden. I kept these in a jar and would carry one with me in a matchbox wherever I went. I believe my devotions and my altered personality had marked me out at school, for I had lately become the target of a small group of bullies. It was name calling mostly, or hiding my PE kit: nothing painful, but certainly humiliating. I would take the insect out of the matchbox, whisper the name of one of my tormentors to it, and then let it go. Every time without fail, within twenty four hours of uttering the curse, the named bully would have a humiliating accident. He would trip and fall downstairs, or his pants would split when he bent over in the playground, in full view of everyone. On one most memorable occasion, a girl who had been taunting me and calling me a freak was caught masturbating in the toilets; she was laughed at and called names for weeks! I don't think she ever lived it down. The resonance with Jane's lapsed worship of the god struck a powerful chord with me and demonstrated just how omniscient the generator was.

  I soon made another discovery which greatly enhanced my understanding of the god of the generator and its needs. One Saturday evening, as I was in the shed masturbating, my spare hand resting upon the machine, I was startled by a noise just outside the door. I swung round quickly and dove into hiding behind some of the junk at the rear of the shed as I saw the door begin to open. As I did so, I scraped the back of my hand upon the metal of the generator. It hurt terribly and was bleeding quite a lot, but I bit my tongue and managed not to cry out.

  I peeped from my hiding place and saw that it was my uncle who had entered the shed. He was wearing his long overcoat and was evidently doing some work outdoors. He rummaged around on a shelf near the door and nodded in satisfaction when he found a small bottle of chainsaw oil. Taking this with him, he left the shed and walked away, evidently planning to cut some wood up nearer the house.

  I stepped back out from hiding and returned to the generator, sucking air through my teeth in pain as I looked at my hurt hand: a long, deep scratch was across the back. A lot of blood had welled up from it, but fortunately the flow was beginning to slow now. I wrapped it with my handkerchief and struggled to continue my sacrifice. This was quite difficult, as I had lost my erection and the pain of my injury combined with the shock of near discovery were not conducive to recovering my rhythm. But I knew my duty and completed my task before riding home, telling my grandmother I had fallen off my bike and scraped my hand against a wall.

  The following week, I returned to the garden, and when I popped one of the raspberries in my mouth, a shudder passed through me and I let out a little squeal of sheer delight. It was the sweetest yet tartest, juiciest, most flavoursome raspberry in all the world.

  I dared to eat another, which was just as delicious as the first. Then I dashed to the shed to consider this new development. Clearly something had occurred which had boosted the beneficent influence of the generator god, pouring forth its blessings and abundance upon the garden. But what could it be? Although I was keeping up my devotions as best I could, the fact of the matter was that I now only wanked at the shrine once each weekend, whereas it had been a daily occurrence back in the summer holidays when I used to be dropped off here every day. So it couldn't simply be that I was being rewarded for my faithfulness. There had to be some new factor.

  I made my way to the back of the shed, where the generator awaited my attention and my passion. Realisation dawned when I saw the slightly darker stains upon the rusty red surface, where my blood had dripped from my hand the previous weekend. It was almost black and crusty and seemed aged and dirty, as if it had lain upon the surface for many years, a part of the machine that housed the god. Oh, the offerings of our sexual fluids had been acceptable indeed, the seed that contained the potential of new life. But blood, rich and red, the vehicle of present life: this was a much richer and more rewarding offering.

  I had to take a few minutes to convince myself that I was right and to pluck up my courage. I really didn't want to cut myself. I was squeamish and afraid of the pain, but also terribly, terribly excited. I felt that I had attained a new understanding of the nature of the generator god. Finally, I made my decision and before I could change it, I took a deep breath, seized up a Stanley knife from a shelf and drew it quickly across my forearm.

  For a few long seconds, I was in shock at what I had done. It didn't hurt at first, but then the pain kicked in as the blood welled forth, spilling liberally all over the rusty, oily engine. I was gasping, my eyes tearing up, hardly daring to move in case the pain worsened. The blood kept on flowing and I began to worry that I may have cut some major blood vessel. It was very thick and dark. At last, I had the wit to bind my arm, tearing off one of my sleeves for the purpose and using it to tie my handkerchief close to the wound, where it mopped up the blood. A puddle of my life fluid lay upon the tank of the generator, slowly spreading and dripping over the sides. I could sense that the god was perfectly satiated – for now. Nursing my wounded arm, I scurried out of the shed, through the garden, and headed for my grandmother's.

  I managed to scoot through to the bathroom before my grandmother saw me. I washed out the terrible slash I had inflicted upon myself and managed to stop the blood flowing. I wrapped it with a small bandage and some cotton wool from the first aid kit, crammed my bloodied handkerchief and shirt into the bottom of my bag to dispose of later, and put on a long sleeved jumper to hide the cut. It was throbbing terribly now, my arm was very tender and I knew I'd have to guard against the tendency to wince for the next few days if I didn't want to give my recklessness away. Inside, I felt strangely proud of myself, sure that I'd done a good thing and given the god the sustenance it needed. But I also felt uncomfortably sure that I wouldn't be able to endure anything like this every week.

  When I visited the shed the following week, I was gratified to note how lush and vibrant the garden was looking. The shades of colour were so bright and enchanting, it looked as though the plants were painted rather than real. The fruit was large, heavy and fragrant, the vegetables were enormous, there wasn't a single speckle of decay or a blemish anywhere.

  I passed through to commune with the god, but this time I had come prepared. I had called at the pet shop on my way to my grandmother's in the morning and had purchased a pair of mice. I took them from the box I had placed them in one at a time, held them down on the rusted frame of the machine and used the Stanley knife to cut them until they died, their blood and life force anointing the hungry metal. I found this a terrifying and yet thrilling thing to do; I had never killed living creatures before. But I knew that their life essence was transferred to the god and thus they lived on. To celebrate this fact, for the first time in ages I dared to start up the generator for just a few moments, listening to its mighty roar. I then switched it off, returned the bloodless husks of the mice to the box, and slipped away.

  I continued to return sneakily to the shed every weekend, offering up every small creature I could get my hands on: mice, birds, guinea pigs, rabbits, even a cat once. The garden flourished and glowed and hummed with life and I knew that my work was good.

  But even the most devout disciple may fall from grace. As I grew older and developed a more well-rounded and less single-minded interest in girls, the attraction of a machine god in a garden began to lose its attraction. There was so much else for me to be doing. I still felt moved by my sense of d
uty, but after a while my weekly visits became fortnightly, then monthly. Then, after I had started work, they ceased altogether,. Even when I got a little car and could have nipped there and back in a mere quarter of an hour, I did not.

  And so the years passed. I never forgot the garden and the fearful silhouette of the generator god in the shed, but I did feel distanced from it. Even though I often visited my aunt and uncle after I had reached adulthood (all memory of teenage indiscretions forgiven and forgotten), I never returned to the shed. I didn't even so much as look into the garden through the house's back window to see how it was faring.

  And then, when I was thirty-eight, my aunt and uncle both died within a few weeks of each other. Neither of them had endured a long illness and in both cases it was very sudden and unexpected. In my heart, I knew that this could only be the result of the generator taking its divine vengeance after being neglected for so many years. I was worried sick that I, as its apostate priest, might suffer a similar fate. Suddenly the garden and the brooding presence in its shed loomed large and menacing in my thoughts once more.

  There was only one thing to be done: I would have to return to the property and seek the forgiveness of the god, renewing my service. I waited till the weekend with taut nerves, dreading the drive belt of doom pushing me over the edge at any moment. But the god spared me and on Saturday morning I drove directly to the house. I knocked on the door first to see if there was anyone in. Both Edith and Jane were married and had homes of their own, but at a sad time like this, they might have been in attendance, sorting out their parents' affairs. There was no reply, so I strode boldly down through the back garden and into the shed.

  I knelt before the generator, then prostrated myself upon the filthy floor, which was covered with dried up old leaves, decades of spilled oil, dust, cobwebs and worse. I said out loud, “My lord and god of the generator. Please forgive your worthless servant, who has wandered far from you, in spite of the knowledge and demonstrations of your power. I beg you to show mercy to me, not because I deserve it, for I am wretched, but so that I can devote myself anew to your work, and worship you in the manner you deserve. I beseech you, lord, show me your power.”

  I was just rising back to my feet and brushing the old leaves and dirt off my knees when the god answered my prayer: the shed door opened behind me and Jane walked in. She was startled to see me there. “I thought I heard a noise,” she said. “I didn't know you were here.”

  “I did knock at the house first,” I explained. “But there was no reply. I just came down here because I was feeling nostalgic about my childhood visits. It's good to see you, Jane. I'm very sorry for your loss, your family were always my favourite relatives.”

  Jane relaxed and smiled. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “There's a lot to sort out. It's so hard, with mum and dad both going so suddenly and so close together. I miss them so much.”

  “I'd like to help,” I said. “That's why I came.”

  “That's very sweet of you,” she smiled. She looked around the dingy interior of the shed. “Remember when we used to play here during the school holidays?”

  “Yes, I was just reliving those days.”

  “At least until Maggie complained to mum about you. Cow! They got a little twitchy after that.”

  I laughed uncomfortably. “Yes, I remember. Well, boys will be boys...”

  To my great relief, Jane seemed at her ease and had put the past behind her. I was also pleased to hear it confirmed that it had been Maggie who had told tales on me, not Jane. This meant that Jane was not necessarily an apostate as I had feared, and would make what I had to do next so much easier and more meaningful.

  “I must say, Jane, I'm very pleased that you didn't betray the generator after all,” I said.

  Her brow furrowed. “The generator? That rusty old thing at the back of the shed? How could I possibly betray that? I haven't had it carted away as scrap yet, if that's what you mean. Although I will soon. I'm buggered if I know why dad hung onto the rotten old thing all these years.”

  I was horrified and I knew I had to act quickly and shut her up before she damned her soul and also defiled her sacrifice. So I shrieked “Stop blaspheming!” at the top of my voice and drew a new pallet knife out of my pocket, which I used to slash her throat. The blood sprayed everywhere, but mostly over the rusting hulk of the generator. I stood in holy ecstasy as Jane writhed on the ground, her face contorted, kicking her heels jerkily as her blood pumped fiercely forth, pooling around the generator god. Her eyes rapidly glazed over and her struggles stopped, her mouth wide open in a silent scream.

  “Jane!” I sobbed with joy. “You were magnificent! The perfect sacrifice! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

  I gathered up as much of the hot blood in my cupped hands as I could, smearing it all over the generator, feeling the pitted, rusty surface become slick and sticky. I reached out and pulled on the power cord, but it spluttered weakly and refused to fire. Again and again I pulled it, my heart sinking, but the generator remained cold and inert. I felt cold terror clutching at my innards: the god had not forgiven me after all.

  And then a feeling of intense peace and calm descended upon me and I suddenly understood what I had to do, the task that I had been prepared for my whole life. I unhooked a large bow saw from the rafters of the shed and wedged it blade uppermost across the back of the generator. I then offered up my prayers and allowed myself to fall forwards, stretching my neck so that it would be gashed fully across the saw blade.

  For one blissful moment, the excruciating pain linked my consciousness with that of the god, even as my blood flooded over its tank and frame. As my vision faded and consciousness began to flicker, I reached out and pulled the cord with love in my heart. The generator purred into life and my spirit soared with its fumes.

  · Goat Crossing

  Midway between Maughold and Laxey on the eastern coast of the Isle of Man, the traveller on the coast road will find Dhoon Glen. At a sharp bend in the road, there is a little gravel car park bordered by trees on the landward side of the road. On the opposite side, across the tracks of the electric railway, sits a small kiosk, where teas, coffees and cakes might be purchased. Next to this pleasant little cafe is the entrance to the glen.

  Dhoon Glen is a heavily wooded valley whose paths run steeply down from the road to the shore. It is a brisk and invigorating walk down, and a slog to challenge the strongest lungs to walk back up again. As with all of Maughold, it is a place of great natural beauty, unspoiled and wild.

  Some have joked that Dhoon Glen is so steep that its paths are best trod by mountain goats. In point of fact, there are a number of wild goats inhabiting this part of the Island. On the coastal road above the glen, on either side of the Bulghan cliffs, drivers are often amused to see triangular warning signs, which simply read: 'GOATS!' Most drivers quite reasonably assume that these signs are intended to warn them to be watchful in case the wild and wilful goats of the area wander into the road. But those leaping to this assumption would be quite wrong.

  Dhoon Glen is indeed the crossing place for a goat, but not one of the bearded billies that the ignorant may imagine. These signs hearken back to a legend that predates even the Celtic settlers on the Island, a horror long ago mentioned in whispers by the Isle's small population of Neolithic inhabitants, a subject which is shunned in the conversation of those who now live in the Dhoon area.

  Perhaps we may best discover the secret meaning of these signs if we follow the story of three young people who discovered it for themselves...

  It was late summer, just a week before the commencement of the new school year, when Derek Qualtrough and his brother Steven decided to go camping for the weekend: one last carefree holiday event before their return to the rigidity of school life. They both had exams this year: Steven would take his GCSEs and Derek was entering his final school year, preparing for his A levels. Camping trips would soon be a thing of the past.

  They planned to set out on
Friday afternoon and spend three nights near Dhoon Glen. There were fields alongside the woods which bordered the car park and they knew the farmer wasn't averse to campers as long as they didn't leave litter about the place. From here they would be free to explore the woods and the glen, and would return home on Monday morning. They had packed their tent – a large house tent belonging to their parents, so they would have plenty of room – and had filled their rucksacks with food and drinks. They also had some money so they could buy snacks at the cafe if they needed to. All was in readiness. The only thing Derek hadn't told Steven about was Becky.

  The two lads caught the bus from Douglas towards Ramsey and got off when they reached the Dhoon bus stop. Steven pointed at the GOATS! warning sign and laughed. Derek smirked in response. “Better zip the tent up tight, Stevie, don't want any goats slipping in to nibble your grundies during the night.”

  “Well, they wouldn't want to eat yours,” ribbed Steven in response. “They're not keen on cheese.”

  The brothers laughed amiably as they made their way up the lane towards the gate which led into the field they intended to camp in. As they approached, they saw Becky Craine sitting on the gatepost waiting for them. She was a stocky, powerful girl with short, spiky black hair, and she jumped nimbly down as they drew near.

  “What's she doing here?” hissed Steven under his breath, clearly affronted. “This was supposed to be a relaxing weekend, just for us.”

  “Relax!” whispered Derek sharply. He then grinned and called out, “Hi Becks, been here long?”

  “An hour,” she said, never one to lie diplomatically. “I thought you might have got the earlier bus, got a good start on the day.”