“I heard they had to clear the field of worms first,” said Eddie Bell. “Bloody big horrors, they were.”
Rob Griffiths died a week later. It was a horrendous death, which shocked and terrified the whole community.
Ted had been lying awake some time shortly after midnight, listening to Mary gently snoring alongside him and reflecting upon the day's events. Then he heard his son start screaming.
Rob had insisted upon taking an attic room, right at the top of the old farmhouse. By the time Ted got there, Pete was already inside. Just before Ted crossed the threshold into the bedroom, Rob's screaming stopped.
Rob was an old-fashioned type, who much preferred sheets and blankets over duvets. These were now twisted around his contorted limbs, soaked through with sweat and blood. So much blood. His head was thrown back, eyes wide open in pain and terror, mouth stretched in a hideous grimace, the horror of his end etched onto his face at the moment of his passing.
Ted was staring, white-faced, at the bloodied body of his son. He scarcely registered that Pete had picked up a cricket bat and was was bashing repeatedly at some squirming red thing on the bedroom floor.
“He must have swallowed it by accident, somehow,” gasped Pete when he had finished pulping the worm. “He had his sandwiches open in the tractor cab when he was ploughing that cursed field. You know how small the things are initially. One of them must have crawled into his lunch and been growing inside him ever since. I feel sick.”
But Ted just stood and stared, numb, even when Mary stood beside him and began screaming loud enough to shred her lungs.
“It's a bad do, young Rob Griffiths dying like that,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk, “and his old man has had a nervous breakdown. He's in hospital, just can't cope with it.”
“I wouldn't go near that farm for love nor money,” said Eddie Bell.
Ted slowly recovered, but he was never the same man again, a shadow of his former self. Mary cared for him as best she could and Pete took over the running of the farm.
After the run of horrors that had assailed them, culminating in Rob's death, all became quiet and tranquil, the farm functioning smoothly as Pete arranged the improvements and modernisations his father had envisioned.
They were finally rewarded with fat flocks for the market, and spectacularly fine crops of potatoes, huge and tasty. A corner seemed to have been turned, the old fallow field turned to good use at last.
“I got myself a sack of damn fine spuds from Pete Griffiths when I called by to see how his old man was yesterday,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “There's a big demand for them, best spuds folks have ever tasted. My missus picked up some for us when she was shopping today. Said they were nearly sold out, though.”
“Reckon I'll be sticking with the cheaper, imported ones,” said Eddie Bell. “I wouldn't thank you for one of those potatoes from the Old Man Kelly's fallow field.”
And deep within the succulent white core of the fine potatoes, tiny red flecks lay waiting for their chance to feed and grow.
· About The Stories
Taking a tip from that wonderful writer of bizarro fiction, Carlton Mellick III, I thought I'd indulge in a little background banter about how each of the featured stories developed and where the ideas came from.
Fafnir's Ring
This is actually the third time I've written this story. The first time was for a fanzine of Lovecraftian style horror fiction, which never ultimately got as far as having its first issue printed. The second time was for a short story contest. I had to retell the tale in less than 2,000 words: the result was awful, a summary rather than a story, so compressed that there was no room for a single line of dialogue. This third telling, in my own setting, is by far the most successful.
When writing stories based on the Isle of Man, I knew I had to include Peel Castle somewhere. I also specifically wanted a tale which would draw on the Viking heritage. So rewriting 'Fafnir's Ring', with its story of the dragon Fafnir's cursed gold, seemed a logical thing to do, and a strong enough tale to be the opener for the collection.
Moths to a Flame
A lighthouse story is another must for a collection of Manx horror tales. I don't want to specify a particular lighthouse, since they are all private homes these days, but I know which one I have in mind for the honour.
I wanted the tone of this story to be lonely, remote, eerie and abyssal. Although the fact isn't mentioned in the tale as told, the creatures could easily be considered an outpost of Lovecraft's Mi-Go.
The Worm That Dieth Not
This truly horrible tale told itself as it went along, something which weirdly happened with a few of the stories in this book.
I knew I wanted a country restaurant, a vicious, ambitious owner, and a witch, but when I started writing, I honestly had no idea what was going to happen. It told itself, and made me squirm in the process.
Originally provisionally titled 'Voirrey's Kitchen', it gained its new name when I had finished writing it.
The Wind That Shakes the Blackthorn
The title is obviously a play on the wonderful old song, 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley'. Blackthorn has long been associated with black magic and control over others, so I melded the two together as I wished to tell a story of ancient sorcery.
And when I started writing, as with the previous tale, the title was literally all that I had. Once I had introduced a cottage, and inhabitants, it all took on life and the nature of the tale's conflict made itself apparent.
And yes, they really did used to roll suspected witches down a hill inside a spiked barrel. Bastards.
Critical Massacre
The first of the three twisted and more 'off the wall' tales that are in the middle of the book to provide a little contrast.
It was my wife, Celeste, who suggested that the book must contain a story with a Manx cat in it. She also suggested a horror story about a horror writer. So this little work came about, wicked and suggestive, a little bit whimsical in its nasty and murderous way.
As in the classic movie, The Cat People, the actual identity and powers of the cat are only suggested, not shown. Cats are like that. (Say I, as a Manx author with a Manx cat.)
I must stress that this story is in no way indicative of the standards of the real local press, who are rather nice folks. (They gave my For Fear of Little Men a very good review, you know, for which I am most grateful). It is instead a little dig at critics in general, and also the ways in which some people deal with criticism.
The Passing Place
This little tale is another 'off the wall' one. It was my wife, Celeste, who again suggested this story. She pointed out that a collection of stories on the Isle of Man needed one based upon the TT Races. She also suggested some sort of dimensional rift on the course.
The story may be taken in one of two ways, the reader must decide which is correct: is this a tale of weird changelings slipping through from some other place? or is it all in the narrator's head, an account of his own paranoia and madness, culminating in a personality shift?
Regenerator
This one is very weird, and grew weirder in the telling, taking on aspects from all manner of youthful memories (not all my own!).
I do remember that one of my uncles had an old, rusty generator in a shed in his large garden. As a lad, there was something about the shape of the silhouette of this hulking thing that used to obsess and terrify me, and I used this as the basis for the story.
Coupled with this, I recall seeing strange insects and plants in an area not too far away from that uncle's property during summers long-ago. This prompted me to think of the totems and sacrificial rites incidental in Iain Banks' wonderful novel, The Wasp Factory. So that provided another strand.
Finally, I recalled a school friend (who will remain nameless) who used to lust after his cousin, even going so far as to make lewd suggestions of the sor
t featured in the tale on one occasion. His matter-of-fact reasonableness about the whole thing was too good to pass up as another factor in this strange mix of a story.
Goat Crossing
I knew from the very outset that if I was doing a volume of tales which touched upon Lovecraft territory, then I wanted to do something featuring Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young. This was mixed in with other Devilish Goat-Fiends such as Baphomet and the Goat of Mendes.
Locating this tale near Dhoon Glen was a no-brainer, as the 'Goats!' warning road signs mentioned in the story do indeed exist and have often provoked a chuckle.
This story marks the shift away from the weirdness that marks the middle tales of the book and a return towards pure horror, beginning the rise towards the book's crescendo.
The Curraghs
I knew that I wanted to write a story about the sprawling swamps called the Curraghs, and since both Celeste and long-time adviser and taunter Andi Bebb insisted that the Deep Ones should be represented in the collection, I decided to introduce a marsh-dwelling variant of the classic mythos monsters.
Once I had settled upon the Curraghs as a setting, it seemed natural to use the Island's population of wild wallabies also. From that point on, the story shaped and told itself with no further interference from me. Characters introduced themselves and events took place with no conscious interference from yours truly: I just observed and wrote it all down. I love it when writing works like this!
For the record, the Island is actually quite protective of its wallabies and there are people who make it their business to keep an eye on them and ensure their well-being.
The Fallow Field
I wanted to end on a horrifying, doom-laden note, and I think this story does precisely that.
Everything about it is designed to promote a feeling of inescapable fate. This is engineered in the wording of some of the main paragraphs, but most especially in the deliberately repeated chorus of the three men commenting in the pub. It has a repetitive, hypnotic effect, and also allows the story to move forward in little leaps, bringing the ending inexorably closer with all its horrid implications.
Enjoy, and sweet nightmares!
The Eldritch Isle Page 18