Dark Seed

by Simon West-Bulford

  Lucy screamed. She dropped the lamp, about to come for me, but I shouted for her to stay where she was.

  Then came a vision to burn such a scar upon my soul that I knew I would never recover. A second of time passed like an eternity as the dropped lamp revealed one of the skeletal creatures moving to intercept Lucy. It was wreathed in coils of luminous mist as it came to a stop directly behind her, and for the first time, I could see the face of my enemy clearly, if it could be called a face. Hairless and wet like a mask of oily wax, the bone-white skin rippled into folded layers to form a featureless visage over horizontal ribs of coppery bone. It had no discernible mouth, but a triangle of holes in the center broke the layered pattern. I perceived the two lower holes to be eyes, but only by the way in which a speck of pale light moved within each. I had the impression it was watching me, taunting me as it loomed over Lucy. I could not immediately decide what the third hole located above the eyes might be, but as I watched with growing horror, it widened, forcing back the metallic bones with the sound of tearing pulp.

  Lucy screamed again as she turned to see it, and I could do nothing. The hole was now a salivating tunnel of convulsing flesh, wide jaws engorged with sharp, coppery teeth.

  With my fingers clawing for a better handhold and my stomach in my mouth, I kicked into the void below me. My muscles burned as I held my weight against the precipice, and my fingertips began to slip from the crumbling ledge. Instinctively, I glanced over my shoulder to see where I might fall, but there was no sign of an end to the drop. Again I saw the blurred pillars scattered in the darkness, but I did not have time to observe any more than that. They were not the visual aberrations I first thought but real objects. I used every last morsel of strength to haul myself up to reach Lucy.

  While two lives hung in the balance, so too did the budding seed of my new but fragile faith. Though it may frustrate you to hear about the conditions of my belief in the midst of such desperation, I must assure you that it is a necessary component to my account, for without it, I would not have been able to pass this message on. When I first saw the church, it inspired me, and I realize now it was the extreme fear that motivated me to grasp for faith. But seeing inside almost destroyed that faith before it had chance to take root, and now, in a moment of dire need, the fate of that tiny seed depended entirely on the outcome of my prayer. I cried out to God to save us both, much as I did before in the alley.

  My desperation brought me the strength to climb, but by the time I had pushed myself onto my chest, panting and wailing, Lucy was already in the clutches of the creature. I saw her face. Indescribable terror was visible only for a heartbeat before a splash of blood erupted, and then the beast dragged her out of the light. I leapt to my feet and ran screaming into the dark, following the sounds of her shrieks, resorting once again to maniacal prayer as my limbs began to fail me.

  With her screams fading to the harrowing sounds of expiry, the trail was lost, and utter black surrounded me. I collapsed to the ground and, with all hope gone, wept into the dirt.

  Moon Box Segment Translation 5

  One will remain

  The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven

  5th September 1891

  The sun is setting over the mountains beyond Latourou and the workers have downed their tools for the day. I could testify to the beauty and serenity of these few moments were it not for Haynes’s snoring in the tent behind me. Of course, I cannot begrudge him the rest. He has worked exceedingly hard today; we all have.

  Midafternoon, Klepper made the next great discovery we have all been hoping for: a concealed stairway of polished granite, twenty feet wide, underneath the deepest foundations of the ruins. It was filled with mud and sand, but from the small details we were able to observe initially, it differs significantly in design from the rest of the ruins. We spent the remaining daylight hours digging and removing wet sand to a depth of twenty feet before we were eventually rewarded with the imposing presence of a tall, black double door.

  Time and again this site has been passed over by archaeologists, claiming that there was nothing new to be discovered, but in the four days we have been here, we have already found a previously unknown burial chamber, and now this! Of course, my academic peers cannot be blamed. I would have considered this site worthless too had it not been for the recently unearthed evidence within the chasms of Lundy Island. Though we are a thousand miles from that place, the link between the two is undeniable.

  I am convinced this is the entrance to the City of the Innominatum.

  6

  This time, it was the trauma of loss that robbed me of consciousness, or it may have been my wound. I do not know how long I lay there in the dirt, but when I eventually regained my faculties—exhausted and sapped of will—I did not move for some time. The smell of soil disturbed by my breath was the only thing that seemed real to me. Not the engulfing darkness, not the distant howl whenever it sounded, not the continuous replaying of Lucy’s death in my memory—none of it could be real. For if it were, I would surely go mad. So I simply lay there, allowing only the steady rhythm of breathing to have my attention. Even the bone-deep cold did not have the power to motivate me into finding shelter; I was beyond self-pity or melancholy at this, my lowest, point. I would allow the enemy to take me, or I would just die of exposure. Neither mattered—nothing mattered, for it seemed little more than torture to hope for a return to normality and comfort. Seeing my family again was a distant dream.

  A fireball bloomed somewhere, perhaps two miles distant. I was aware of it only in the periphery, the flickering glow intensifying as it gradually spread to the neighboring woodland. The distant crackle and pop of dying trees grew louder until I eventually lifted my head to watch it. I recognized the blazing tree line to be the outskirts of Dennington Cross. How the fire began I cannot say, but I have no doubt I would have perished that day; I would not have moved were it not for the light from that chaos and the gentle miracle it brought. The surrounding area was now dimly visible and my eyes were drawn to a simple deed of nature which anchored me to the living. A robin had landed a few feet away from me. It looked so normal. Set apart from the calamity that was ravaging its environment, this little bird pecked and hopped across the dirt, testing the soil, interested only in the routine that had characterized its existence since it broke free from its egg. It had no concept of the danger that had come.

  With the sight of the bird, a memory returned. My beloved daughter, Elsie, sitting upon my wife’s knee as she recited a Bible verse: “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not, therefore; ye are of more value than many sparrows.”

  Though the facts before me declared the opposite—for this bird seemed unharmed whilst men, women, and . . . whilst so many had died—the mental image of home and the remembrance of warm sentiment roused me. I could not give up. Even if I had abandoned hope of seeing them again, and even if the enemy was invulnerable, yielding to a slow death at the powers of the elements would be a shameful end. I surmised that there must be other survivors in the village, and if I was going to die, it would be far better to meet my end in a futile attempt at rescue than in empty acceptance of fate. It was precisely this uncompromising determination that filled the hearts of so many soldiers in the war, and I have them to thank for the family memories I now cherish. It was not my privilege to accept defeat. No. It was my obligation to refuse it.

  By the time I had forced myself to stand, the woodland fire was already abating. In all my days, I had never seen a fire lose its ferocity so quickly. It was as if the cold and dark would no longer tolerate a threat to its dominance. I knew therefore that when the trees had been reduced to blackened, smoking husks, I would need the aid of my lamp, if it was still useable. It was then that I realized I had lost not only my lamp but my satchel, too. There were few provisions left in it in any case, but the small amount o
f food and drink remaining would be better than nothing. It was possible they had fallen into the pit that almost claimed my life, but it would cost me nothing to look.

  The way behind was dark and I did my best to retrace my steps, but the farther I walked, the darker it grew, and greater became my fear at the discovery of another unexpected drop and the possibility of plummeting to my death. Finding my way out of the village and to Weytonset seemed more daunting to me with every passing moment, but a reprieve came with the discovery of the lamp. It was cracked, and the flame had almost died. Very soon it would be useless unless I could find more fuel. As I pointed the lamp forward, a new shock came. The huge hole from which I narrowly escaped my earlier tumble was not just a simple hole. It was the edge of a seemingly endless abyss, and once I had adjusted to the scale of it, the mystery of the blurred pillars was now revealed, at least in part. I fumbled through my pockets to find an eyeglass which I sometimes used for long distance and looked through it to view the cylindrical things below.

  Leading distantly into the infinite pitch black like titans’ stepping stones were huge rocks of differing height, their smooth flat tops the color of decaying teeth. Each of the columns was an island with a vast ring of fire along the circumference illuminating the area within, but each was different. Some boasted sprawling cities while others supported a solitary building. I saw the twisted tips of foreign towers, slanted rooftops, glistening pyramids, and tall, Gothic statues depicting grotesque animal forms that set a chill in my bones. So many diverse cultures. But most terrifying of all was the impression that all these places had been stripped of life. I hoped to see the ant-like bustle of a population on the nearest plateau which held a series of conical buildings, but there were no signs of civilization—just dead, still stone. Only the flames moved.

  Vast serpentine conduits coiled from the bases of each of these plateaus like giants’ twisted backbones, stretching into unfathomable dark depths, and I supposed that Dennington Cross was no different: captured in this web of cyclopean bones. I could no longer justify my tenuous grip on rational explanations. Never in all my travels or in all the books I had read about lost civilizations, or in the photographs of exotic temples and fallen citadels, had I seen the like. This was no place of humanity. The island rocks spread not only ahead but to the west and east as far as the eye could see. I marveled at the sight of so many lost places, wondering where they had all come from, and I tried to grapple with the reality that somehow Dennington Cross had been removed; my home had become another island within this void.

  The words of Old Man Tarky came flooding back. He told us that his home village of Newton Fremming had been “taken.” At the time I took his deluded ramblings to mean that an enemy had invaded both our villages, but now I understood. The entire town had literally been taken, physically removed. Whether we had been taken to some distant star, sucked into the bowels of the earth, or placed into some hellish other-realm, there was no way to know, but it felt distinctly like my humble village was the latest in some unending collection of trophies. How this could have happened was a mystery beyond my powers of reasonable deduction, and one that ultimately forced me to retreat to familiar surroundings.

  If this was all there was to see, it would have been madness enough, but as I dared to lean farther over the ledge to determine what could be producing the dim light by which I saw this diabolical collection, I am sure I saw it—the Nameless Beast terror of which Old Man Tarky spoke—the Innominatum, or at least part of it. I beheld it only for the length of a single gasp before sprawling backward in fear. I thought for a moment it was staring at me, a great shimmering vortex of swirling hatred but shaped unmistakably like a piercing eye, and—for lack of a more apt description—it seemed not to be real, as if my mind had sensed a presence there and so fabricated its form.

  Stunned, but still clinging to my decision to refuse defeat and despair, I stumbled back toward the muted glow of the burnt forests, back to Dennington Cross, for it was all I had left. I wanted—more than anything, after seeing that vast and surreal display—to be home again in familiar surroundings. I wanted to delude myself, if only for a brief time, to regroup, to feel safe and normal and clean. And if I could not determine a way forward, at least I would eventually fade away in my home, preserving a state of calm dignity.

  The walk back to my cottage took less time than expected, for I made no attempt to conceal myself from the creatures and walked in plain sight. The threat of violent death held no more dread for me now than the long and mournful end awaiting me in the silence of my home.

  To see the worn, black door I know so well was a comfort but only fleetingly. Through the fog the damage wrought by the earthquake was still visible, and I noted that one wall had partially collapsed; the brickwork lay crumbled over the garden. Knowing that I myself had entered other people’s houses in my earlier attempts at stealth, I fully anticipated my own to show evidence of the same, but upon entering, I found the hallway and reception room exactly as I had left them, except for the mist which had penetrated the house and illuminated the surroundings with dull, coppery light. It was enough for me to find my way to the utilities room and recover another lamp.

  With the present a damnation, and the future promising a gruesome end, it seemed there was no better thing to do now than cherish the past, and so I went upstairs to the bedroom where my wife kept our most precious belongings inside an ottoman.

  Before pulling out the old letters, photographs, and keepsakes, I poured a large whiskey from a bottle I had been saving for a friend, and gulped it back with a grimace. A second drink was more palatable, and then I lifted the lid of the ottoman. Blankets covered a lifetime of history. Gently, I set them aside and lifted out a box that rested at the top of the collection of memories. This in itself was a precious thing: handcrafted from rosewood by my eldest daughter, Louise, its bold curves and confidently carved flowers spoke of her strength and unorthodox fancies. Obsessed with the art of woodcarving, she had often insisted that Sophie supervise her for hours on end as she slaved over her creations. Taking on something of this nature was not considered proper for a twelve-year-old, nor for a girl, but I was proud of her.

  I sat on the edge of the bed with the box resting on my knees and briefly caressed the wood before lifting the lid. A faded envelope fat with papers and photographs presented itself first, and I carefully pulled the contents out. Early love letters from my wife, Elsie’s first lock of hair pressed into a card, Louise’s first baby tooth, and my favorite photograph—the four of us smiling as we stood outside the school where I used to teach.

  I studied each item in turn with the sour pains of a crimeless man awaiting execution. Self-pity is not an admirable trait; less so the tears of such indulgence, but as I pawed over every detail and lamented my separation from all that was dear to me, I could not resist the emotional tide dragging me into its currents. I would permit myself this short time of grief only because of the advantages of privacy and the force of my emotions, but if there was no relief from these hellish circumstances, I was determined that my last days would pass in a worthy manner. This was the inspiration behind the journal I now write.

  I lost track of time as I examined the soul of my family within the ottoman. Surrounded by the paraphernalia of this silent, lost world, I lay down on my bed with a sigh, staring at the ceiling in the flickering lamplight but seeing only images of summer days, moonlit walks, and country strolls. These things should have brought me solace, but instead they fueled my frustration. These were sacred memories, beautiful moments tainted by the intrusion of a reality as bitter as wormwood. Fatigued and crestfallen, I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but even that was denied me. My mind could not settle. It seethed and swayed and spun through churning seas of events and emotions that vied for attention like the endless tuning of an orchestra denied a performance, and seething beneath the surface of my pain was the hateful eye—the Innominatum. I wondered if this was the gateway to insanity and if I was
treading the same path as Old Man Tarky. Poor Old Man Tarky! I did not care for the notion that my intention to die peaceably would be robbed by madness, nor was I yet prepared to pay heed to my guilt over my recent encounters, at least not until I had better organized my thoughts. Decisively, I tidied everything away. Closed the box. Closed the ottoman. Stood.

  Another shot of whiskey gave me the courage to leave the bedroom and return downstairs to begin my journal. Recording these events, though harrowing to revisit, would be an effective means of focusing my thoughts and encouraging a level head. With the first words forming, I entered my study. Even this was a curious thing. It was the last place to hold any memory of normality, yet it was also the first link in the chain of terrible events that took me to this point. Ignoring the temptation to fall back into analysis of my emotional state, I went to the bureau, blew the mortar dust from its surface, and opened the top drawer. Several leather-bound pocket diaries were inside, and I took the top one together with a pen, and headed for my desk, but as I moved to set the journal on the writing surface, a cream-colored envelope that had been placed in the center of my desk caught my eye. It was not there when I left the house; I was certain. My name was scrawled across it in black ink by trembling fingers that had pressed too hard into the paper. The letters were jagged and awkward, and the edges of the envelope were smudged with oily stains. I opened it and read the letter.