Close Encounters of the Strange Kind

by Michael Kerr

  Let me just explain that I am a civil servant of studious disposition, known by friends, colleagues and family alike to be a little unimaginative and not prone to whimsical speculation. Bearing that in mind, make of this what you will.

  I was alone, walking on a deer trail that led through thick woods on the edge of the North York Moors, at peace with nature, and happy to be in my own company, carrying all that I might need for the day in the backpack I wore.

  The sudden summer storm darkened the sky to a sullen nacre-grey, and the accompanying thunder and lightning was far more dramatic than any manmade pyrotechnic display. A tree not thirty feet from where I trudged was cleaved in two by an explosive bolt, and I feared for my life and began to jog, then to run, leaning forward against the pelting rain as I looked about for somewhere safe to take refuge.

  As if in answer to my prayers, I burst through thick bracken into a clearing, and at its centre was a desolate-looking cottage, obviously abandoned and in a state of disrepair. Most of the windows were boarded up, many slates had become detached from the sagging, broken-backed roof, and the whitewash on the walls was flaking to show dark patches of powdery brickwork beneath. Despite its appearance, the dilapidated dwelling was a welcome sight: a much needed sanctuary from the elements.

  I tried the front door. It was locked, but a blow from my shoulder sent it grudgingly back on shrieking, rusted hinges. I stepped inside a dim hallway, to almost choke on the odour of rot and mould that emanated from the damp fittings and furnishings. The smell of protracted neglect was nearly enough to drive me back out into the storm, but common sense prevailed. Steeling myself against the stench, and the feeling of eeriness that an old, dark empty house invokes, I made my way through to a large living-kitchen. It was still furnished, though in a terrible state. Almost a third of the plaster of the ceiling hung down, peeled back to disclose the black maw of the roof space above it. Green mould was spreading over every surface like a malignant growth, and the curtains at the broken, dirt-encrusted windows were hanging in tatters. No matter. It was only temporary respite I sought. I would make the most of my predicament. There was a fireplace, and so I tore some of the thin split timber laths from the crumbling ceiling plaster, broke them up and set them on the hearth. In a larder I found a stack of yellowed newspapers which were only slightly damp. Within minutes I had a good fire going, which brightened both the room and my spirit.

  As the storm raged outside, I took a flask of coffee from my backpack, poured some of the strong brew into the lid, and gingerly sat down on a rickety ladder-backed chair, which creaked in complaint but held my weight.

  More than an hour passed. I kept the fire fuelled, and to fight the tiredness that crept up on me, I began to read one of the newspapers I had found. It was intriguing, a glimpse into the past; an insight of what had made news way back on November the fourth, 1933. It was amazing that this broadsheet had in all probability lain undisturbed for more than eighty years. The pictures on the front page seemed to jump out at me, in the way that cartoon characters eyes will shoot from their sockets and snap back as if on elastic stalks. One image was of a cottage, which could have been one similar to the ruin I was presently in. But I knew instinctively that it was one and the same. In the photograph, the cottage looked inviting, with sparkling clean windows, sound walls and roof, and a rose-lined path leading to a chalk-white gate and picket fence. The other grainy photo showed the face of a man. Picture Rasputin in your mind and you will be able to conjure the hypnotic dark eyes, sharp features and black beard. The face was, to me, the personification of evil. I read the article, but rather than write it down word for word, will just give you the main thrust of the shocking events that had taken place in the very room that I now occupied.

  I will make this brief, and not go into fine detail for fear of making you as nauseous as I still feel. Fox Cottage had been owned by Edward and Amelia West, a middle-aged couple who had lived there for several years with their four young children. It had been, reportedly, during a storm much the same as the one that had driven me to the cottage’s door that a vagrant knocked and asked if he might shelter until the worst of it passed. Edward West had made what was to prove a fatal mistake by inviting the stranger into his home. Let it suffice to say that the down-at-heel guest butchered the entire family with Amelia’s own meat cleaver, and left them where they lay, to be found by a local tradesman the next day.

  A manhunt resulted in Samuel Deakin being run to ground on the moors and captured within hours. He was covered in his victims’ blood, and had a gold watch and chain on his person, inscribed to Jacob West, Edward’s late father. With such damning evidence against him, Deakin admitted to carrying out the slaughter, was duly found guilty as charged and hanged as a matter of course in the city of York.

  A scuffling noise made me drop the newspaper and cry out in alarm. And then I saw it; an enormous rat, its humped back bristling as it scampered towards me, ran over my boots and vanished under the cracked and stained pot sink in the corner of the room.

  I was shaking, and it took all my resolve to pull myself together. After all, what was there to be scared of? Events of so long ago were as dead as the poor family who had lost their lives under this roof. And I was not open-minded to things supernatural or beyond the realm of my senses. I would not be driven back out into the foul weather by fanciful and macabre thoughts.

  Half an hour later I was dozing, lulled by the crackling fire. The sudden coldness brought me wide awake, and a sense of uneasiness assailed me as the fire began to lose its warmth and went out for no apparent reason. I looked toward the door that led into the gloom of the hallway, and as I did, first one footprint and then another appeared in the thick patina of dust that covered the worm-holed floorboards. The whole atmosphere of the cottage became charged with what I can only interpret as emanations from a black and clinging past. And there was a smell which was not of the mould and rotting fabric that I had almost become used to and hardly noticed. This was the heavy stink of animal corruption; of decomposition and the cloying, coppery scent of sour blood.

  For a period that seemed an eternity I sat transfixed, as though I had become a statue carved from marble. Dust motes swirled and gathered together above the footprints, to form a miniature tornado that spun at dizzying speed, to then take shape; and assume the form of a man. The figure solidified, to become recognisable. As God is above me, I swear that it was Samuel Deakin, back from the prison lime pit that had been the grave holding his dissolving remains.

  Bear with me, please. The story is all but told. I just need to catch my breath for a moment and take a sip of brandy before I let my mind dwell on what happened next. There, much better. I can go on now. Are you ready? Good. He, Deakin – or the essence of him that was leaching from the cottage, as if the very walls had held the event frozen but could no longer contain it – swayed, found his balance, and took two steps forward into the room. I felt hypnotised and rooted to the spot. I had never before, or since, been so frozen with the terror I experienced in his...its presence. His dark clothes were dirty, stained with blood, and his face, where not covered by coarse, black hair, was as yellow as tallow. He looked about him, and I followed his gaze, much to my everlasting regret. Not only had the hanged man impossibly appeared, but the bodies of his victims were now among us, strewn about the floor in the dreadful state in which he had left them. The scream I heard was issuing from my own throat. I thought I might go mad.

  Deakin turned his head, grinned maniacally at me as he raised the dripping cleaver that had hung loosely in his hand. As the lethal weapon arced down, I found the strength to move, and jerked backwards in the chair and fell to the floor as the blade split the air a whisker from my face. With mercurial speed I scrambled to my feet, ran past the apparition and fled the house. At what I considered a safe distance, I paused to look back, fearing pursuit, just as a jagged bolt of lightning struck the cottage, turning it into a conflagration and razing it to the ground.

  Th
at is my story. You may think I fell asleep in the cottage and dreamt it. I don’t blame you. I had the same thought, and wish it were that simple. But I checked back issues of local newspapers to confirm that the murders had taken place. You’re still not convinced? Oh ye of little faith. The ten inch scar on the underside of my forearm is proof enough for me. I had put my hand up in self defence when Deakin made to split me in two, and was cut to the bone in the process.

  I still tramp the moors and woods of North Yorkshire. But should I ever be caught out in foul weather again, I will take my chance with nature, and not seek out a manmade shelter from the storm.

  23

  CONTAGION

  The extinction of the human race will herald the beginning of something else, which in turn will run its course and be superseded. That is the way of nature. Although insentient it is both all-powerful and extremely fickle.

  ~ MK

  Professor James Keating and his team had spent several years studying the cause and effect of glacial erosion, operating from a base, that ̶̶ with no apology to Alistair Maclean ̶ they had elected to name ‘Ice Station Zebra’.

  The low, one-storey prefabricated building was situated over one hundred and fifty miles east of Beechey Point, squatting like a small, dark naevus on a vast, white tablecloth of snow in the shadow of Mount Michelson, northern Alaska.

  Consternation generated by the ever-widening hole in the ozone layer had resulted in ample funding for Keating’s programme, ensuring him of long-term backing for the project. With eight fellow scientists, the collection and analysis of samples was a full time occupation, not just a sabbatical from the university back in Fairbanks.

  The fissure had opened in seconds; a sudden formation that sent shock waves rumbling through the permafrost, shaking Zebra enough to cause minor damage and rudely awaken those who had been asleep.

  The crack was over half a mile long, ranging from between ten to over sixty feet wide. It was a jagged rent in the glacial crust, and had developed less than six hundred yards from the nearest building, angling off to the south. Had it by fate travelled north, then the base would have been destroyed, which with hindsight would have been a blessing.

  Within half an hour of the event, Keating, Errol Brent and Ron Sears were standing at the edge of the chasm. It was Errol who saw the hand protruding from the opaque ice. The terminal part of the human limb was two feet down on the inside of the fissure.

  The decision to exhume the remains was unanimous, and so they returned to base, gathered the necessary equipment and went back to the site.

  Using thermal lances, they excavated a large rectangular block and then carefully chipped and scraped the last few inches of ice away from the body, with the patience and precision of archaeologists.

  “Christ, it’s Nanook of the North!” Errol, the expedition’s mineralogist, said. “We’ve just found a deep-frozen freakin’ Eskimo.”

  The corpse, when completely free, was in a near perfect state of preservation. It could quite feasibly have been interred a relatively short time before its discovery. The right side of ‘Nanook’s’ face was slightly crumpled, but other than that ̶ and the fact that he was dead ̶ he appeared to be undamaged. The rictus mouth displayed a full set of worn but strong looking, yellowed teeth. The left eye was open, glazed, cod-like, staring unconcernedly at Keating, who knelt before the rigid remains. On closer inspection, the dark physiognomy was more the texture of tanned leather than that of fresh, wholesome skin. The face was broad with a striking bone structure of chiselled, flat planes. It was unmistakably of Inuit origin, but to determine how long it had been trapped in the ice was impossible to hazard a guess at. The clothing gave no clue, being fashioned from polar bear and seal skins, not dissimilar to modern day dress worn in the below freezing temperatures.

  To Keating, this was undoubtedly an interesting find, but a distraction from the newly formed rupture that could still present a danger to the station. Ron Sears, the seismologist, placed portable meters at intervals along the length of the fault, and found no significant activity.

  Later, after a break for a hot meal back at base, Errol and Ron revisited the grave site in one of the two large caterpillar-tracked vehicles that were used for exploration and the transporting of heavy equipment. They placed the body in a sleeping bag and loaded it into the makeshift hearse to convey back to a new, supposedly temporary home, in a chest freezer that had been emptied in readiness to receive it.

  Keating contacted the authorities by radio and reported their grisly find, knowing that an autopsy would have to be performed on the deceased Eskimo. He personally thought that the man had most likely succumbed to the elements while on a hunting trip, and had in all probability been under the ice for many years. Obviously the powers that be would want to examine him and rule out any foul play.

  Ron and Errol lowered the body of Nanook into the chilled depths of yet another ice tomb, the freezer, for it to await the next stage of its journey, which would be a flight to Fairbanks.

  The station was cramped and utilitarian. Every square inch was precious for the storage of equipment and provisions. Scant regard had been given for human activity, other than work. The building was H-shaped. One arm consisted of six cubby-holes, which had been charitably denominated bedrooms; a single divan, locker, and a rail for clothing in each, crowding their limited space. Also on that side of the H were storerooms and a bathroom. The short cross-way provided a small living area for recreation and a kitchen the size of a small yacht’s galley. The west wing of the complex held two laboratories and further storerooms. Outside, just a few yards away, was a separate building, little more than a hut, which housed the generator and its back-up; these being the two most important items on base, providing light, power, and of even greater significance, the heating, which sustained life in the hostile Arctic conditions. The potbelly stove in the living area was an emergency measure which they had only had occasion to use twice for brief periods.

  The freezer alarm light flickered and steadied, its ruby glow a warning of malfunction. The temperature within the cabinet rose slowly by degrees, to a point which no longer held the entity in the suspended and dormant state that it had existed in for over three thousand years. The hoar frost that coated the sleeping bag melted, and that which was within the thawing corpse in some sentient way became aware that it was no longer trapped.

  George Tyson was a geologist and computer geek who had signed up for this gig two years ago. His motives were purely selfish. Helping to save the planet from mankind’s foibles had never figured in his decision to volunteer for the research work, in what he thought was the asshole of the world. George was a womaniser, heavy drinker and piss-poor gambler. At the time that this position had been advertised, he had been in deep shit with all three of his major vices, and saw the appointment as a way to curtail his excesses. He was happy to hit Fairbanks just three or four times a year. It was his method of damage limitation. Stuck out in the frozen wastes of Alaska for lengthy periods kept him safe from his own worst enemy...himself.

  George noticed the warning light as he entered the room. He could have roused Pete Dobbs, the engineer, but Dobbs was on stand-down and would not take kindly to being woken for what might just be a loose wire. What the hell! Surely he could fix a freezer. He lifted the lid, to almost instantaneously pull his head back as the terrible smell hit him. The inside of the cabinet was gleaming and wet; the thick coating of frosted ice gone. He leaned over, now breathing through his mouth to negate the cloying stench. Grasping the tag on the zipper, he hesitated, but felt impelled; was unable to stop himself from opening the sleeping bag to disclose its contents. He stared down in morbid fascination as the material parted. The corpse was semi-thawed, no longer a popsicle. The combination of wet fur and rapidly decomposing flesh and internal organs was a heady mix that he could have lived without. Shit, he thought, Pete can sort this mess out, wearing a gas mask if he has any sense. Straightening up, George slammed the lid down and dec
ided he needed to mellow out with a joint and a large shot of sour mash.

  As he had studied the corpse, the entity had risen from it with purpose, its invisible spores entering his mouth and nostrils to be inhaled into his lungs, sealing his fate as he backed away from the now rotting host that it had hibernated within. The microscopic particles of nucleic acid coated in protein attacked the soft tissue, entered George’s bloodstream and sought out his brain.

  The formless force had drifted through the vast cathedral of the universe, travelling through the void, impervious to the vacuum; a parasite in search of suitable hosts to feed upon. It had arrived as the molten earth began to cool; before the seas had formed. It was outside the concept or constraint of linear time. It had always been, and always would be. Sensing the imminent dawning of life that would proliferate on the new world, it had settled to wait, ready to feed on and manipulate suitable fauna. Now released, undiluted and in the form of a deadly virus, the alien was free to attack both the minds and bodies of all carbon-based creatures that it came into contact with.

  The supply plane arrived early. As well as delivering provisions, it brought back two of the team, who had just enjoyed a three week spell of R & R, which George had given the tag, ‘Rhyme and Reason’ to.

  George and co-worker Ron Sears boarded the plane for the flight out, both relieved that the re-frozen ‘Iceman’ was on hold until a larger aircraft with suitable refrigeration facilities could be chartered. They were ready for the break, though for vastly disparate reasons. Ron was a family man, and planned to spend no more than another twelve months as a member of the team. He was not to know that he had already been invaded, via George, by a presence that would compel him to butcher his wife and son, and then cut his own throat within twenty-four hours of arriving home. He would carry out the bloody acts with all the passion of a man tying his shoe laces, no longer cognisant of, or in control of his actions.