by Gary Fry
It was Suman. And he looked ecstatic.
“It’s all happening, nephew,” he said, that black dot on his upper lip flexing within a fold of his dreadful grin. “And let us show you how.”
Us? The word worried Carl. Nevertheless, he climbed unsteadily to his feet to follow the boy who’d once claimed to be his friend, but had since proved anything but. Carl wished to return to his parents now, to Mummy and Daddy, who loved him more than anything else.
“Let your uncle introduce you to his real father,” said Carl’s guide in a voice that sounded nothing like a boy’s at all.
They stepped through one of those walls of hair, which stirred as if it was indeed formed by individual members. Then they entered a void full of white light. Somewhere amid this dazzling spectacle, which forced Carl to shield his eyes, a man stood tall or very nearly managed to do so. He looked frail and ancient, his back crooked and his arms hanging down almost as low as his sticklike legs. He had his face turned away, but in one clawed hand held the boxed science kit Carl’s parents had bought him that morning.
Carl tried controlling his fear by asking himself whether the word “kid-napping” came from the fact that children were asleep when they were taken. Getting this knowledge right seemed important, the way Mummy had always told him to use words correctly, and how Daddy often said that factual accuracy was crucial to the human race’s survival.
The figure in front of him surely wasn’t human, however.
This horrid man’s tatty gown had bright stars and strange symbols attached. The few patches of flesh Carl could see were wasted away, like that of roadside animals nobody had given a decent burial. Mummy was a vegetarian and often upset by such cruelty…But now Carl realised he must keep his mind under control by thinking about better people than the one standing before him.
And that was when the figure Suman had called his father twisted his way.
Carl screamed.
There wasn’t much left of his face, which had surely been a travesty even before decay had set about it. Shriveled eyeballs sat within craterous sockets, pushing the blistered line of a nose towards a mouth turned down at the corners more than any person’s should be. But the most hideous aspect was a scar running from check to sunken cheek; this was so deep that the bone inside could be seen, threatening to tear the skull in two and leave his brain exposed.
Carl, horrified by the sight of the man he now knew as Peter Suman, twisted to glance at his so-called friend as well as all the members of his bizarre gang.
They were children, too, but their bodies were covered in the hideous hair he’d observed earlier. When they lifted what passed for their hands, Carl noticed no thumbs were attached, only furry fingers clustered around woolly palms…They were disgusting, and right now, Carl didn’t know where to place his gaze.
But then he was grabbed from behind—by the man with the terrifying face who now struggled to speak to his companions.
“Go and retrieve the equipment,” he commanded, his voice like something unnatural stirring, which had slumbered for too long. “You know what I need. They’re all on their way—the artists—as well as that fool, the scientist. Oh, we’ll show him things to shunt his psyche to the depths of terror!”
Carl figured out that the man was talking about his daddy and all his friends who’d visited yesterday. Carl wanted to protect them, along with his mummy, and tried to wrestle free from the arms around his upper body. But it was no use. Despite his failing frame, his abductor was stronger than any child.
As the hairy figures stole away—vanishing into all the brilliant whiteness around them, as if eaten alive—Suman paced forwards, awaiting instruction. And then he received one.
“You come with me, my lad. It’s time you brought a little confusion to our feeble adversary. Ah, we’ll have fun ere long. The ruination of the planet is ripe for precipitation!”
The boy joined in the hellish hug around Carl, tightening Peter Suman’s. Then, amazingly, the old man launched himself upwards, cutting through the light and plunging into a patch of sky as dark as night, even though it surely wasn’t that late.
But time, Carl suspected, wasn’t behaving normally right now.
After reopening his eyes, he found himself in a bubblelike tunnel. Its material resembled the oily stuff he’d seen in documentaries about insects and their lairs, but wasn’t as tacky. The three of them shuffled through this chute without being impeded. Eventually Carl summoned confidence to look down, and through the liquidlike floor, he saw the earth beneath, masked by clouds and yet visible at certain points. Amid these gaps was a sight he recognised, rendered unfamiliar from his point of view.
It was Deepvale he now observed from a Godlike perspective.
He knew this was true by the structure of the landscape, so much countryside around a village. Here was the tiny church that had scared him during his arrival; there was the roundabout’s standing stone bearing that strange old symbol; here was a lengthy row of shops; and there was the grove in which he’d stayed the last few days. On its pavements, a group of people was gathered, presumably about to start searching for him.
Also down there, distance rendering them tiny and insignificant, were Daddy and his three childhood friends…each now pacing towards The Conjurer’s House.
“No!” called Carl, but his voice bounced back off the weird transparent material, nearly deafening him.
And as his terror multiplied, he spotted his mummy rushing for the heart of Deepvale, just as a group of others headed for the hills surrounding the area. Surely none realised what horrendous events awaited them. Carl knew this was true as soon as he removed his glance from the ground and then looked up.
He screamed again, tears marring his vision. He screamed until the man holding him, scrabbling like an animal through the tube’s sticky mass, muttered an impatient comment. Moments later, Suman’s hand was clapped over Carl’s mouth, just as it had days ago in the front garden of the building they were now making for. But nothing reduced the terror of what Carl continued to witness.
Way above the property, unseen from below through many clouds, herds of hideous creatures coiled against the black of deep space. Innumerable stars provided faded outlines, but Carl was unable to make them out properly. Their limbs were tangled, bulky skulls hidden beneath huge torsos and the solid sides of other travesties. He thought first of elephants, but this wasn’t quite right. Some didn’t resemble elephants at all.
He found it difficult to keep looking. He simply wanted to scream, but that was impossible.
“It’s started!” cried the old man, writhing beside him, his jubilant expression belying a pitiful infirmity. “The denizens are gathering! Ah, these are but tics compared to the entities we shall summon ere long!”
Carl glanced away from the churning mass of bodies in the sky. The tunnel ahead halted where an opening appeared, through which the three of them soon clambered. Then Carl found himself in a small room housing a much larger version of the microscope from his science kit, this one pointed upwards towards…towards…
But his thought was eliminated. Footfalls had begun creeping up a set of stairs marked by a shabby post in one corner. All the hairy children with no thumbs, having done their duties elsewhere, were bringing objects here: a laptop computer like Carl’s daddy’s; a paint palette resembling those Carl used in school art classes; and finally a guitar like the one Mummy had learned to play years ago before giving up because she didn’t have time to practice while looking after Carl and the apartment.
The old man released Carl, but Suman maintained firm hold of him. Peter Suman crept into a dark alcove, presumably to regain strength for what would surely happen next. A pause followed as long as eternity, as if time itself no longer mattered. But Carl knew something terrible had started…and couldn’t help dreading what.
THIRTY-ONE
Paul had noted his parents’ concern after Anthony’s proposal, and this had made him feel like a child again. But as his tw
o other friends had also agreed to help, Paul had started walking along the grove towards The Conjurer’s House.
It was an imposing building, not only because it reminded him of his awkward youth, but also because, since returning to the village, he’d felt its presence toying with his memories, possibly even exacerbating the creative block he’d suffered while trying to finish his rock symphony. Maybe the two things were connected in some psychological way; perhaps he needed to enter the property to release whatever was trapped inside him…He hadn’t thought the disappearance of Simon Mallinson had affected him so much, but the mind’s workings were rarely transparent, were they? All he knew was that recently he’d struggled to compose and that this had coincided with an invitation to return to Deepvale.
Alternatively, this barren spell might simply relate to being in his parents’ company again, particularly his withdrawn dad. Paul sometimes thought his experiences as a child were the reason he didn’t want any kids himself. He’d never suffered like Andy, but even so, his dad had rarely taken interest in his preoccupations, especially his music.
He watched the older man, standing in the doorway to his home as Paul’s mum persuaded him to put on a jacket. They and several neighbours planned to go into the hills and search for Anthony’s son, who’d clearly wandered off somewhere, as youngsters often did without considering the consequences. Anthony’s wife had expressed her concern irascibly, and Paul had wondered whether the Mallinson family knew anything his own didn’t…Might everyone here be in some kind of danger?
Paul shook his head, snapping himself out of his reverie. The skies above, he noticed, rioted with cloud and a stiff breeze charged off the moors.
Then he and his friends reached The Conjurer’s House.
As Anthony turned to whisper to his companions, Paul thought he heard sweet music coming from the property’s vacant doorway, but from higher up, possibly a room on the first floor. But the tune, which had surely existed only in Paul’s mind, halted abruptly. And then Anthony started to speak.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, guys,” he said in a portentous voice, “but I think we all know what we have to do…”
* * *
Lisa didn’t know what Ant was referring to. When he said they should enter The Conjurer’s House and finish what they’d started fifteen years ago, all she could think about were everyday concerns: her unfinished screenplay, Ben back in York, and her parents venturing out with the search party.
Each problem seemed connected, but she was unable to figure out how. As she and her friends marched up a weed-strewn garden path, Lisa thought about Anthony’s fretful wife. Was that what being a mother was like—always suffering such stress, worry and exhaustion?
At least Lisa wasn’t pregnant, the only thing since arriving in Deepvale offering her strength to go through with Anthony’s request. She sympathised with her friend, but what could be achieved by entering the place in which his brother had gone missing so many years ago? Maybe this was a kind of psychological exorcism, a way of coming to terms with that dreadful event. If that was true, Lisa was certainly willing to help, but despite feeling empathy, she was unable to shift other concerns from her mind.
The reason you write horror, Lisa, is because you’re a woman in a man’s world. Think about it: your mother is spineless, your only childhood friends were boys, and as for your father…
“No,” she hissed, masking the word by deliberately treading on random debris, which gave a splintered crunch. But what had her mind been trying to communicate? The voice she’d heard in her head had come to her unsolicited, as if linked to this house…
The front entrance boasted a collection of emaciated furniture illuminated by wan moonlight. After entering, Lisa and her friends looked over the thresholds of several filthy rooms, but saw no activity inside. Then she turned to gaze at the stairwell on which vandals had scratched words into the skirting boards beneath innumerable grubby steps.
CTHULHU, she read, and realised this name was connected to Paul’s band. Surely he wouldn’t be happy to learn his fans damaged private property, despite the house looking as if it should be pulled down. Paul had been brought up well, just as Lisa had, and she wondered why he’d also turned to such a dark form of art. It didn’t make sense; unlike her own dad, neither of his parents was creative…
Maybe some issues in life couldn’t be accounted for. Perhaps they just were.
Lisa had no further opportunity to dwell upon this problem, because Anthony had just paced away, ready to ascend the rickety flight.
“What we need is upstairs,” he said, and his companions shuffled uneasily in unison, especially Andy, who appeared edgy enough without a scientist’s nervous voice adding to his concerns…
* * *
Shouldn’t an expert in psychology know how to conduct himself, even in such trying circumstances? Andy thought his high expectations must result from the lousy fathering he’d suffered as a youngster. Since then, he’d sought substitute figures in the form of authoritative men—friends, teachers, other artists—but all had inevitably let him down.
He realised that by reflecting on a personal issue, he was trying to control his unruly body. What he wanted was to return to his parents’ home and continue painting the portrait he’d promised the toy company. But several sights before entering The Conjurer’s House had prevented him from retreating.
His reticence hadn’t only arisen from watching his dad putting on a coat at his mum’s sharp instruction. When his parents had followed neighbours along the alley to the hills, he’d also spotted blackish, scrawny shapes behind the house. At first Andy had thought these were conifer trees swaying in the wind-strewn garden, but on further inspection they’d advanced towards the rear of the property, out of sight.
Had these been children up to no good? That was certainly possible; his two sons were hardly paragons of good behaviour. But the more Andy considered the figures’ afterimages—examining them in his mind the way only a visual artist could—the less they’d resembled people at all. Before vanishing behind the building, hadn’t one extended a hand…and hadn’t that hand lacked a thumb?
Andy had refused to examine other houses in the grove, despite noticing that Paul’s and Lisa’s parents’ homes had also looked overburdened by foliage in their shadow-laden areas.
Stop being so stupid, man. Your dreams are getting to you.
Realising this must be true, he began ascending the flight of steps to the first floor. He was standing at the rear of the group of friends and was frightened, mainly because he was certain that, before entering the property, he’d heard footfalls shuffling up the stairs ahead. Had these intruders also been children? Whatever alternative route they’d taken to access the property, they must have carried heavy items, because nothing less than adults could have made each riser creak so loudly. Anthony and his companions were hardly doing so themselves, and that made Andy feel like the youngster he’d once been, who’d never ventured this far in the past…
* * *
“Together we can figure it out,” said Anthony, moving along the hall passage without looking into the rooms on either side. Surely the disheveled shapes in each were just the ruined piano, the rotting easel and the dank bookcase he’d spotted during his previous visit. “Don’t you see? This is all we have. There’s no God’s-eye view, but with likeminded others we might…transcend time, at least for a moment—long enough to see the truth.”
He thought he might even sound crazy, but maybe that was necessary to know the world. But he wished to understand only one thing: what had happened to his younger brother all those years ago?
Reaching the second flight of steps, which led to the upper level of The Conjurer’s House, Anthony sensed his friends follow. Maybe they knew little about the village’s nefarious past; for that reason, he felt guilty. But it was true that they’d all failed Simon, and on this occasion, Anthony was determined not to let down his son in the same way. Carl was all he had now, along with
a wife he loved and whom he prayed would be safe. Whatever outlandish event some terrible force was seeking to bring about, Anthony would put an end to it…somehow.
Courage overruling anxiety, he began climbing the final set of stairs.
The first thing he noticed after reaching the top was the globe—that outdated model of planet Earth. Illuminated by indifferent starlight pushing through clouds, it looked vulnerable, and the sight drew Anthony’s gaze towards the glass roof beyond the rotting telescope, away from the grotesque carvings on shelves where too much dimness was clustered.
The dark movement through the windows surely implied only natural weather patterns, to whatever degree the motion put Anthony in mind of animals stirring…But what was he thinking? For long seconds, he’d been transfixed, as if his body had possessed a will of its own. Then his attention drew back to his surroundings.
And to the figures stepping out from a corner of the room.
All Anthony could focus on, however, were his friends behind him expressing incredulity.
“What are these doing here?” said Andy.
Then Lisa added, “I don’t understand.”
Before Paul finished, “Neither do I.”
Although Anthony saw in his peripheral vision what each responded to—a laptop, a canvas with paints and brushes, and a guitar; all clustered behind the telescope—he was unable shift his gaze from two people who’d emerged into the scant light.
Then he heard a voice too gruff for either child say, “It’s underway! I’m delighted to report you’re too late. But we need one final push…and I’m sure your enlightened assistants will oblige, dear Ant.”