Henry Carter's Journey

Henry Carter’s Journey was my first attempt at a Weird Tale in several years. They had been a favourite genre when I was a teenager but had fallen out of favour when I began to write science-fiction and comedy. I’m now coming back to this style of story, as I feel there is a lot of mileage left in it yet.

It is a long understood fact that our perceptions of the world around us affect how we interact with one another and that these interactions will, in turn, affect our perceptions. With this idea in mind, Henry squatted in the undergrowth beneath a tall tree in a forest that cut sharply into the side of the city of Croftsbridge, and attempted to will himself invisible lest the foul creatures that stalked the city discover him.

It had been an hour since he had escaped from the institution in which he had found himself imprisoned; under the ever-watchful eyes of those who would collaborate with these beasts. He was certain they would now be searching the area to find him. He had laid low, kept away from the roads and made his way to the city to find Jessica, his daughter. She had told him, before they were separated and he was captured, that she was in trouble and that someone had been following her. Fearing for her safety, he had overpowered the guards and fled his prison during the night.

He looked around once more, checking he was not being followed, and crept carefully forward until he reached the edge of the forest. He looked out upon the river that wound its way through the city. On the far bank was a tract of grassland that he would have to cross if he was to reach the flat where Jessica lived.

The river was shallow but the night was cold and Henry did not wish to risk swimming across to the other side. There was a bridge visible in the distance and he headed for it under the cover of the forest. He treaded lightly, tensing at the sound of each branch that cracked underfoot and every trick of the wind through the trees that made him believe someone was talking nearby. After a painfully long time creeping toward his goal Henry stood before a low stone wall that marked the boundary between the forest and a footpath that crossed the bridge. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. Crossing this barrier would put him out in the open, where he would become easy prey for the creatures that now infested this city.

He placed a trembling hand on the cold, mossy stone and hoisted himself up; dropping soundlessly onto the concrete path on the other side. His heart beat quickly and his thin, white cotton shirt stuck to his sweat-covered back. He stood and brushed the dirt from his white cotton trousers and looked around. There was nobody in sight but he felt certain he was not alone.

Henry jogged toward the bridge, hoping to cross it quickly and reach the relative safety of the shadow-clad streets on the other side. He looked over his shoulder regularly, expecting to see his jailors close behind, or perhaps even one of the hideous creatures, those mockeries of men, trailing him, ready to strike without warning.

He heard laughter ahead and froze. He could see no one else in the area. Could it be his imagination? He thought it unlikely, as he had never known himself to be prone to such tricks of the mind. The laughter came again, accompanied by guttural speech he could not hear clearly enough to understand. The sounds came from an alleyway that lead onto the street near the end of the bridge. Henry looked around for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere.

His heart pounded in his chest as he saw two figures stagger out of the alley, talking to one another in a slurred replica of language. He froze in terror as the creatures spotted him and he instantly recognised them as two of the beasts that had invaded and subverted his city, in their mockery of human form, twisting good society to their foul will. The shorter of the two slapped the other on the chest with the back of its hand and pointed at Henry. It slurred something in its course tongue. The other creature laughed and together they staggered toward their horrified target.

They lurched forward and Henry could smell the sharp tang of tobacco and alcohol clinging to them like a fetid aura. Soon they were upon him and Henry found himself pressed against the metal railing that ran the length of the bridge. The taller of the fiends demanded something of him but its thick language was difficult for Henry to understand. He tried to push past the foul half-men and continue on his journey but the shorter of the two blocked his path.

They pushed him against the barrier once more and the taller assailant pulled at Henry’s clothes. Henry pushed them away with as much force as he could muster and when the shorter one lunged at him he struck back, landing a heavy blow on the beast’s jaw and leaving it sprawling on the concrete.

Henry turned and ran as fast as he could toward the town. The other attacker chased him but Henry was much faster and soon outpaced it.

He found himself standing on the rough cobbles of a back street that ran in a crescent between two rows of houses at the foot of a steep hill, on top of which stood a church. The silhouette of the church was a welcome sight. He had seen it every day for fifteen years, for his home was a small house whose garden bordered the church’s grounds. Nearby stood a row of houses converted to small flats in which he would find his daughter, if he was not too late already.

He heard footsteps behind him and the harsh sound of electronic chatter. Could one of the guards from his prison have found him so soon? If so, the guard had yet to reach the street in which he stood and he still had time to escape. He scrambled over the high wall that divided the cobbled street from the paved yard at the rear of one of the squat houses and carefully lowered himself far enough to drop soundlessly to the concrete.

The hiss of electronic speech over the guard’s radio came perilously close to Henry’s position and it was all Henry could do to remain still instead of succumbing to his fear of recapture and fleeing. He held his breath lest the guard hear him breathing or somehow find another clue to his whereabouts and, thus alerted, quickly set upon him with the malice he had come to associate with the creatures he so feared.

After several minutes crouched in darkness and fearful to move even an inch, Henry heard the guard’s footsteps on the cobbles as he walked off down the road. Henry exhaled as slowly and soundlessly as he could. He was certain this was a trick to lure him out of hiding. He remained still, listening for any sign that the guard, or something worse, was waiting nearby. When he was sure there was no one else around he crept to the gate, lifted the latch and opened it slightly so he could peer through and check the lay of the land.

There was no one in the street, as far as he could see. Bolstered by this revelation, he steeled himself to emerging from the yard. The gate was old and, he felt, likely to make a sound when opened any further so he closed it carefully and turned back to the wall. It was slightly taller on this side, as there was a short step down into the yard from the street. Nevertheless he found himself able to reach up on tip toe and grab the top of the wall with both hands. Hoisting himself up, he glanced around quickly to make sure the street was still clear and, seeing no one, he pulled himself over the wall, dropping to the ground with only a low crunch of brick fragments to signal his landing.

He hurried to the end of the street and stopped only to check the adjoining road was clear before crossing. As he was nearing the kerb on the other side, a rock struck him on the back of the head. He staggered, his mind awash with pain and brief disorientation. He turned, saw another rock heading for him and ducked with only seconds to spare. The rock hit a shop window behind him with a loud crack, setting off the alarm.

The missile throwers were running toward him now and he recognised them as his assailants from the bridge. The rage that burned clearly in their eyes served only to enhance the hideous nature of their appearances in Henry's eyes. Despite their obvious efforts to appear human – the humanoid form, the clothes, the attempt at language – Henry saw now the vicious animal that lay behind the disguise. These creatures wanted to kill him, just as others like them wanted to kill Jessica. He knew he was no match for such ferociousness, so he fled.

The sound of the shop alarm wailed in the background but Henry could hardly hear it over the echo in his head of the rapid pounding of his heart. He gasped for breath as he ducked and weaved to avoid the succession of rocks flung by his demonic pursuers. He was not far from Jessica's flat now. If he could keep up this pace, perhaps he would make it.

Police sirens wailed somewhere nearby. Henry decided they were unlikely to be interested in him and put them out of his mind. The street he was aiming for was just around the corner. He was almost there! The smile on his face, flushed as it was, disappeared as another rock struck him on the back of the head. He stumbled, tripped over his own feet and landed flat against the concrete. His pursuers laughed and ran toward him, shouting angrily in their course tongue.

Henry recognised very few of their words but even these were not necessary to understand their intent. These gaunt figures, mockeries of the decent folk Henry had known before the terrible events that led to his imprisonment, meant to harm him; no doubt to satisfy some demonic pleasures or exact revenge for his escape on the bridge. Henry's mind filled with thoughts of his daughter and how he must reach her before it was too late. Fear mixed with rage and he lashed out, slamming his foot into the knee of the taller creature and scrambling to his feet in the resulting commotion.

The smaller being swung at Henry, slamming its fist into his gut and sending him staggering backward. He lashed out again, striking his attacker square in the face, drawing a trickle of deep red blood from its lip. He followed this with a kick to the groin and his attacker crumpled before him, roaring in agony. Henry fled once more while the taller beast's attention was torn between him and his companion.

Henry raced around the corner as fast as he could. He could see the house! He was so close now, so very close. The garden was unkempt, which was unusual, but that was neither here nor there. The door was ajar too, which gave him cause for concern. Jessica never left the door to the house open, nor did the man who lived in the flat below her.

He ran to the gate, his heart pounding with the exertion. The taller of his pursuers was close behind him but if he could get inside he would be safe for now. He ran through the open gate and inside the house, slammed the door behind him and leaned against it while he caught his breath. His head pounded with each beat of his heart and he could feel his skin tingling. He had made it! Jessica needed him and he had escaped the prison to come to her rescue, as he always knew he would.

The creature outside pounded on the door for several minutes before eventually giving up. Henry waited in the hallway with his back against the door, barring entry in case the wood should fail to keep the creature at bay, until the wretched attacker left. When he was certain it was safe to move again he looked over at the stairs to his daughter's home.

His attention became immediately transfixed on the black and yellow striped tape that hung limply from the door frame at the top of the stairs. Although his knees threatened to buckle beneath him he walked forward slowly. Could he be too late? After all he had gone through, all the obstacles he had overcome, could he have failed at this final hurdle? Hands trembling, he gripped the handrail as he climbed the stairs and at the top he gripped the tape. He read it, all the time challenging it to say something other than what he knew it must:

POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS

'Jessica?' Henry called. His dry tongue stuck to his teeth and made it hard to speak.

There was no answer. 'Jessica? It's your Dad,' he called.

Still there was no answer. He tried the door and found it unlocked. Inside, the flat was a mess. Jessica had never been the tidiest of people but the books and magazines scattered across the floor were not what he had expected to see. He searched the house, finding each room in a similarly ransacked state.

Unsure what else to do, he sat down on his daughter's sofa and stared at the wall. He could make no sense of it. Jessica had been worried, yes, but he had assured her that he would come around as soon as he could leave work. Surely she would have waited for him? Her not being here did not make sense.

He looked around again, scanning the room for a note or at least some clue as to where she had gone. There was no note, but there was something far worse. On the deep red carpet by the archway leading to the entrance hall was a patch of darker colour. He shuddered at the thought of what it could be and stood slowly, as if it might disappear or somehow become less real if he gave it enough time. It was still there when he knelt beside it and felt the hard, matted pile.

It was clearly blood, and it was dry.

Henry did not know how long he spent weeping by that bloodstained patch with his thoughts clamouring for position in his mind. He was too late! How could this have happened? He had promised he would come! He should have come sooner. He should have done something at least. Now it was too late.

A knock on the door brought him back to his senses. He looked up to see a tall man entering. He recognised the man immediately: he called himself Doctor Franks and he ran the prison where Henry had been held. He had prevented Henry from reaching his daughter in time.

'Hello, Henry,' Doctor Franks said, calmly. 'I thought I would find you here.'

'This is your fault,' Henry spat. His fists clenched in readiness for a fight. 'I was too late to help her. You and your prison saw to that.'

'I thought we discussed this, Henry,' said the Doctor, edging forward slowly. 'There was nothing you could do. Come back to the hospital and we can discuss it.'

'I'm not going back there. Not with you, 'Doctor', not with anyone!' Henry snarled.

The doctor advanced, slowly and calmly but in a manner that was nevertheless threatening to Henry. This man was barring the only means of escape. Henry would have to force his way past if he was to get out of here.

'Get away from me!' Henry cried as he ran for the door.

He pushed the doctor with as much strength as he could muster, sending him sprawling. Slamming the door behind him he ran down the stairs, almost tripping several times in his desperation to escape. He reached the front door, now stood open again, and ran straight into a policeman waiting outside.

'Get off me!' he cried, struggling against the man's iron grip.

'Come now, sir,' the policeman said. 'Let's not have any more trouble.'

'You've got to let me go,' Henry pleaded. 'The man in there wants to lock me up. He's afraid of what I know!'

'Thank you, Constable,' said the doctor, emerging from the doorway behind Henry. 'If you could help me get him into the car it would be most appreciated.'

The two men dragged Henry to the car, fighting his desperate struggles to escape. The doctor climbed in beside him and the policeman sat in the driver's seat.

'I'm sorry for what happened to your daughter, Henry,' the doctor told him as they drove back to the hospital. 'I know her death has been a terrible strain on you but you must believe that I'm here to help you.'

Henry glared at his captor. 'You don't know the first thing about it.'

'I know you're under a lot of strain but with time I will help you get better,' the man said.

The doctor smiled what he thought was a reassuring smile but to Henry it betrayed what lurked behind that mask of flesh. It was all so clear now. The doctor was one of them, too!

The Final Report of James Graham

The Final Report of James Graham is a baroque horror story set in a virtual reality world. It was my first attempt to fuse these two disparate genres and while I don’t believe this particular story is fully effective in capturing this juxtaposition I was suitably pleased with the concept to try it again in later works.

I do not know how much of what I am about to tell you will be of any use in clarifying the events of the case in question; or in explaining my own disappearance, which I am aware cannot have gone unnoticed; or whether it will even be believed. I myself have no explanation for what has occurred during the time since I last spoke to Valentin Koze nor do I have any knowledge of how long I may have been missing, for I have no means of measuring the passage of time.

Much of what occurred on that fateful night is now lost to the dank fog that even now clouds my mind. Events began several days before with the discovery of a body in a squalid flat in Durham. The deceased had been discovered after his neighbours had

telephoned the police to complain about strange smells and agonizing noises emanating from within.

What was found on the officers' entering the flat, I am told, sent one onlooker to permanent residence in the County Mental Hospital. Needless to say the flat was sealed off to the public and I arrived at the scene as quickly as I could.

Upon entering the flat I was set upon by a singular feeling of impending dread that has been impossible to shake. The squalid conditions in which Alexander Cumbernauld, the former tenant, had lived were unrecognisable beneath his fetid remains, which had been cast liberally across the few pitiful items of furniture he owned. The walls and floor were covered with a writing of some kind, daubed with a heavy hand in a black viscous substance. The meaning of the text has been impossible to fathom but the symbols and imagery that accompanied it were of a kind that left me in no doubt that the writing held some malignant intent.

There were three images in total, if the numerous symbols and diagrams that broke up the reams of text that covered the bare walls and floor of the late gentleman's hovel are to be discounted. Of the three it was the main image that disturbed me the most for it depicted a creature of some considerable size and monstrosity; being some kind of hybrid of man, dog and spider.

It stood seven feet tall if the image were life size, and balanced upon eight spindle-like, many jointed legs that seemed to move in a swimming motion even as I stared at it. Upon these infeasibly thin legs sat a squat body of considerable weight, giving the creature a bloated look beneath its matted fur. Atop this hideous form was a long muzzle and myriad spindle-like appendages, the purpose of which were lost to me. The creature, despite being merely a crude depiction carved of chalk and greasepaint, seemed to gaze at me with a level of malice I have no wish to experience again.

What little furniture existed in the flat lay broken and scattered such a way as to suggest a pitched battle had occurred. The only device left untouched was Mister Cumbernauld's computer, which appeared to still be functioning; although the rig he had used to connect through it into the etheric realm now lay in a charred and bloodied heap beneath the hideous depiction I have already mentioned.

I took the computer to the station and there was able to determine that Mister Cumbernauld had been such a feature of the online world that on the few occasions when he disconnected and returned to Earth he must have done so only to satisfy a duty that could not be undertaken any other way. His connection logs showed that he lived and worked in the online realm and did so with some great success, for his virtual domicile was the epitome of opulence, in stark contrast to the squalor that housed his physical shell.

Mr Cumbernauld had been connected to the computer for some time when the police arrived and the logs on his computer told me that he had still been active inside the etheric realm at the time of his death. I telephoned the company responsible for this online world and while they were at first uncooperative I was able to determine that Mr Cumbernauld had been accompanied by two others at the time his neighbours had called the Police.

With the assistance of members of the aforementioned company I was able to identify these individuals as Valentin Koze and Juliette Hallow; both obvious pseudonyms the individuals had created for their online activities, as is common practice. Mr Koze proved difficult to locate in the real world, having been careful to retain a distinction between his real and virtual lives but Ms Hallow was not as keen to remain anonymous. I quickly discovered that she lived in a village outside Shepburn but when I attempted to contact her to arrange a visit I received no reply.

Nevertheless I travelled to her home and once again I came upon a depiction of that hideous creature whose name and purpose were both a mystery to me. It was this time picked out in intricate detail upon a stone wall in the lounge of the victim's cottage, while the victim herself lay mauled beneath it. Although its eyes, if it even had such devices, were not visible to follow me as I moved about the cottage I nevertheless felt its attention was upon me always. I felt a need-–nay, a compulsion–-to leave as quickly as I could and return there no more.

An examination of Ms Hallow's computer indicated that she too had been online at the time of her death, which had occurred within hours of Alexander Cumbernauld's own demise. It was clear to me that if I was going to get anywhere with this case I had to speak to Mr Koze, but to do so meant entering a world I knew precious little about.

The etheric world is something of which I have long been wary because to access it requires the use of a device that inputs signals directly into the brain and, in turn, is controlled by commands sent directly from the user's mind. It is this unnatural interaction with which I take issue and thus I have remained steadfastly connected to this Earth unless it has been absolutely necessary to venture elsewhere. While I realise it is supposed to be impossible to come to harm within the online world I have always been sceptical of claims of this type and I believe this particular case is ample evidence that my ill ease was well founded. Two people were dead already while a third may have been dead or dying and if they had not met their fate through means of some agent within this constructed reality then I am certain their doom must be in some other way linked to their activities in this artificial world.

With a growing sense of dread and thoughts of the hideous creature adorning the walls at the scene of these most gruesome of deaths I returned to Durham and headed to the police training facility near the city centre. There I booked in to one of the smaller training rooms and used a mindset system to enter the main ethereal realm, where I hoped to locate Mr Koze.

The experience of entering a mindset is unpleasant, beginning with an unnatural pickling sensation across the scalp that spreads to every portion of skin. In most users this sensation lasts for a few mere seconds while the mind adjusts but in my case, as with some others, it continues until the user fully awakens in the new world. With the memories of the dead still vivid in my mind, I engaged the sensory input on the mindset and choked back the sense of nausea that greeted me as my mind tried to cope with a sudden shift in perception.

I found myself at Brewis Station, the largest of several connection points where people who have no other connection to the etheric world can enter it. Looking around I saw a great number of people who all shared the same confused expression that one gets when transported into another reality where things look similar but can work in very different ways.

Shaking off the nausea that accompanies travelling to this unnatural world I set about locating Mr Koze. Because of the enhanced abilities provided to me by the police mindset I was using I was not only able to confirm that he was online but I was able to find him very quickly. A map appeared in front of me when I asked for directions, blinding me to my surroundings but giving me very precise details of his location. I fought with this insufferable nuisance for a minute or two before I learned how to make it go away and then set off to find my quarry.

The map had told me Mr Koze was located in Denver Park, a relatively new addition to the world if the signs declaring it to be 'Under Construction' were any indication. The park was mostly deserted, save for a handful of saplings planted at the entrance, a gravel path that wound through neatly cut grass and a shed, presumably for the grounds keeper, at the far side, by a small lake. Huddled by the lake, in the shadow cast by the shed, was Valentin Koze. I headed for him quickly lest he disappear before I arrived, and found him muttering incoherently with his head bowed and his arms folded protectively around his knees.

'Valentin Koze?' I asked, kneeling beside him. The ground felt damp and smelled of freshly cut grass and I marvelled at how detailed this imaginary world was.

Koze did not respond to my greeting and flinched when I reached out to touch him on the shoulder. I told him I meant him no harm and that I was merely seeking information about Alexander Cumbernauld but he told me he did not know who that was. I asked him about Juliette Hallow and this time the poor wretch looked open me with horror and scurried backward. I grabbed him by the shoulder so he could not escape and he screamed. He pleaded with me to let him go, to leave him be and not trouble him any further but I could not.

'You were with her the night she died,' I said. 'I must know what happened.'

'Please let me be!' he cried. 'I cannot bear to think of it!'

'Tell me!'

'I cannot! It is too hideous! I cannot – I must not – relive it!'

'I must know what happened, Mr Koze.'

'No! I cannot say!'

'I saw a terrible figure at Juliette's home,' I told him. 'A many-armed creature, not wholly man nor wholly beast. I saw it again at Alexander Cumbernauld's house. Do you know of what I speak?'

The wretched fellow nodded and pointed to the ocean beyond the park, which marked the edge of the world as it presently stood.

'It took them out there,' he told me.

'To the sea?'

'No,' he replied, flatly. 'To the house. You do not see it?'

'No,' I replied, for there clearly was no house to be seen.

At the edge of the park was a low, stone wall and beyond that a long drop to where the sea crashed against jagged rocks. Between ourselves and the wall there was only the grounds keeper's shed and five metres or so of grass, nothing more.

From beneath his jacket, which was made of denim and somehow managed by inexplicable means the achievement of appearing to be both old and new at the same time, a gold locket that glinted in the sunlight. He handed the locket to me and I recall its unearthly coolness, which I attributed to another of the peculiarities of the unwaveringly artificial realm. He bid me fasten the locket around my neck and as I did so I felt the nausea creep up on me once more as the world changed subtly.

Where once the wall had stood between the park and the ocean there was now a small stone building with darkened windows and a tall, thin oak door. The building stood two floors high but the windows on the upper floors were boarded over from the inside and the roof contained many holes. How this derelict could have gone unnoticed is something that will no doubt trouble me for some time but upon its appearance I found myself unconcerned, as the eerie disquiet I had felt earlier when gazing upon that monstrous visage had returned.

Koze did not wish to accompany me inside this house and, having no reason to believe I could not find him again later if I needed to, I allowed him to remain where he was cowering while I ventured inside alone. I stepped up to the deep red door and grasped the doorknob, feeling as I did so that I was being watched just as I had felt when confronted by that foul depiction in Ms Hallow's cottage. I turned the knob and the door slid open to reveal a short hallway with a staircase leading upward and several doors leading off to various rooms on the ground floor. I stepped inside and glanced around as I closed the door. Koze was nowhere to be seen but I paid that no heed.

I checked the doors closest to me and found them both locked. Attempting to push them open was no use as they did not move one inch. I put this steadfastness down to the mechanics of this realm rather than good workmanship and moved on to the next door. This too I found to be locked tight and solid enough to resist my attempts to force entry, which left only one door on the ground floor for me to attempt. This final door stood beneath the stairway.

I turned the handle and the door glided open without a sound. Looking beyond I saw only a ladder leading to a cellar. A lantern hung from a nail beside the ladder but the room was otherwise empty. A feeling of intense dread filled me as I gazed down into the endless black of the cellar. In a moment of cowardice I closed the door looked away, turning my attention instead to the upstairs.

I ascended the staircase with its bare wooden slats that echoed my every footstep and was greeted with a hallway not dissimilar to the one below it. Here there were four doors leading off, two at one end and two at the other. I tried the nearest door and found it led to a small bathroom containing an old toilet with a cracked cistern and no seat; a sink with no plug and taps that, when turned, gave no water; and a large, cast iron bathtub in which there were dark stains. On closer inspection, these deep red-black markings were very old and as I ran my finger over them some chalky powder came away. The powder smelled of dust and as I wiped my hands clean on my handkerchief and left the room I thought about what their origin may be.

The remaining three rooms each contained a neatly made bed and empty wardrobe. It was clear to me that whoever owned this house did not spend much time living in these upstairs rooms.

With nowhere else that I could now investigate my mind once again turned to the cellar and the fear that had overcome me when I first espied it. I descended with great trepidation, imagining at any moment that the creature I had seen in the images at the victims' houses would burst through the door to devour me. Finally I found myself at the door to the cellar, my hand on the handle ready to open it and face whatever lay beyond. I looked around, conscious that there were still other rooms that could contain vital information for my case or, as my paranoia was keen to remind me, could easily conceal a killer waiting to pounce when my attention was diverted. When I was certain there was nobody else around, I took the lantern from its hook and carefully descended into the darkness.

The light from the lantern was weak and I could see only a few feet in front of me at any time but I was glad of its presence as the light was a comforting barrier against the cold emptiness of this vast cavern of a cellar. I called out a greeting, having realised I had not done so when I first entered the house, but I heard no reply.

I pressed on with my investigation, beginning by following the wall to determine the size of the room. Despite the dim light it was clear to me that the markings on the walls were similar to the writing I had encountered in the real world and I was now convinced that if I was to discover the truth behind the deaths of Cumbernauld and Hallow then I had to uncover the truth behind these markings and the depictions of strange beasts that accompanied them. However, there were more markings in this cavern than I could recall in the real world and more depictions too.

Suddenly the wall disappeared and I was faced with a tunnel of sorts with walls that were too smooth to have been a natural occurrence. I felt a strange compulsion to enter and despite my fears and all my common sense telling me not to do so, I began a slow descent into the tunnel.

The air was thick in here, and damp. My heart began to race and I felt my grip on the lantern slip for my hands were slick with sweat. I stopped and placed the lantern on the ground so I could wipe my hands on my handkerchief but when I came to retrieve the lantern I froze. The floor I stood on was slick with a layer of red-black fluid and as I knelt to examine it a sickly sweet scent flowed over me. I turned to look for the source of this strange aroma and caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a muzzle covered with a familiar matted fur.

I shrieked and turned to run, grabbing the lantern as I did so. I heard the creature lurch after me and give chase but I did not look back for I feared what I might see. I ran as fast as I possibly could, my heart threatening with each beat to burst under the strain and my lungs now paining me. I felt the sweet scent of the creature's breath on the back of my neck as I ran and I had barely reached the ladder when the lantern slipped from my sticky grasp, hitting the floor and plunging the world into darkness.

The creature grasped my legs as I scrambled up the ladder and pulled but somehow I managed to climb. Its claws ripped at my clothes and I cried out as it tore into my flesh. The wounds itched as untold years of dirt and decay worked their way into my body from this foul being's talons but still I climbed until I reached the safety of the top of the ladder. I fell with my back against the floorboards and when the filthy scalp of this hideous predator threatened to push past the ladder to come at me once more I kicked out with all my strength. My foot connected with the beast's skull with a crack and it roared in pain, sinking out of view and giving me the chance I needed to race for the door.

As I reached the threshold a moment's clarity made me tear the locket from around my neck and cast it back into the house. The building began to fade from view almost immediately and I leapt through the open door just in time, landing roughly on the grass outside. I lay there for some time, gathering my strength and trying to piece together what I had seen in the house. Images of that hideous beast whirled in my mind and by the time I felt able to move again the park was covered in darkness. The pain in my leg had subsided, although the burning sensation was spreading and I feared there may be some infection.

I attempted to disconnect from this realm and take what information I had gathered back to the real world but I could not. Summising that as I had arrived at Brewis Station then I must also have to leave the world there, I tried to head back but I found no way to leave the park. I called out for assistance and nobody came.

Finding myself trapped I began to panic, fearful that the beast within the house might return at any moment to finish me off. I thought I smelled its sickly aroma and I instinctively headed for the refuge of the grounds keeper's shed, where I barred the door with what items I could find.

I have remained within the confines of this makeshift fortress for many hours, although I cannot be certain of the time. Since my retreat I fancy I have heard many noises and sounds of movement at the door. The scent of the creature that hunts me has grown stronger and I am now certain that it lurks nearby. I will use this mindset's messaging system to send this report to the station I hope the creature will not discover me before help can arrive.

There is movement at the door. It is too late. The beast is here. The walls are not strong enough!

Portly Stoutmaster's Journeys: The Search for the Book of Loholt

The following is a short story written for The Demon By The Campfire, a newsletter printed by KJC Games to accompany one of their play-by-mail fantasy games. It uses some deity and location names from KJC's game to make the story fit their setting.

The short, fat candles in thick brackets lining the crumbling stone walls cast thick shadows in the smoke-filled tavern. Amhar leaned against the scratched oak bar and emptied his tankard. He called to the barman for it to be refilled and tossed a couple of gold pieces onto the beer-soaked counter. The barman handed him a refilled tankard and rushed off to quell an argument which looked to spill over into a fight.

Amhar emptied the tankard in one go and was about to call for another when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

'I thought I'd find you in here,' said the voice. Amhar turned to face the person who had spoken and came face to waist with the tall, balding figure of Professor Palladium.

'You've grown, haven't you?' asked Amhar. 'I've told you before. If you get any taller you'll grow right through what little hair you've still got.'

'I haven't grown,' replied the Professor. 'You're just not standing up properly. Ale does that to you. You really should cut down.'

Nonsense!' exclaimed Amhar, waving his hand at the Professor and losing his balance in the process. The Professor helped him back to his feet and inquired of the whereabouts of Portly Stoutmaster.

'He's in the library,' Amhar replied. 'He said he'd meet us here.'

As if on cue, Portly arrived just then, grabbed his two companions and embraced them then hammered on the bar and ordered a round of ale.

'So,' said Portly, after finishing his drink. 'What have you two been up to?'

'Well I've been off trying to learn new spells and I don't think I'm far from the truth when I say Amhar here has been drinking the last of our gold.'

'S'not true!' pleaded Amhar. 'I've been going 'round town trying to find the best place for us to stay and I happen to find that the place with the best beds serves the worst beer so, naturally, I've had to sample the beverage in each establishment before I make a decision.'

'But there's only one inn here,' said Portly. 'So surely it's the best?'

'Well, yes,' admitted Amhar. 'But I still had to make sure it was worth the money.'

Portly wasn't convinced. They'd completed their last job several months ago and the reward they'd been paid had been slowly ebbing away ever since. At first they'd bought themselves new equipment, to make things easier on their next adventure. Portly still wore his thick woollen jumper, but hidden underneath was a new vest of the finest chain mail available. Amhar had sold his old leather armour and replaced it with plate mail while the Professor now sported ring mail covered by his mage's robe and a helmet to cover his balding scalp.

Amhar had bought himself a new axe to replace the one he had broken during the party's last adventure. Portly had given him his old sword, which he had carried as a spare after getting a more deadly one from the corpse of a goblin on the same adventure, but Amhar found the weapon not to be to his liking and had given it back soon after. Portly still carried the goblin blade, which he later discovered was very old and also very valuable. No doubt the goblin had taken it from someone it had ambushed during the night.

The Professor, who was a superstitious man at heart, still carried the sword he had begun his adventuring career with. He had bought it with the last of his gold in the hope that a group of adventurers would come by in need of a young mage who was fresh from his training. Portly had found the young mage in a bar and had offered him a place in his part soon after. From then on, the Professor believed, the sword brought him good luck.

'How much do we have left?' asked the Professor.

The three adventurers rummaged in their coin purses and Portly counted the combined sun on the beer-soaked bar. There were 40 coins.

'Well, it's enough to get us a room for the night,' said Amhar. 'But we won't have much left.'

'That won't be a problem,' said Portly. The other two looked at him expectantly.

'Drink up, lads,' he continued. 'I've got us another job and we're setting off tonight.'

Amhar and the Professor finished their drinks while Portly collected their last gold coins into his purse. When he had finished drinking, which didn't take long, Amhar asked what the job was.

'We're to find a book,' Portly replied. 'A very valuable book. Then we're to bring it back here.'

'What sort of book,' asked the Professor, placing his empty tankard on the bar.

'Some ancient text or other. The Book of Loholt, I think it's called. Apparently someone had found it and was bringing it here but he got ambushed by Ythcalites on the way. Our job is to go and retrieve the book - and the courier, if he's still alive. The ambush wasn't too far from here so the Ythcalites could still be near by. That's why we're leaving tonight. As soon as possible.'

'Do we have enough time to get supplies together?' asked Amhar.

'No,' replied Portly. 'I'll call on the gods to aid us in the food department. We'll not go hungry, don't worry.'

And with that the trio of adventurers set off in search of a stolen tomb of ancient knowledge with only the knowledge that the ambush had occurred on a road a few miles to the North-west.

Portly called on the gods to send them food and was rewarded with enough to feed them for ten days. They stuffed the provisions into their backpacks and headed towards the road.

After two days travel they arrived at what appeared to be the site of the ambush. The courier's body had been left rotting at the side of the road, although his head had been severed and could not be found. Portly didn't want to think of what was going to be done with it. Something dreadful no doubt.

Amhar and Portly buried the remains of the courier in a shallow grave by the side of the road while the Professor went about the process of mixing powders and casting a spell to give the adventurers knowledge of their surroundings.

'There's a group of Ythcal monks three days travel North. They've left the road and are travelling by foot through the wilderness. I think they're the ones we should be going after.'

'Well it's getting dark now so let's set up camp here and get after them tomorrow. Do you have the correct powders to teleport us?'

The Professor nodded. The party set up camp in a clearing close to the road, on the opposite side to the freshly-dug grave of the headless courier. Amhar set a fire going while Portly and the Professor prepared the evening's meal.

That night Portly dreamed of blood, skulls and invocations. Of death and destruction flowing across the land.

'That sounds like an omen if ever I heard one,' said the Professor when Portly told him of his dream the next morning.

'Do you think it's got something to do with this book we're after?' asked Portly.

'I'm not sure, but I'd say it was likely. I've heard of the book before, during my training. It's a tomb of ancient knowledge of other plains of existence.'

'Maybe the Ythcalites are planning to unleash their god's influence on the whole of Kharne.'

'If so we'd better find them and stop whatever it is they're going to do before they destroy the world.'

The adventurers packed up their belongings and the Professor scattered the remains of the previous night's fire before covering over the encampment with leaves to make it more difficult for anyone following them to trace their steps. Then he began mixing powders and chanting in ancient tongues to transport the party to the last known position of the Ythcal monks.

When the ringing in his ears had finally dissipated, Portly looked at the barren landscape around him.

'Where are we?' he asked.

'If I remember correctly, we're a couple of miles west of our intended position,' the Professor replied.

'That's not too bad then,' said Amhar. 'But we'd better get moving if we're to catch these monks.'

'Which way should we be heading?' asked Portly.

The Professor mixed more powders and cast another spell, going into a deep trance. It was several minutes before he answered.

'I can't find them,' he replied. 'They're not on the surface and there are no settlements nearby. They can't have gone far out here though.'

'Then we should head off to where you last saw them and see if we can pick up their trail from there,' said Portly.

'I hope they're in some sort of dungeon,' said Amhar. 'I'm looking forward to trying out this axe on something's head, and maybe even finding us some gold in the process.'

Amhar was finding it hard to contain the excitement of battle as the group trekked through the scrub land in the baking sun. They were all incredibly hot but Amhar was thinking about fighting more than anything else and so didn't notice the heat too much.

'How far now,' asked Portly as he pulled off his jumper, revealing the chain mail beneath. He pushed the jumper into his backpack then swung the pack over his shoulder. The Professor had unbuttoned his robe, which flapped behind him as he walked. He was now complaining about how his ring mail suit was heating up and making him uncomfortable. Portly repeated his question. The Professor thought for a moment and then replied.

'I'd say half a mile, maybe less.'

'Look!' Amhar shouted. 'Over there!'

Portly looked in the direction the dwarf was pointing, but he couldn't see anything except a small rocky outcrop with a couple of small trees. None of it seemed to be of any interest.

'I don't see anything,' he replied.

Amhar ran off towards the rocks. Portly and the Professor exchanged glances of mutual confusing and ran after him. When they arrived they understood what the fuss was about. Amhar threw the dead branches Portly had mistaken for trees out of the way to reveal a flight of stone steps leading underground.

'Do you think they could be down there?' asked Portly.

'I've not heard of any dungeons 'round here before,' replied Amhar. 'This could be a Ythcal shrine, or something similar.'

'We'd better be prepared for trouble either way,' added the Professor.

The group drew their weapons, Portly put on his jumper and the Professor buttoned his robe, then they cautiously descended to meet whatever waited for them below.

'It's very dark down here,' remarked Amhar.

'Hang on, I'll soon fix that,' said Portly.

The priest cleared his mind of worldly thoughts and called on the gods to bestow light on the party and its surroundings. The room began to fill with light and soon it was as if they were outside again.

'That's better,' said Amhar, looking around at the cold, moss-covered walls of the small chamber they had descended into. An archway had been crudely carved into the southernmost wall, connecting the room to whatever was behind it. The light didn't stretch outside of the room, leaving whatever lay past the archway in darkness.

'Will the light come with us if we leave?' asked Amhar.

'It will go wherever I go,' replied Portly.

'Then let's get moving. You never know, we may even find some gold down here.'

'Wait,' said the Professor as Amhar was about to charge off, axe in hand, through the archway. 'We don't know what's out there yet. We don't even know if the monks are down here.'

As the others stood guard against anything that may come to investigate their light, the Professor crouched on the hard stone floor and mixed some of his powders, casting spells one after the other and going into deep trances. When he came out of the last of these trances he informed his companions of what he had learned.

The dungeon was indeed a Ythcal shrine, an old one which had been abandoned centuries ago. It only had the one level but there were many rooms, most of them with traps; including the one the adventurers currently occupied. The monks were in a large antechamber at the other end of the shrine and it would take just over a day to reach them.

Under the Professor's guidance, Amhar deactivated the trap concealed in the archway; an axe which was released from somewhere in the ceiling on the other side of the arch whenever someone stepped on one of the stones in the floor in front of the arch.

The shrine seemed devoid of life as the adventurers made their way, slowly, down the long, trap-laden corridors on the other side of the archway. The light the gods had bestowed on the group followed them as Portly had said it would, and with each step they took, Portly became more and more concerned that it would attract the attention of whatever the monks had brought down into the shrine to guard it.

After several hours of travelling, nervousness began to creep into the other adventurers too. The Professor gripped his old sword tightly with his right hand and his staff with his left while Amhar began looking from side to side every few seconds.

'Where is everything?' asked Portly.

'I didn't see anything this far out,' said the Professor.

'You mean there's something further in?' asked Amhar

'Yes.'

'What?'

'A vampire and a couple of bands of skeletons. Nothing we can't handle.'

'There isn't anything we can't handle,' said Amhar, as much to reassure himself as anyone else.

'How far are they?' asked Portly.

'Not far now,' said the Professor. 'If they haven't moved far we should met the first set of skeletons today. The others are further in, probably guarding whatever it is the monks have been working on.'

The found the skeletons within the hour. Amhar had taken to walking just inside the reach of Portly's light and his eyes had become accustomed to the near pitch blackness of the shrine. He'd spotted a few small piles of bones a few yards ahead and motioned for the others to come and look.

'I see them,' said the Professor, getting ready to enchant the party's weapons. 'They're right in our path, too.'

'Do you think someone knows we're coming?' asked Amhar.

'Probably,' replied the Professor. 'We know they're down here so it's a safe bet that they know we're here.'

'Let's get them,' said Amhar, who had moved back into the light and was blinking a lot. After he'd become reaccustomed to the light they moved on, with the blades of their weapons glowing faintly under the Professor's enchantments.

The skeletons remained motionless until the party were well inside the chamber where they lay. Amhar spotted the first one to move and dispatched it quickly with a devastating blow from his huge blade. The party backed into a corner of the room, to stop any of the skeletons from attacking them from their sides or rear, and prepared for battle.

Portly and Amhar stood in front of the Professor, protecting him while he cast his enchantments and fired his magic blasts at the oncoming undead warriors. The skeletons formed into a wall of bones and blades of all kinds and advanced on the small band of adventurers.

Amhar swung his axe in a circle above his head and forced the blade into the skull of the nearest enemy, pushing the axe down and shattering the skeleton's brittle body into pieces before turning and parrying a blow from another undead attacker.

Portly pulled his glowing blade from the chest of a smashed attacker and laid into another while the Professor scattered the skeletons who were still advancing in tight formation. The skeletons reformed their wall and advanced again. The Professor scattered the bones of the skeleton in the centre of the wall with his magic and launched another's skull across the room with his staff as Amhar broke through the ribcage of an axe-weilding skeletal dwarf, then another attacked him before he could pull his axe free of his previous opponent. Amhar dodged the skeleton's blade and kicked the legs out from under is before heaving his own blade free and slicing through the neck bones of his legless enemy.

And so it went on. Blade clashed with blade, bones smashed under the force of the adventurers' attack and exploded under the impact of the Professor's magical onslaught then, as it was beginning to seem like the battle would never end, the final skeleton broke under the now dulled blade of Amhar's axe.

The dwarf scoured the chamber for treasure to add to the party's depleted supply while Portly and the Professor ground the ancient remains of the undead guards into dust.

'Find anything?' Portly asked, although he could tell from the look on the exhausted dwarf's face that his search had been less rewarding than he would have liked.

'Not a sausage,' the dwarf replied. 'And speaking of sausages, when are we eating? All this fighting and searching has given me quite an appetite.'

'We can set-up camp here,' said Portly. 'This lot won't be giving us any trouble from now on. I'll take first watch.'

The party ate a meal of cold meats, bread and water; as their attempts at starting a fire had failed miserably. The Professor had told his companions it was most likely that the monks knew they were close by and had dampened the little wood they had managed to scrounge together from the cold, dark surroundings. After they had eaten, Amhar and the Professor had fallen asleep quite quickly, exhausted from the battle they had fought only a few hours before.

Portly sat and ran his whetstone across the blade of his newly sharpened sword and listened to the sound of rats scurrying around the corridors nearby. After a few hours he woke the Professor, who took over the watch. Normally they would talk for a while before Portly would settle down to sleep but tonight he was far too exhausted, so instead he lay his sword beside his backpack, rested his head on the pack's thick canvas and fell into a deep sleep.

He dreamed of destruction sweeping the land, saw images of black-cloaked figures reading incantations and saw demonic beasts unleashed upon the land.

When he woke, the Professor was asleep and Amhar was practising with his axe. The newly-sharpened blade swished through the air with surprising speed as the stocky figure went through his often-practiced movements.

'Aren't you cold?' Portly asked, rubbing life back into his cold, aching limbs.

'I was,' the dwarf replied. He continued with his exercises as he spoke. 'That's why I'm doing this. It gets the blood flowing again.'

Portly joined Amhar in his weapon practice and when the Professor woke they ate the remains of the previous night's meal before Portly and Amhar packed up the party's belongings. While the others were packing, the Professor prepared his powders and cast another round of spells.

'We're near,' he said after returning from a trance. 'They don't know we're awake yet and the guards aren't anywhere nearby. We should be able to make it to where they are keeping the book within the hour, but we're going to have to hurry.'

The adventurers hurried towards the antechamber where the book was stood on an altar, alongside the courier's severed head. The front of the altar was a shallow pool of water which shimmered with divine light. Surrounding the pool were eight monks, whose faces were obscured under thin black robes. They were chanting in a tongue foreign to the adventurers, who edged towards the chamber cautiously.

From a doorway Portly hadn't noticed before, a ninth monk emerged, carrying a human corpse which was slung over his shoulder.

'That's the vampire,' the Professor whispered.

'Are you sure?' Portly whispered back.

'Yes. I saw it clearly. He's carrying the vampire.'

'Why?' whispered Amhar.

The chanting monks parted slowly, without breaking the rhythm of their chants, to allow the ninth monk to reach the pool. He slowly lowered the vampire into the pool and walked to the altar, returning to the pool with the book open in one hand and the courier's head in the other. A thought struck Portly and he suddenly understood the visions from his dreams.

'They're going to open a gateway!' he whispered.

'What?' said Amhar and the Professor in unison.

'The pool,' exclaimed Portly. 'It's a gateway. They're gong to open a gate to Ythcal's domain and let him through to take over the land.'

The ninth monk chanted a passage from the book and lowered the head into the pool, where it melted almost instantly. The water turned red and the vampire's corpse began to dissolve slowly.

'We've got to stop them before that body disappears,' said Portly.

'Alright,' said Amhar. Then he thought about what was going on and asked how they were supposed to stop what was happening.

'We've got to get the book,' Portly explained. 'Then I'll have to read the passage that monk just said. Backwards.'

'And then what?' asked the Professor.

'Then either you transport us out of here or we're going to have to run like buggery. Either way we've got to get that book out of here so they can't try this again.'

'Do we get to fight anyone, then?' asked Amhar, eager to put in some more weapon practice.

'When we try to get that book you're going to have all those monks to fight, and probably the other skeleton guards as well.'

'Good.'

'Ready?'

Amhar and the Professor both nodded. They all drew their weapons, which the Professor then enchanted and, with glowing blades aloft, they charged.

The monks' confusion gave the adventurers an advantage that they did their best to use to its fullest. Amhar had killed one of the monks with a swift blow through the neck and out the other side before the rest of them knew they were there. The dead monk fell into the pool, making the vampire's corpse dissolve even quicker.

'Keep their bodies away from the water!' shouted Portly as he heaved the disappearing remains of the dead monk from the pool. He threw what was left of the corpse at the monk holding the book, knocking him off balance and sending the book across the room.

The Professor tried to pull the vampire out of the pool but it was stuck fast and he couldn't get it to move an inch. A monk charged at him with a dagger, screaming that he would send the mage's soul to Ythcal for his pleasure. The Professor jumped out of the way, drew his own enchanted sword and slammed the glowing blade into the side of the monk's skull.

'Guards!' shouted Amhar as he rushed to block the doorway. The Professor ran with him and together they successfully prevented anything from entering of leaving the room. Amhar's blood-soaked blade hacked at the bones of the skeletal guards while the Professor's blade spilled even more of the monks blood onto the black tiled floor.

Portly had cornered the monk who had been reading from the book. He was a tall, broad man with a thick, lice-ridden beard and breath so bad Portly was having trouble keeping his breakfast down. The monk drew a sword from the recesses of his robe and swung at Portly, who stepped aside and parried the monk's advance. The monk had left his side undefended and Portly took the opportunity to cut the man deeply. The monk dropped his guard for a second and Portly lunged again, attacking the monk's sword arm. The man dropped his weapon in pain as Portly's blade cut deep into his forearm. Weaponless, the monk lunged at portly and sunk his teeth into the priest's left arm. Portly cried out in pain and hacked at the monk until his lifeless body slumped to the ground. The man's black robe was drenched in his own blood. Portly cut a long strip of the robe away and tied it around his arm to stem the blood flow from the monk's bite.

The Professor dispatched the last of the monks and turned to help Amhar with the guards. The dwarf was standing on top of a pile of bones, to make it easier to hack at the skulls of his adversaries. Between the two of them they blocked the entrance to the antechamber.

Portly looked at what remained of the vampire and saw that he didn't have much time left. He grabbed the book and rifled through its pages until he came to the passage the monk had read aloud over the water. It wasn't a long passage, only 5 lines but the body was almost gone and Portly hoped he had time to read even those few lines.

He ran to the side of the pool and held his right hand out, palm upwards, over the water, balancing the book on his left forearm and holding it in place with his fingers. Then he read the ancient language backwards, with some difficulty for he hadn't come across the ancient tongue since his days as a trainee priest many years ago. As he read the text glowing ball formed and grew in the palm of his hard. With each word he spoke the ball grew brighter until, as he said the final word, it was as if he held the sun in his hand. He grasped the glowing ball and hurled it into the pool. The ball exploded as it hit the water, throwing Portly against the altar and knocking him unconscious. A scream echoed through the shrine and the water turned to fire.

The skeleton guards still standing collapsed into piles of bones as Ythcal's grip on their lifeless bodies weakened. Amhar and the Professor ground the bones into dust and then turned to see the Portly sprawled across the altar. The adventurers wiped their blades clean on the robes of the dead monks and the Professor went to help Portly while Amhar went to deal with the corpses.

The mage enchanted some of the water from the party's rations and splashed it over Portly. The priest groaned and the Professor helped him to his feet. He saw Amhar throw the last of the monks into the pool of flames and they watched the lifeless mass of bodies as the flames engulfed them, making sure they did not return to life in the magic flames, before any of them spoke.

'Are you ready to leave?' asked Portly.

'Yes,' said Amhar. 'There's no gold here.'

Portly smiled and picked up the book. He was tempted to throw it into the flames but he knew they needed the reward too badly so he held onto it as the Professor mixed his powders and sent the group back to the surface then across the land to a couple of miles from the city where they had begun their quest.

The return journey went by without incident and Portly noticed that people stared at them in awe as they walked through the streets of the city on their way to the library.

'News of your success has preceded you,' explained the librarian, a short gaunt man with long fingers. 'We heard screams in the air and knew you'd succeeded.'

He grinned and led the tired adventurers to a room at the back of the library where his apprentices were already busy counting a large sum of money into small leather bags.

'Almost finished now, Mr. Cudwell,' they chorused. The old librarian helped them count the last of the coins and gratefully handed the bags to Portly, who gave the book to the old man in exchange.

'What will you do with it?' asked Portly.

'Lock it in the vault,' the librarian replied. 'Don't worry, the boys here and I will make sure no one's can use it again for a long time.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Portly.

'Forgive me for prying, but what could you possibly do with so much gold?'

Portly looked at his companions then back at the librarian.

'I'm not sure yet,' he replied. 'But right now I think I could do with a beer, a bath and a decent night's sleep. We'll decide what we're going to do next in the morning.'