Repast Of The Damned

Here is my second story / post! Comments are more than welcome!!

Repast Of The Damned

The damp, dark, dreary grayness of the shadowed horizon settled over my melancholy mood like the shroud worn by an ancient crypt keeper, as a four-in-hand carried me over the jagged, irregular highway to Paston House by the town of V_____. My purpose was a visit to my hoary         homunculus of a friend, Lord Malcolm Tunstead, the current possessor of said residence. Although the titles of Lord and Lady had fallen mostly out of fashion at the time of this story, Lord Tunstead was one of those patriarchs of a kind of parochial mind that stuck with what was what. He had transcribed a note of letter to me, confessing that although over the past year, we had fallen out of contact since the death of Lady Tunstead it was meant as no misuse of our friendship on his part. Malcolm’s letter suggested that he was suffering with some sort of illness or potential breakdown; and it went on to request a visit to renew our friendship and comfort his emotional turmoil. 

So it was, that on the chilled, humid eve of the twenty fourth day of November in the year 18__, I found the carriage turning a cusp on the road and my eyes first fell upon Lord Tunstead’s personal sanatorium where he had illicited a solitary repose since the passing of his late spouse. The absolute, utter dreariness of Paston House, coupled with the bleakness of the hour and my own personal forlorn constitution, served to send a bristling, petulant shiver of incertitude along my spine. The clouds hung low over the rook-like towers embraced by the figures of gargoyles crouched like mastiffs, holding dominion over the black stone frontal facade, beleaguered by narrow, leaded glass windows as dismal as a swamp fog at night; letting in little glimmer of irradiation and letting out little of the aversions imagined by the hapless onlooker of this particular site. 

I found myself dropped at this portal of apparent abyss, carpetbag and valise in hand as my apathetic carriage man rushed off without so much as a fare-you-well, no doubt off to the nearest tavern to warm his bulk by a warm fire, mug of beer and the possibility of a harlot to share his forsaken bed, and to whom he could tell tales of haunted houses, evil spirits, and the terrors of the highwayman. My hands being occupied by my personal baggage, I proceeded to strike out with my booted foot upon the door of the discouraging vestibule I found myself at. My heavy thudding was at last rewarded with the sound of approaching muted footsteps from within. The door to the lair yawned open to the pale, chalky, frosted countenance of Tunstead himself. 

He no doubt noticed the surprise within me at the sight of the lord of this great manor opening the door to a visiting guest himself, especially when the lord had resources in abundance, combined with a mind accustomed to the traditional etiquettes of aristocratic society, of which he was considered a part, for he frowned forlornly saying, “The help has taken their leave, and at least, now that you have arrived, perhaps my home will once again feel a little less like a tomb and more like what it once was. Welcome to Paston House T_______.” 

I ventured forward with an unvoiced, rather likely notion that from the looks of the place, what it once was, was in fact a tomb, however, what I said aloud was, “It is good to see you again Malcolm!” as I marched stoically into a dimly lit candle sconced lobby besmirched with wall mildew and cobweb dust, along with a smell which reminded one of that which accompanies the opening of an old musty trunk in an attic. 

“I’ll lead you to your room. Dinner is whenever you’d like. The larder is still quite well stocked so we won’t be wanting there. Also, I have full library next to the study. It has the complete set of the works of M_____ of whom I recall you are so fond.” As he put forth these facts, I achieved the feeling that he was trying to instill within my head a predilection for an object which has no hope of being other than loathed, yet its owner believes that if it is glossed over it gains an illusory effect on the beholder, making it seem somehow better and more bearable than it really is. On the other hand, I appreciated the gesture and thanked him heartily. 

My first few days at Paston House were spent viewing Lord Tunstead mope about his home. I often came upon him in some odd alcove, or entrenched within his study, wringing his hands and mumbling while reflecting on a framed, oil canvas done for him by a local artist of some renown, of his  late wife, Lady Wilomena Tunstead. At these times Malcolm would not be disturbed and I was unable to engage him in conversation of any sort, as hard as I might    try. Whenever this happened, I would find other ways to occupy my time and wait for Malcolm to overcome his bout of melancholy. These periods often took their toll upon my person, as I was quite often left to wander through the seasoned passages and august, unfeeling rooms. Commonly, I found myself lost in some odd nook or cranny and would spend the most of that day searching for my path back. My nights were spent tossing and turning about as I lay in the bed, for try as I might to bury my head upon the pillow, I found I was held awake by the sounds of strange gnawings and grindings issuing forth from a crack in my floor. This sound I came to consider was that of rats, probably feasting away on the spoiling food stores set below in the cellar. The very annoyance of this constant digestion is what drove me, along with boredom to these explorations, in an attempt to seek solace in activity. At last, on one outstanding occasion, in the term of what was possibly the third week of my occupation of Paston House, I discovered myself deep within the center part of the main residence, on what I suspected to be one of the lower floors, when I came across a downwards, spiraling, narrow staircase beginning in a niche off one of the many suites. 

I had not noticed this particular piece of construction in my past jaunts outside my quarters and could see no reason not to further explore, other than the chance of future inflammation of arthritic joints through my lower extremities, due to the rigor and sodden atmosphere provided throughout most of the stone-encased retreat. I had come to welcome these small walks outside of my chambers, however, as the lesser of two evils (that being inside my quarters or outside), as it was a set of rooms much too large and heartless for my character. It made one tend to feel oppressed. Taking a candlestick from a wall sconce and lighting it with a bit of flint and steel I had upon my personage of habit, I proceeded to make my passage forward. The left arm, being my candle arm, caused me to reach forth with the right, touching with my hand the sweating, moss and fungus covered black stone, so that I could feel my way along as well. The air entering into my lungs grew heavier and compressed with each further tread downwards. The stairs had been built such that each step was carved out from rectangular, somewhat similarly sized slabs of dark, chipped granite. As I made my way along this stairway, I found that the darkness ahead of me was lightening, the source of this illumination being, so to say, a light at the end of my way. A few steps more and I discovered that mine eyes could discern a great archway out of which shone a glow, shifting in such a manner as to suggest the presence of a great lantern inside the room ahead. 

A low sepulchral, lamenting moan rising as if from beyond what is considered the normal boundaries for sound climbed upon a foul draft of air, reaching me of a sudden, causing me to trip backwards and douse the light of the candlestick; and inside that split second of time I thought that the air had carried upon it, up from below, the words “woe, woe” as if in a single rush of breath from a place no mortal should ever bear witness to, each word drawn out as extenuating as humanly possible. 

Until of late, I was unable to fathom that which it was which compelled me to continue forward that day, but now, looking back in retrospective, I have begun to perceive that it was probably the same compulsion which draws people to public executions, that is, a deep need to view the fundamentals of man’s mortality or immortality second hand while being close enough to the situation as to have it affect one directly. As I proceeded forth, my hands began to shake as my body broke out all over in a cold sweat. I managed at last, to creep to the very edge of the entry and leaning, ever so cautiously and noiselessly outwards, this entire process of descending the stairs having taken up a period of approximately three quarters of an hour, I finally beheld what lay inside that loathsome, subterranean cavity of black, miserable rock. 

Oh alas, what torment that lay festering within those tumultuous walls deep within that fetid earth! How I prayed that Almighty God would strike out mine eyes so as not to allow me to view this desecration, but still I found myself staring with unbridled distaste at the tremendous atrocity before me! What I had stumbled upon in my ignorance of the architecture of noble Paston House was not the cellar I had assumed to find, but a crypt for the deceased lineages of Tunsteads from over the courses and eddies of time. The pile of death incarnate lay before me in rows like a shopkeeper’s stall display in a vulgar, morbid marketplace of bones and littered flesh. The bones of many a person lay scattered amongst the granite tomb slabs, some from a more recent time, still had nuggets of red meat, marbled with white hanging off them like colored, tissue streamers. The walls of the room and a number of the cadavers had grown thick with a strange species of phosphorescent fungi, and it was this peculiar plant species which caused the strange glow bathing the ghastly vault with unearthly illumination. As my eyes slowly grew accustomed to the luminescence, my ears began to discern the same strange gnawing, grinding, smacking which had held me awake for hours at night and kept me at bay from my quarters in the daylight hours. Suddenly my eyes bulged in their sockets, as my heart skipped for I at last beheld the revolting source of that raucous hunger. 

Deep within the shadows was the pale Lady Wilomena Tunstead, shrouded in the garb of the dead, her nails grown long from her deranged sentence underground, with her hair grown long and gray, her face caked with offal, yet still I recognized her from the upstairs canvas. She sat, ungainly legs splayed out before her, as frightening as any medusa or banshee, eating from the flesh coated femur of the latest victimized innocent to be laid out here below that evilly enshrouded keep of the macabre. 

I spun about, retching upon my boots, gasping for air, trying to fight off the reeling, dizzying feeling which always comes at the beginning of a swooning faint. I don’t know how, but somehow, I managed to begin a hastened stagger up out of that wretched hell to save my mortal soul. As I passed through onto the head of the stair, I came face to face with pallid Lord Tunstead, my old friend Malcolm, almost bowling him out of my way in my hurried rush to get away. 

“For the love of all that is sacred,” I grabbed at his collar and yelled, “What have you done?” 

Tunstead fell back, swaying on the ground, in relief at long last having found a confessor after weeks of mental anguish and screamed out his litany of sin in a hurried torrent. 

“Please, you must, I beg of you, you have to understand, she was driving me insane! She nagged you know, incessantly getting on about this thing and that, driving at me. It was hell, I tell you! At last, one night in a fit of anger, I struck her in the base of the skull with the candelabra. I thought she was dead. I told the servants that she slipped, and hit her head on an old trunk at the foot of our bed. They were suspicious, see, but I managed to allay their fears and we carried her body to the crypt below. However, as you saw,” At this note, Malcolm began laughing maniacally and I shook his body roughly by the shoulders, until he could go on, a mad glare to his eyes and an edge of insanity lending a nervous lilt to his voice, “she wasn’t dead! Heh, heh! We all thought, but she wasn’t really. The blow though had done something to her mind, driving her over the edge. I turned her into a crazed lunatic. She awoke, addled in the crypt below the house, her mind turned, afraid to come up the stairs lest she might have another confrontation with her attempted murderer. I heard her though! I knew she was still alive! At night in my room, I could hear her gnawing, sucking the marrow for sustenance out of the corpses laid to rest before her. Every night, I laid awake, hours on end, listening to that God awful ghoulish chewing! After a time, I moved to new more modern chambers after having renovations made on a wing further into the house. But then, she must have run out of food you see, ha ha, deadly matron! She began to sneak up at night, looking. First, it was a kitchen servant who disappeared. A young, soft boy. Then another of the servants. The whole superstitious lot grew suspicious of me! Of me! They had no way of knowing the truth, but soon they left, cursing me in the town so I could find no replacement help. 

“At last, there was only myself. All alone in this house, I sent for you. Please, please forgive my selfishness, I beg you sir! I thought by your coming I could gain a week maybe two before she got me, hee, the deranged are so strong. I can’t leave you see, because I feel guilt. So guilt-ridden I know. I know that in the end I too shall be devoured in that dark catacomb, but yet, I still wanted to buy some time! Just a little time I beg of you!” 

Lord Tunstead suddenly attacked with such unexpected ferocity that I barely made my escape. I managed, as we struggled at the top of the stair, to give the fiend a toppling push in the center of his chest, sending him barreling, head over heels, down, down to the waiting mold and the dead, both the still and the living. As I turned on my heel to flee, never to set foot inside that dark mausoleum again for either the sake of Heaven or Hell, a most unwomanly, spectral scream of vengeance issued forth from the stairwell, intermingling with the panic-stricken screech of Wilomena’s attempted murderer. 

From A Strange Device

This is my first blog ever. I don't have any background in writing, buy my blog is a weekly short story. I decided to call it Unsettled Tales. Unsettled in the sense of each post being no specific length or genre. Each one stands on it's own unconnected to any other. If response is good, I'll continue to write. Let's dive right in with the first one:

From A Strange Device

It is strange how as time passes the memories we have can fold over upon themselves. What was once a truth can become bent and twisted into wholly new dimensions. Yet at the same time one distinct event can stand out in one’s life as a singularity, be it intensely traumatic or positive.  

It was my contention that these singular events anchored individuals via their consciousness to those dimensional points in time. I contended that if we could access another’s mind and find that point locked within the subconscious we could via new technology, use the mind as a portal to enter that dimension, or quite possibly travel in time to that location and affect reality as we know it. 

My scientific colleagues laughed at my ideas and scoffed at me. I was labelled quickly as someone who practiced pseudoscience, a mockery of the scientific method held dear by these austere individuals. It was shortly after I presented a paper on remote viewing that I was released from the university and returned back into mainstream society. 

  

I wondered, what was one such as myself to do for profit? I was quickly running short of funds and would soon be penniless with no one to turn to. Fortunately, I soon discovered that humanity had immersed itself in the new fad of spiritualism. Although I was scorned by the scientific community, those interested in spiritualism I soon found to be fascinated by my research on consciousness, and the idea of brain to brain transmission or even astral projection. I was quick to take advantage of the situation. 

People paid handsomely for my speaking engagements. It allowed me the money to travel, interview those that caught my interest, and to some extent continue my research. It was, while I was in the town of G______, after one of my presentations, that I was approached by Matthew Kenwald. He was late forties, greying slightly at the temples with an almost comical, large, bushy mustache.  However, his demeanor was nothing but serious. 

We immediately struck up a friendship, as he was intelligent and we had much in common. We found ourselves soon talking in depth, late into the night. His tale was fascinating. As a young child, his parents were killed in a horrible fire. Only he had been saved and afterwards was raised by a wealthy uncle who had recently passed. He had always had an interest in the new technologies that science was providing. He had used a portion of his new money to build a personal workshop of sorts on the estate inherited from the uncle. Tied in with his technical interests was a new attraction for spiritualism.  

He was incredibly interested in the development of an electrical transmitter of sorts which could allow an individual to tap into the consciousness of another person, perhaps even a recently deceased person. This concept would then, as I suggested, allow one to visit the points of singularity within someone else’s life. The true test would be to see if these points could be used to manipulate our physical world in some form. We agreed to form a collaboration and as my current tour was winding up, I agreed to come to his estate and stay for a prolonged period of research. 

His home was a large, old plantation property. Not far from the main house, almost hidden amongst the trees was the workshop. A low brick building with glass windows letting in the light along the sides and with a large skylight which could be opened to let in the cool evening breezes. It was deeper on the inside by about fifteen feet, as when you entered there was a set of stairs going down, almost like entering an empty manufactured water pool. He had fitted the workshop for his electrical experiments, but a medium sized area was soon easily afforded myself by simply moving about some large pieces of equipment. When my books arrived, we set up shelving.  

So began our months of research and collaboration, with many long days and late nights. Any observer would wonder what possessed these two gentlemen to do this, most of all Matthew’s housekeeper who quite often was required to deliver our meals when we did not appear on time at her set table. She would scold and chide us about our unhealthy behavior until we made promises of better manners in the future. As soon as she set out for the house again we would make fun of the old crow. I was much happier than I had been for some time. 

We began to develop the early stages of a plan, and designed a cap of sorts, made of leather but with points for electrical contact affixed inside in particular places to align with specific areas of the brain. Matthew was incredibly innovative. He had acquired a player piano at one point in the past. It sat in the corner, dust covered, but occasionally we would play songs on it as we worked. We wondered for the longest time, how we were to pass distinct electrical information to these contacts within our cap as we desired to apply patterns of information to our subject, record the result and thus further map the human consciousness. We had taken a brief break and I decided to place a roll in the piano, but no sooner had I began to pump the pedals, than Matthew, his eyes alight was grabbing my arms. 

“That’s it!” He exclaimed, “This old thing is the key we’ve been looking for!” 

I did not quite understand, but he pointed out necessary modifications here and there to the machinery and we quickly worked out how to affix our cap to the old piano, working out the necessary voltage and amperage for each contact. Eventually we had a device where we could place a patterned roll of our own design. By being seated and pumping the pedals, the roll would feed the pattern to the contacts in the cap. It was at this point our work took that next leap forward in mapping consciousness and the electrical sensations within our own minds were read by each other and we began to record our findings.  

We passed into the next stage of work, measuring test subjects from around the village, who were more than willing when receiving a bit of pay for this. At the same time our findings grew we began to develop a similar machine which could read our subjects mental patterns which we determined also had an electrical nature to them. We began with the same style mechanism, but this soon developed into a sheet of thin foil. We used a mechanical needle which traced out the subjects patterns onto the foil, which was fed from one roll to another. In this way we developed recordings of consciousness which could be stored and studied. It was fascinating work. 

We now had a method to both pass information to and from a human mind and could influence that via ourselves, a third party. This was the initial stages of research. We spent the next eight years recording, researching, studying. At the same time we performed experiments in brain to brain transmission, astral projection, extra sensory perception, and all other manner of concepts. We made trips far and wide, visiting men who called themselves fakirs, shaman, and all kind of masters of these mental techniques. I admit freely that we experimented and indulged ourselves during these trips with many chemical enhancers. We made use of cocaine, opium, laudanum, marijuana, and homemade chloral hydrate to name a few. I had some amazing peyote experiences shared with indigenous American peoples.  

  There reached a point where I realized Matthew had become an addict and I feared he might become mad as a result. This led to a lengthy setback in our work. I was able to bring him back, but it was one of my most arduous journeys. Myself and the housekeeper had to watch him in turns over this period, locking him within an empty chamber of his own house with nothing but a mattress. His screams and the discovery each day of fresh claw marks both on the walls and his own skin will forever haunt me. The old housekeeper blamed me in part and began to look at me with a glaring hatred. After this experience, Matthew was more gaunt, different and of a fragile nature. It took both of our exertions to convince the housekeeper to come around and regain the previous relationship. 

We delved deeper into our work. We could now recognize and pinpoint the singularities within peoples lives via our devices. We knew when to intervene but not exactly how to intervene. We thought the key was the drugs but didn’t realize it was only part of the necessary mechanism overall. It was the housekeeper who broke this for us one day while delivering a late lunch of sandwiches with beer. She bustled about, bristling at us both, “I don’t pretend to understand why you must ruin your health and play nonsense with all of your scientific mumbity jumbo! Why you can’t be like normal folks and just go visit a medium I don’t understand. They do the same as you without all of this scattered mess around! Then they get it out of their systems and go home and sit down to a nice supper on time!” 

We decided we did need a medium. One could breach into the consciousness in the manner we were seeking. The country was full of charlatans and deceitful scamps claiming to be able to contact dead loved ones, channel spirits, or find lost items. We had seen much in our journeys, and decided that we could design a form of electrical medium ourselves. This sounds far fetched I am sure to any reader, but Matthew ever resourceful, was able to obtain something special from a friend of his uncles, a prototype for a spirit phone. It had never worked for the father of the lightbulb, but we researched many modifications and corresponded with the gentleman until we believed we perfected the machine we desired.  

Now we had everything in place as desired and a new form of experimentation began. It was not a good idea to use the local people for this, because the very nature would lend talk and superstition within the village. We did not want the negative publicity. We therefore placed an advertisement in a distant northern newspaper and after a number of weeks began to receive visitors for periodic stays. We had learned how to place myself as a host and a subject into a trance like state with the use of a combination of drugs. Matthew, due to his addictive nature could never take my place as host.We could then, using our new devices, mentally connect into their consciousness, through our two linked, leather, electrical caps, much like a parasite host, then merge the host mind with the subject. It became like one singular brain, creating a recorded pattern, manipulated and guided by Matthew. 

As host I could see flickering images, fleeting memories and hear voices. As time went on I could pierce deeper into these minds. I experienced amazing new memories which lingered after the sessions. A man who fell from a horse, a woman assaulted in a dark alley by two vagrants when she was a young girl, a rescue from drowning, a first kiss from a now dead lover; these were but a few. It was difficult containing these false memories, and hard to become more than one person. Yet I needed to continue. We needed to make our next breakthrough. The opportunity came with the arrival of an old man. 

The old man came from the coast, responding to our advert. He was excited, he said because in his early years he had grown up in the village, although at this late stage in his life, none were left now who would recognize him. This trip was an opportunity though to revisit and recapture certain times from his youth. An exciting idea formed around him, and we could not wait to get started on our next session. Soon we had things set in place and the old man and myself had entered into our trance condition. As the electrical contacts merged my mind to his, the images began to appear in my head.  

I could see memories from within the village clearly, such as giving flowers to a pretty girl outside a local shop, drinking with friends at the pub, and hikes through the nearby woods long ago. It was the memory of the pub that interested me the most. I began to project myself as distinct as I could within the scene. I could smell the odors, and hear the sounds of conversation and mugs hitting the tables. I forced control over my manifested self and found a seat alone at a table in the corner. Next to the table, on the floor, gone unnoticed was a shard of glass. Someone most likely had broken a mug and this had been missed, against the wall in the cleanup. I focused hard, bent down and picked it up, placing it on the table. This was a new feat for me in these sessions. This influence on objects had always been one of our goals however. 

I picked it up again and began to use it on the edge of the windowsill. I carved my initials, as deep as I could, along with the current date in my time. It took much more will power than usual to maintain the connection to this point, but it helped that I was already familiar with the locale in the future. When I was finished, I simply let the memory fade away into others, much as all our other sessions had gone. Eventually, our trance broken, both of us awoke and after a rest the old man left. I began to compare thoughts on the event with Matthew. 

I described what I thought I had accomplished. He told me, that my trance state had seemed deeper, my heart rate slower, but my breathing more accelerated at times. He said my hand had raised as if performing an action, which we assumed was the act of carving into the windowsill. It was getting on towards evening, and after a brief rest we decided to head into the village for supper at the pub. Besides, It had been ages since we had eaten a meal out. A good ploughman’s meal would do us well. 

The local pub was much as it had been for decades. It remained in one family and the very sameness of it held its appeal within the locale. We entered into a scene of comfort with a roaring fire. We placed our orders and headed to the table I specified in the back corner. You can imagine our delight and excitement to discover the outline of my own initials and the date in that same windowsill, under a few coats of white paint! I could not help but continue running my fingers across this, tracing it out over and over. We celebrated, long into the night drinking heavily with this great success and finally stumbling home late in the night, staggering through the door and into bed. 

I fell into the heavy sleep of inebriation. Still though, it would seem I could dream as I began to hear in my sleep a voice calling my name. It was as if from far away and I began to look for it. Walking as if in a grey fog. It called to me, moving from one place to another. It was as if I was lost in a murky swamp. I was getting closer though. Strange shapes slipped and slithered past me, too dark to see. It called again off to my right and I turned following the voice until I could see a form taking shape through the fog. 

I can not begin to describe the look of this nightmarish creature. So unnatural and twisted, this thing could not have existed upon the face of the earth. The unnumbered limbs, the tail and unbelievable horns all turning, moving in a psychedelic fashion as the monsters yellowed teeth gnashed in a grotesque and lipless smile. Those many bulging eyes that blinked in unison, with the empty blackness of the vastness of space echoed within them. I raised my arms, blocking the view with my hands, stumbling backwards. This thing could not be real. 

“Oh yes.” It slathered, “I am very real. I owe you a debt of gratitude and came forth to express my thanks to you. I think this is the time. Your research has impressed me and I am glad I could lend my influence where I could. I’ve been here for some time, waiting here in this corner of your mind, but now I will be having it all. The entirety.” 

“What are you, creature?” 

“I am named as many things throughout the earth time. I am Abdiel and Manuval. I am Yalocan Tumulu and Pitkis. I am thousands and I am one. I am all and I am none. I am a slave but I am your master! I have walked and crawled the legions of time. I echo through dimensions. I live within the spaces and crawl upon the walls. I have waited an eternity for one such as you to set me free.” 

“You are a nightmare! A product of my own imagination and I drive you from me!” 

It laughed, a laugh everywhere both in and out. “Foolish and silly scientist! I am in control now and you are inside my cage. You are the possessed and I the possessor. Do you not remember those nights with your ailing friend? Drug addled, screaming in the night? Thinking blindly that you were helping him? I found him first. I found him walking as a an astral shade as his body lay in a bed. I slipped back into the body with himself and took hold. He returned to you a wreck. A wreck with me inside hatching my plan. At the earliest opportunity I latched onto you as well when you next linked. I fed my plans into the Matthew and watched as you lapped up ideas and built my devices. Both of you my unwitting slaves! Tonight you brought my plan to fruition. Now I will play more with my men of science, my two puppets! You have handed me the keys to your kingdom. I will open the portals now to your physical realm, wherever and whenever I desire. I will invite the others of my kind! I am indeed a nightmare and I will devour the world!”