Null
Chapter 1
The Darkness before Dawn
1
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
4:31 am
Block 2A, Room 436 Jones sat many an hour, staring at the receding view of the world outside of his window, watching the city go through its perpetual actions of simple self-preservation. Eating. Sleeping. Working. The words he ran through his mind brought about ugly connotations of the other. Of that other. Jones shuddered at the mere thought of it. The storm bolstered itself, growing ever stronger. A tempest of rain lashed down from the heavens above, striking any unfortunate soul who would be trapped in its whirling gusts and heaving waters rushing down from the eternity of darkness above. Jones took his inspiration from the torment in the world outside his window for his paintings. And the world outside of that. Many, that is to say those who weren't turned away in disgust or bewilderment, had commented on his originality and striking potency of imagery to his paintings. He did little more then paint what the world is, beneath its skin. Dark. Sick. Pregnant. Jones was sure the world was bearing something other then normal life upon its surface. Something within its dark caverns, deep watery abysses or within the core itself. Under a dark canvas, painted thickly with breathing colours. The whirling, violent thoughts Jones understood may drive him mad but perhaps, just perhaps, he would glimpse what lay in wait.
Jones continued to sit and stare from the window of his workshop, the checker-board lighting of the skyscrapers outside standing embossed on the pre-dawn twilight. And everything was fine. Until something, beyond the eyes of most but Jones, stirred.
He drew himself to face his canvas, upon which he had painted something of what he understood about they beyond that lay silent, and placed his brush down. He took a ring of keys from the depths of his battered, paint-smeared trouser pocket and placed them into the lock of his old, scarred computer desk. For a moment, he stroked his bitter stubble and pondered whether or not he should go through with this.
He accepted he must in the end, twisted the key and opened the drawer. Jones was curious though to how his acquaintances and, dare he say it, friends would look upon it. Would that tyrannical bitch on 3 say but a word or bat an eye-lid to the action he would take? What about that Journalist on top of the building, in 603? Would he give it a small corner in his paper, whatever it was, or would it be over-looked for some recent sports achievement? It would not particularly matter about them, naught but slightly. Jones would need to make a phone call first though. Before it could happen, he would have to leave a message to his old brother-in-arms in Edinburgh. Maybe he would get the others. Maybe he would attempt to take Jones from doing what must be done. Maybe.
As far as Jones could conceive though, it would be the beginning. Of what, he could say.
2
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
4:39 am
Block 2A, Room 603 Burbidge sat tapping away at his keyboard, on a recent case of a disappearance out in the hills of Akelly. It wasn't particularly rewarding work, bar the fact that he did get some country air inhaled and got to clear his lungs of all the smog of the city. Pity the air smelled of manure out there. It had all been rather abnormal though for such a case. Nothing had been rather clear-cut; evidence of foul-play was verging on non- existent and what was present of questionable value. A Farmer had simply gone out to refresh his supply of water, his house lacking piping due to some red-tape and 'un-strategic location' but fresh-water was usually provided by a well. After he had not come back for 3 hours, his wife had grown increasingly worried and phoned (even though they would not provide an ample water supply, there had been telephone-lines put in. Such a curious old construction.) for the law. On arrival, the well was immediately investigated but dredging up a ton of sloppy muds and dirt covered rocks from the bottom recovered no sign of him. The Officer who went into the well was also confused at the general lack of any water but of the soup like mud at bottom which, when measured, appeared to have no confirmable depth. However, there was mud spatterings at the top and on the lip of the well on arrival. Still, lately there has been no confirmation of what happened to him and the local hill-side population (about 4 or 5 remaining people) lost interest in it or moved off into the blasphemous little town of Akelly itself. Burbidge had to stay in that decrepit little, veiled town and hated just about every moment of it. The aging architecture of it's Police Station, it's dingy little Warf where the equally old fisherman say with his rod, rain or shine, that damnable old overlooking mansion with it's perfect view of the town from it's hill-side peak. Abandoned, the official statement declared. Others though, suggested it wasn't. The elderly fisherman had loosened his lips after he'd drowned his sorrows on a couple of bottles of cheap whiskey and had told things which Burbidge himself paled at hearing. Tales of deep-rooted history of the old place, it's scarcely seen but often heard former occupants. And of it's alleged current owner.
Burbidge forced the memories from his mind. They had nothing to do with the task at hand. He really should stay focussed on the article. But he could not. His mind roved over many things. The disappearance. Akelly. The turmoil slicing the world outside. He turned to the window to see many streaks of rain-water washing it down thoroughly, casting the city below into a blurry, soft-focus. It was almost pleasant. But Burbidge was sure he could see something, nay, feel something. Beyond. Beyond the glass. Beyond the city. Something. Prowling. In a sudden strike of lightning outside, Burbidge felt Hell abruptly tear itself apart inside his skull, surging and whirling and tearing. He clamped a hand to his head and barrelled over, spinning his chair upward and almost kicking the computer screen. As hastily as it arrived though, the pain subsided. The shaken Burbidge righted himself once more, pulled his chair up and quickly shot glances across the room. He could feel it again. That beyondness, creeping afar, hunting. But not for him. Something rather radical would happen shortly. Something hectic. Something insufferably dire.
In the quick instance of the next few seconds, there was new sound. An ear- shattering howl without comprehension. A hum, a peculiar piping noise almost mocking speech and a whispering chatter of something, something inhuman. And then, came something very human. A single, sharp scream. Some other noise, muffled by distance. And then came silence. Silence but for the rumble of thunder, the sweet patter of rain and the occasional flutter of the gusting winds.
Burbidge solemnly sank to the floor, utterly confused by what happened several floors below him.
3
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
3:45 am
Block 2A, Corridor outside Room 319 Jill Morga brought her wrist to her face and wiped her failing eyes. The scent of coffee filled her nose with vigour as she brought the polystyrene cup to her nose, inhaling its pleasant smell before taking a sip. The contrasting warmth of the coffee and the cold, wet air outside of the building made her feel cosier and sheltered. One thing, however, that brought her from such blissful thoughts was the dreary, perhaps demented artist who passed her by on the way to the staircase. What was his name again? It was a J-something or other. Common name, was it not? John? Was that right? Morga couldn't recall. Nor could she care. None-the-less, that man gave her the chills. It was not his unkempt appearance, nor even his paranoid twitches and glances he constantly sent over his shoulders, nor was it even the way he shunned the elevator and took the corridor past her room daily as opposed to going down the normal stair-case all the way to the ground floor. There was just an aura to the man with dark subtexts. He looked generally harmless though; possibly even pitiable but that abominable feeling loomed over her whenever she came across this man and so she turned an eye and went back inside her room.
4
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
4:34 am
Block 3A, Roof Top Under the protection of a small plastic tarp and some thick galoshes, Harvey stumbled around atop the building, trying to recall where the Dish was located. He hated having to maintain the damn thing, but he felt he had to. Not to be good-natured or anything, lord no, but because he should not wish to feel blanketed in the warmth of TV. And on such an appalling night, he'd need all the warmth he could get. He looked towards the west-side of the building, and this time successfully found the small silver receiver of his beloved television. Grinning and hugging himself over for the sake of keeping warm, he approached it and began to re-adjust it.
Something, though, cast his glance upon other things. He felt a compulsion to look down to the Apartment building ahead. To the fourth-floor. To the 36th room. He could see no more then filtered light though strips of metal shades. Nothing more. He continued with his work but that same urge to look again drew his attention. And this time, he saw something else. A thick, almost electrical, black shone through the shades and flecked with red bolts. It was upon seeing this menagerie of a dark light-show that caused Harvey to stumble from his place, lose his footing in the rain-slick roof- top and fall from the top of the building. Fate, it seemed, had other ideas for Harvey. He was snagged somehow by a twisted piece of tarpaulin and avoided the several story fall.
5
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
4:40 am
Block 2A, Room 436 Jones lay on the floor. His neighbour, a stalwart man named Starkweather, stood above him, examining him, before kneeling down to check for a pulse. Surely enough, he located a beat, though broken and unsteady in pace. Checking for breathing, Starkweather uncovered no blockage in breathing, quite the contrary, he was breathing regularly with the faintest hint of a snore building behind the now grunting breaths. He held something in each palm, in his right hand was firmly fixed a .38 Revolver, but the safety was most definitely on and Starkweather was sure no shots had been fired. In his left hand, Jones held a rather precociously ornate metal construction. It gave no implication as to what it could be and, for the time, removing it from Jones' vice-like grip would be impossible.
Starkweather took to his feet and approached the phone, intending immediately to contact the Emergency Services, though something seemed to snatch up his interest. At the window. Something slipped its way past the window outside, behind the closed, metal shades. He saw something dark moving through the thin slits and, on mere curiosity to satisfy, investigated.
6
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
6:28 am
Block 3A, Roof Top Harvey awoke groggily, still suspended somehow by loops and plastics from the roof of the building. He had little recollection of how he came to be dangling there, swaying in the dying draughts in the thin, white-blue lights of dawn. Nor did he remember how he had survived the pounding rains which he did indeed remember. He did, however, recollect something a tad more disturbing which occurred after the fall. A dream, though nightmare was a better way of terming it, had struck him in his present weakened state of body and mind and had twisted his psyche slightly. He had found himself, engulfs in a all-consuming darkness but it was not darkness. It was something else. It was like lapping black eternal waters but it felt peculiarly warm and, within it, unmentionable things dwelled and writhed and dined upon other unnameable portions of living darkness.
And within that maddening, lapping dark energy Harvey had found himself. But not only did he find himself in such an uninviting place. He found himself to be content there in that abominable darkness.
And, finally summoning up the strength he had called upon for hours, Harvey screamed.
7 Starkweather lifted a single, heavy eye-lid. For reasons beyond his knowing, his other refused even to open slightly, perhaps caked shut with sleep or some other. All he did know though was that his head was killing him, sending a horrific trauma of blunt pains throughout various parts of his body. Had he been drinking? He was sure that he had downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels before he'd headed home the night before, but he didn't think he'd had that much. He stretched an arm and, in a harsh, gravely voice, he spoke to himself: "Damn, Frank, you need to stop yourself from hitting the bottle too hard again." still unsure if he had been drunk-the end of last night was blurred to him. Coincidentally, the world itself seemed to be in pretty much a hazy, poor focus and Starkweather saw various shapes in bleached lights and darkened portions. He felt a draught of thin air hit him and surround him, making his bed feel uncomfortably cold. And uncomfortably solid. He pulled himself up and felt blindly at his bed to try and perhaps plump it up, make it slightly softer, when he came to a sharp realization. This was not his bed. This was no bed at all. This was a block of granite. 'Where in the hell are you, Frank!?' He raised a throbbing hand to his face to mop his brow, but even in his dulled view he could see, and sense, something different. His hand seemed, distorted, somehow. Longer. Wider. Sharpened? Yes, he felt that such a word could be applied to how he saw his hand. Surely though, it must be a trick of the light. His fingers ruffled through his hair as his palm gently wiped his forehead until he drew his hand further right. And felt something a miss. And felt a something that was not there and a something which ought not to be there.
And, upon realizing what that something was, Starkweather screamed too, adjoining a scream he heard somewhere around that endless, darkened chamber.
8
Edinburgh, Scotland
Tuesday, October 5th
9:35 am (GMT)
Residence of Arthur MacMorrow The Phone rang for a minute without an answer and remained so until Jones caught the voice on the end, announcing that he should leave a message after the beep and so, hastily, he did so: "Arthur, if you're there pick up the damn phone this instant!...Damn you! Of all the times to be away from the phone now? sigh You'll no doubt of guessed who I am when you listen. It's me, Jones. I needn't say more but I must say this: Dear God, Arthur, I was right all this time. Damn my curiosity and damn my eyes for letting me read those passages. No time to explain more. Call me back as soon as possible but in the highly-likely chance I don't respond, seek me out shortly. You will need to come to New England. No more time. Time is n-ARGHHH! DEAR-...GOD!!!" The sound of some form of electrical pulse and a howl crackle insanely loudly over the receiver. Still no one comes to answer the phone and no one would even listen to that message until many hours had passed by.
Chapter 1
The Darkness before Dawn
1
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
4:31 am
Block 2A, Room 436 Jones sat many an hour, staring at the receding view of the world outside of his window, watching the city go through its perpetual actions of simple self-preservation. Eating. Sleeping. Working. The words he ran through his mind brought about ugly connotations of the other. Of that other. Jones shuddered at the mere thought of it. The storm bolstered itself, growing ever stronger. A tempest of rain lashed down from the heavens above, striking any unfortunate soul who would be trapped in its whirling gusts and heaving waters rushing down from the eternity of darkness above. Jones took his inspiration from the torment in the world outside his window for his paintings. And the world outside of that. Many, that is to say those who weren't turned away in disgust or bewilderment, had commented on his originality and striking potency of imagery to his paintings. He did little more then paint what the world is, beneath its skin. Dark. Sick. Pregnant. Jones was sure the world was bearing something other then normal life upon its surface. Something within its dark caverns, deep watery abysses or within the core itself. Under a dark canvas, painted thickly with breathing colours. The whirling, violent thoughts Jones understood may drive him mad but perhaps, just perhaps, he would glimpse what lay in wait.
Jones continued to sit and stare from the window of his workshop, the checker-board lighting of the skyscrapers outside standing embossed on the pre-dawn twilight. And everything was fine. Until something, beyond the eyes of most but Jones, stirred.
He drew himself to face his canvas, upon which he had painted something of what he understood about they beyond that lay silent, and placed his brush down. He took a ring of keys from the depths of his battered, paint-smeared trouser pocket and placed them into the lock of his old, scarred computer desk. For a moment, he stroked his bitter stubble and pondered whether or not he should go through with this.
He accepted he must in the end, twisted the key and opened the drawer. Jones was curious though to how his acquaintances and, dare he say it, friends would look upon it. Would that tyrannical bitch on 3 say but a word or bat an eye-lid to the action he would take? What about that Journalist on top of the building, in 603? Would he give it a small corner in his paper, whatever it was, or would it be over-looked for some recent sports achievement? It would not particularly matter about them, naught but slightly. Jones would need to make a phone call first though. Before it could happen, he would have to leave a message to his old brother-in-arms in Edinburgh. Maybe he would get the others. Maybe he would attempt to take Jones from doing what must be done. Maybe.
As far as Jones could conceive though, it would be the beginning. Of what, he could say.
2
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
4:39 am
Block 2A, Room 603 Burbidge sat tapping away at his keyboard, on a recent case of a disappearance out in the hills of Akelly. It wasn't particularly rewarding work, bar the fact that he did get some country air inhaled and got to clear his lungs of all the smog of the city. Pity the air smelled of manure out there. It had all been rather abnormal though for such a case. Nothing had been rather clear-cut; evidence of foul-play was verging on non- existent and what was present of questionable value. A Farmer had simply gone out to refresh his supply of water, his house lacking piping due to some red-tape and 'un-strategic location' but fresh-water was usually provided by a well. After he had not come back for 3 hours, his wife had grown increasingly worried and phoned (even though they would not provide an ample water supply, there had been telephone-lines put in. Such a curious old construction.) for the law. On arrival, the well was immediately investigated but dredging up a ton of sloppy muds and dirt covered rocks from the bottom recovered no sign of him. The Officer who went into the well was also confused at the general lack of any water but of the soup like mud at bottom which, when measured, appeared to have no confirmable depth. However, there was mud spatterings at the top and on the lip of the well on arrival. Still, lately there has been no confirmation of what happened to him and the local hill-side population (about 4 or 5 remaining people) lost interest in it or moved off into the blasphemous little town of Akelly itself. Burbidge had to stay in that decrepit little, veiled town and hated just about every moment of it. The aging architecture of it's Police Station, it's dingy little Warf where the equally old fisherman say with his rod, rain or shine, that damnable old overlooking mansion with it's perfect view of the town from it's hill-side peak. Abandoned, the official statement declared. Others though, suggested it wasn't. The elderly fisherman had loosened his lips after he'd drowned his sorrows on a couple of bottles of cheap whiskey and had told things which Burbidge himself paled at hearing. Tales of deep-rooted history of the old place, it's scarcely seen but often heard former occupants. And of it's alleged current owner.
Burbidge forced the memories from his mind. They had nothing to do with the task at hand. He really should stay focussed on the article. But he could not. His mind roved over many things. The disappearance. Akelly. The turmoil slicing the world outside. He turned to the window to see many streaks of rain-water washing it down thoroughly, casting the city below into a blurry, soft-focus. It was almost pleasant. But Burbidge was sure he could see something, nay, feel something. Beyond. Beyond the glass. Beyond the city. Something. Prowling. In a sudden strike of lightning outside, Burbidge felt Hell abruptly tear itself apart inside his skull, surging and whirling and tearing. He clamped a hand to his head and barrelled over, spinning his chair upward and almost kicking the computer screen. As hastily as it arrived though, the pain subsided. The shaken Burbidge righted himself once more, pulled his chair up and quickly shot glances across the room. He could feel it again. That beyondness, creeping afar, hunting. But not for him. Something rather radical would happen shortly. Something hectic. Something insufferably dire.
In the quick instance of the next few seconds, there was new sound. An ear- shattering howl without comprehension. A hum, a peculiar piping noise almost mocking speech and a whispering chatter of something, something inhuman. And then, came something very human. A single, sharp scream. Some other noise, muffled by distance. And then came silence. Silence but for the rumble of thunder, the sweet patter of rain and the occasional flutter of the gusting winds.
Burbidge solemnly sank to the floor, utterly confused by what happened several floors below him.
3
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
3:45 am
Block 2A, Corridor outside Room 319 Jill Morga brought her wrist to her face and wiped her failing eyes. The scent of coffee filled her nose with vigour as she brought the polystyrene cup to her nose, inhaling its pleasant smell before taking a sip. The contrasting warmth of the coffee and the cold, wet air outside of the building made her feel cosier and sheltered. One thing, however, that brought her from such blissful thoughts was the dreary, perhaps demented artist who passed her by on the way to the staircase. What was his name again? It was a J-something or other. Common name, was it not? John? Was that right? Morga couldn't recall. Nor could she care. None-the-less, that man gave her the chills. It was not his unkempt appearance, nor even his paranoid twitches and glances he constantly sent over his shoulders, nor was it even the way he shunned the elevator and took the corridor past her room daily as opposed to going down the normal stair-case all the way to the ground floor. There was just an aura to the man with dark subtexts. He looked generally harmless though; possibly even pitiable but that abominable feeling loomed over her whenever she came across this man and so she turned an eye and went back inside her room.
4
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
4:34 am
Block 3A, Roof Top Under the protection of a small plastic tarp and some thick galoshes, Harvey stumbled around atop the building, trying to recall where the Dish was located. He hated having to maintain the damn thing, but he felt he had to. Not to be good-natured or anything, lord no, but because he should not wish to feel blanketed in the warmth of TV. And on such an appalling night, he'd need all the warmth he could get. He looked towards the west-side of the building, and this time successfully found the small silver receiver of his beloved television. Grinning and hugging himself over for the sake of keeping warm, he approached it and began to re-adjust it.
Something, though, cast his glance upon other things. He felt a compulsion to look down to the Apartment building ahead. To the fourth-floor. To the 36th room. He could see no more then filtered light though strips of metal shades. Nothing more. He continued with his work but that same urge to look again drew his attention. And this time, he saw something else. A thick, almost electrical, black shone through the shades and flecked with red bolts. It was upon seeing this menagerie of a dark light-show that caused Harvey to stumble from his place, lose his footing in the rain-slick roof- top and fall from the top of the building. Fate, it seemed, had other ideas for Harvey. He was snagged somehow by a twisted piece of tarpaulin and avoided the several story fall.
5
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
4:40 am
Block 2A, Room 436 Jones lay on the floor. His neighbour, a stalwart man named Starkweather, stood above him, examining him, before kneeling down to check for a pulse. Surely enough, he located a beat, though broken and unsteady in pace. Checking for breathing, Starkweather uncovered no blockage in breathing, quite the contrary, he was breathing regularly with the faintest hint of a snore building behind the now grunting breaths. He held something in each palm, in his right hand was firmly fixed a .38 Revolver, but the safety was most definitely on and Starkweather was sure no shots had been fired. In his left hand, Jones held a rather precociously ornate metal construction. It gave no implication as to what it could be and, for the time, removing it from Jones' vice-like grip would be impossible.
Starkweather took to his feet and approached the phone, intending immediately to contact the Emergency Services, though something seemed to snatch up his interest. At the window. Something slipped its way past the window outside, behind the closed, metal shades. He saw something dark moving through the thin slits and, on mere curiosity to satisfy, investigated.
6
Birlmouth, Massachusetts, USA
Tuesday, October 5th
6:28 am
Block 3A, Roof Top Harvey awoke groggily, still suspended somehow by loops and plastics from the roof of the building. He had little recollection of how he came to be dangling there, swaying in the dying draughts in the thin, white-blue lights of dawn. Nor did he remember how he had survived the pounding rains which he did indeed remember. He did, however, recollect something a tad more disturbing which occurred after the fall. A dream, though nightmare was a better way of terming it, had struck him in his present weakened state of body and mind and had twisted his psyche slightly. He had found himself, engulfs in a all-consuming darkness but it was not darkness. It was something else. It was like lapping black eternal waters but it felt peculiarly warm and, within it, unmentionable things dwelled and writhed and dined upon other unnameable portions of living darkness.
And within that maddening, lapping dark energy Harvey had found himself. But not only did he find himself in such an uninviting place. He found himself to be content there in that abominable darkness.
And, finally summoning up the strength he had called upon for hours, Harvey screamed.
7 Starkweather lifted a single, heavy eye-lid. For reasons beyond his knowing, his other refused even to open slightly, perhaps caked shut with sleep or some other. All he did know though was that his head was killing him, sending a horrific trauma of blunt pains throughout various parts of his body. Had he been drinking? He was sure that he had downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels before he'd headed home the night before, but he didn't think he'd had that much. He stretched an arm and, in a harsh, gravely voice, he spoke to himself: "Damn, Frank, you need to stop yourself from hitting the bottle too hard again." still unsure if he had been drunk-the end of last night was blurred to him. Coincidentally, the world itself seemed to be in pretty much a hazy, poor focus and Starkweather saw various shapes in bleached lights and darkened portions. He felt a draught of thin air hit him and surround him, making his bed feel uncomfortably cold. And uncomfortably solid. He pulled himself up and felt blindly at his bed to try and perhaps plump it up, make it slightly softer, when he came to a sharp realization. This was not his bed. This was no bed at all. This was a block of granite. 'Where in the hell are you, Frank!?' He raised a throbbing hand to his face to mop his brow, but even in his dulled view he could see, and sense, something different. His hand seemed, distorted, somehow. Longer. Wider. Sharpened? Yes, he felt that such a word could be applied to how he saw his hand. Surely though, it must be a trick of the light. His fingers ruffled through his hair as his palm gently wiped his forehead until he drew his hand further right. And felt something a miss. And felt a something that was not there and a something which ought not to be there.
And, upon realizing what that something was, Starkweather screamed too, adjoining a scream he heard somewhere around that endless, darkened chamber.
8
Edinburgh, Scotland
Tuesday, October 5th
9:35 am (GMT)
Residence of Arthur MacMorrow The Phone rang for a minute without an answer and remained so until Jones caught the voice on the end, announcing that he should leave a message after the beep and so, hastily, he did so: "Arthur, if you're there pick up the damn phone this instant!...Damn you! Of all the times to be away from the phone now? sigh You'll no doubt of guessed who I am when you listen. It's me, Jones. I needn't say more but I must say this: Dear God, Arthur, I was right all this time. Damn my curiosity and damn my eyes for letting me read those passages. No time to explain more. Call me back as soon as possible but in the highly-likely chance I don't respond, seek me out shortly. You will need to come to New England. No more time. Time is n-ARGHHH! DEAR-...GOD!!!" The sound of some form of electrical pulse and a howl crackle insanely loudly over the receiver. Still no one comes to answer the phone and no one would even listen to that message until many hours had passed by.