I was supposed to get something worthwhile accomplished today. Instead I spent a few hours writing a short story. The length and choice of homage may DQ me from the contest, but I won't mind. I honestly enjoy sitting down and writing a story every once in a while.
Excerpt from the Ess. Trib.
Thursday October 30th 1924
Editorial
P. A. Lovell
Editor's note: no changes have been made by the editorial staff.
Though it has been some time in passing, I presume that all members of the educated set are quite aware of the series of strange events transmitted over wireless from translations of local publications. Indeed, the news held the majority of the region quite enraptured at the time. Perhaps the fading of such an ill-hued spotlight has left it little more than a trivial footnote. For those of us who witnessed it, the night terrors keep an ever vigilant sentry against such pleasant ignorance. Time to heal was something which was made quite abundant to me as I came to accept the things which I saw in this old asylum. It is only now, after what feels like a lifetime of disjointed half-memories, that the staff have deemed me fit of humor enough to possess a pen. Against the urging of investigators and, perhaps, my better judgment, I now set out to clarify what was witnessed in that dark unholy forest.
The original reports from sources in more civilized regions along the Danube gave titillating witness to the emergence of a feral child from the forests in that state still known to many as Bukovina. Just as readers were enraptured by tales of the bizarre behavior in this individual, members of the academically minded class were ever tempted by the chance to observe this pale savage. As a recently hired assistant under the tutelage of eminent professor Ulysses G. Harlan at his former post, I was presented with a unique opportunity to observe the creature myself. Ashamedly, I admit that it was I who pointed out the wireless tales to Dr. Harlan from an issue of the Essex Tribune. Harlan was more an expert on esoteric developmental philosophy than any other. Indeed it was him who first postulated the connections between the famous case of Victor de l'Aveyron and some lesser known lines from the Mad Arab. Shortly after introducing the incidents to Dr. Harlan, an invitation from the Romanian consul on behalf of the kingdom and the disputed territory of note arrived summoning the esteemed professor to provide scientific insight on the situation. There was a sense of urgency in the message which I did not detect until well after it had transpired. A room aboard a steamer from Boston was secured to take Harlan to Nice where he would be transported by aeroplane to Czernowitz. I was selected to accompany him to give record of our findings for the academic press.
With not so much time enough to sublet the small room I leased near the university, we were asea. As I was not so adept at the Romantic languages as Dr. Harlan, nearly half of my time on the vessel was spent honing these skills. It was some consolation to find aboard a pair of sisters bound for France with fluency to match their wit. As we passed through the Shoulders of Atlas, their attention waned from me to the delights of the Mediterranean air. A bid my companions well as we debarked the ship and made for our next leg of the trip. At the airfield, we found our transport to be much less spacious as we had anticipated, and were unable to take all of our supplies. Dr. Harlan contacted a colleague to hold some of our belongings, mostly books, until our return. In the end, we were left with a change of clothes, three bound notebooks, a handful of pencils, an ancient revolver the professor refused to part with, toiletries, shaving kits, and four texts which we agreed would be necessary for the diagnosis. Additionally, I carried a timepiece and spectacles, and the good doctor our papers and a small notebook of pertinent translations from the Necronomicon.
After alighting in Czernowitz, myself only becoming ill once on the turbulent, tumbling flight from France, we were left waiting at the airfield for some hours after that dreadful flying contraption had gone on its way. At some consternation, we inquired as to when we could expect the envoy to arrive from the government buildings. The station master was not informed of any delays, and so we set out to the consulate. Being a young and yet wild fallen kingdom, Bukovina had little in the way of modern convenience such as wires save between those former bastions of the old ways. Upon arrival at the government offices, and after great delays, a small thin man with tousled hair and a Bavarian frame informed us that the services of the scientific community were no longer requested or welcome in the case. From what little Romanian I could discern from either the tiny man or the tall, haughty Harlan, the feral boy had been taken for lost. Indeed, upon inspection of a recent news article, which we had little access to on the high sea, it was noted that the child had been misplaced under mysterious circumstances. Harlan's face oscillated from a sickly hue of despondency to the red fury of a powerless soul. We were directed to a public house to spend the evening. Weary from the journey, my mind was lost in an incalculable loss. An opportunity of a lifetime had been felled before me. Oh that I had known then what I know now.
Supping that evening before the fire of a decidedly impoverished public house dining room, Dr. Harlan made conversation with the locals as I sat resigned to my silence. One of the locals, a ragged gypsy seemed to have caught the rapt attention of my professor. I was well aware of the impure tricks these wandering dogs have been known to use, and I too became interested in the conversation for the sake of the waning sobriety of Dr. Harlan. The gypsy was part of a merchant caravan that happened to pass a certain village along the twisting edge of a forest path which was known to all for being the former home of the beastly child. As Harlan requested to ride along with the man, the gypsy began to casually take on a darker lupine appearance. He told a tale of how the hamlet was cursed with the child, and how it would not stray from the forested home. Harlan and myself both knew the wild tales members of these subhuman races would tell to each other in their ignorant savagery, but Dr. Harlan was intrigued by the notion. Confident that the gypsy would have a hard time robbing us thanks to the revolver concealed near his breast, the professor proffered a handful of local currency to affect transport. As expected, the bargaining began. Such a dangerous stop along his trip would require a great deal more than we could offer. A parlay was conducted. Eventually it was settled that my timepiece would make for adequate fare. I was hesitant to rid myself of the pocket watch, but I was assured I would be compensated once we returned to Miskatonic.
The week of travel was surprising in how uneventful it was. The caravan, while little more than a roving band of lice-ridden beggars and a few mules laden with trinkets, was mostly peaceful. Yet as we arrived at the accursed village, the party began to murmur and look wary. As far as superstitions go, I was surprised at the time at how serious these peoples were. It seemed that even the beasts were raised in this nervous and frightful manner, whinnying a reluctance to approach. It was in the outskirts that the train stopped and informed us of our arrival. The wily dog who first made the deal with us gave a more wary look. What before I found humorous about the murmuring quiet nervousness slowly gave way to a modicum of worry.
Walking among the hovels, we were greeted by a sharp report of words as if they were fired with lead and wadding. Indeed, the skeleton that issued it was holding an old musket which could very well have spoken for him. Slowing our approach, we announced that we were here from the city to investigate the tales of the wild child in their midst. The sunken pits beneath his eyes seem to tell an arduous tale of their own. Before he answered, he seemed to inspect us without moving his gaze. Perhaps he was using some unknown sense to evaluate us. My hairs stood on end in the interminable silence. Without change in his sullen expression, he turned and walked toward a small shack near the forest edge of the village. Without giving command to my extremities, I found that my feet and begun to follow the twisted creature. A sideways glance from Dr. Harlan silently gave me understanding that he too felt as if he was under some arcane spell.
The approaching shanty seemed strange among its fellows. All of the houses had some sort of weed ridden garden before them, but this one was bare earth. Each of the others had some sort of adjoining structure for livestock, yet all that was attached to this house was a crumpled mass of rotten boards, the memory of some other construction. Our muted guide paused at the slanted decrepit portal to this house raised upon dead earth. From the back of his head I could not tell if his jaw moved as he curtly grumbled in the local dialect, "Here, In."
I was the first to regain control of my limbs, and I was the one who opened the unadorned door to the place. There was no light inside, and the shock from daylight would take time to correct. Looking back upon the events now, I should have been perturbed by the lack of smoke from the chimney. The cold darkness embraced me when the stench shocked me into reality. My stomach heaved in reaction to the putrescence of decay and filth that shot out as squamous tentacles from the earthy dark. A recollection from a life we all have long since abandoned came rushing into the fore of my mind. This was the lair of some untold beast, and no spear or stone could ward off such monstrous terror. Again, my legs moved of their own volition, but not in the same way as the obedient tread by the stygian boatman at the door. It was curiosity in the face of fear, the sense that lead man from the jungle to the civilized being he is today, that led me on. Harlan followed close behind with the bony man in tow.
My eyes were still adjusting to the blackness of this wooden crypt when light burst forth from a window near the door as the man had thrown open the shutters. A ray of light from the world outside landed on a huddled mass at the far wall. Along the ray's path, it revealed fragments of an interior which must have been human at one point. A small table with chairs, stained in a peculiar manner stood in the center of the room. An old stone hewn stove in a noticeable state of disrepair was crumbled and scattered about one end of the room. The floor was cluttered with earthenware, strips of fabric, and some lumps that I could only assume were a crude soap or candle. And there at the very end of this beam of light, was the mass. It was curled upon a pile of hay and cloth that was probably a functioning mattress in recent history with a chain that lead from some brown stub to the wreck that was once a stove. The ragged pile stirred and a small eye looked up from knots of hair.
There came such a wail from the beast that I was sure we had encountered monster summoned from hell or like some creature from the scribbled pages of that text by the Mad Arab. So much for my passing judgment on the fearful gypsies. I glanced behind me and saw Dr. Harlan, hand in his breast pocket, with a musket pointed at his head by the villager. The monstrous banshee did not seem to stop as it bellowed on screeching. Dr. Harlan's forearm muscles relaxed slightly and he drew his hand away from the pocket. Accordingly, the musket was no longer pointed at him, though the suggestion of a threat still remained.
The old man reached into his tattered rags and produced a small knife from an embroidered sheath. Walking over to the stove without so much as a change in his stare, he leaned down and prodded the rock pile to reveal a metal bar. The bar was no doubt used for holding cookware above coals, but now it was affixed to a crude shackle leading over to the still screaming monster. Leaning the musket in the crook between the chimney and the wall, he sat down at the shiny piebald table and grabbed a mound from under bowl on the ground. Instantly, silence returned to the cabin. Producing a large chunk of indistinct flesh, he began to cut into it with his knife. A tap on my shoulder led me to glance at the previously cacophonous being chained in the room. The appearance had suddenly shifted from that of a howling mass like some disheveled hound to likeness of a young dirty street urchin. The boy's hair still tangled his features, and his dirty rags could give little indication of his health or age, but the eager eyes of a child were clearly visible, fixated on the slicing meat. Our prize lay before us. A sliver of meat, stringy with fat, was palmed to Dr. Harlan by the old man. Mustering a face that would be more suited to a Mississippi steamer behind a flush, Harlan approached the boy. The once terrifying specter recoiled at his approach. Harlan turned over his palm to reveal meaty glob and the fixation returned, giving calm to a cornered beast. Without approaching further, Harlan squatted before the boy, examined him from ten paces, then tossed the flesh in his direction. Momentarily I was blinded to the consumption of raw near rotting flesh by the ease at which a professor in esoteric works transitioned to the calm demeanor of a lion tamer.
As feeding the boy seemed to calm him into an ever more approachable state, I was taken outside by the old man. His cold glance had not thawed, but I began that he was nothing to fear. Perhaps the sudden arrival of strangers in this uninhabited village tossed his simple psyche into some fugue state, only functioning on base servile instinct. I was led to another hut and it was indicated that I would be staying here. The hovel was furnished in a very lived in manner. Had there been a fire going I might have suspected that I was to be staying at an inhabited bed. Our host left as I was laying out my other jacket and returned shortly with a misshapen white blob with a dancing flame atop the precipice, giving credence to my earlier assessment of the shape. The old man took his leave and went back to check on his other guest. I wrote a short entry in the log I was keeping on the journey by flickering light of the candle and started toward the door when I heard it.
Issuing from the cabin was a great bellow of a scream, which I knew at once must have been Dr. Harlan. I dashed to the source and was greeted by a confusing scene. Harlan was holding his arm as a thin sanguine stream trickled down from some unknown malady. The old man, suddenly with haste was loading shot into his musket. I was informed from a deep barrel chest like I never expected how the child had bit him. Harlan moved for one of the rags strewn on the floor to stop the bleeding. In the excitement I stood glued to my post watching the scene play out. Suddenly I realized that the old man intended to shoot the wild boy. I pleaded with him to do no harm to the creature, when he finished packing the slug. He drew the rifle and took aim, but not at the boy.
The slats of the walls seem to shiver from the crack of the gunshot, and the wild boy returned unearthly screaming, undoing the day's work. Dr. Harlan got up from the ground, dirt ground deep into his temple as he quickly ducked to avoid the bullet. Without hesitating, the old man began to load another round. He worked efficiently and silently yet without manufactured haste like a well skilled hunter preparing to take down another pig. Dr. Harlan pulled the revolver out of his jacket, but in vain. A tremor from the fresh arm wound loosened his grip and the weapon fell uselessly to the ground. Helplessly stuck in a trance from the screaming and bellowing, my ears still ringing from the first shot, I was unable to find the will to react. Harlan, realizing he could never shoot with his wounded arm, flew from the door as a scared rabbit might. And his hunter, with sudden rapidity, stood in the empty doorframe behind him and leveled the rifle at the prey. In that moment I was able to pull myself from cowardice and dive for the ground and for the key to salvation waiting there. My body, fueled by fear and primal instinct flashed the barrel up toward the emotionless Nimrod in the half-moon light and pulled the trigger.
The gun had fallen from my hands, but I was still laying on the ground when Dr. Harlan returned. I had not even noticed the cessation of that awful screaming until I saw his face.
Perhaps there was some terrible presence in the eyes of that old man from the village. Perhaps some ghastly haunt from the outer depths of another dimension had plagued him. Perhaps when I killed that old man the spirit took a new vessel to afflict with melancholic disease. Or perhaps in that moment when I made metal rend flesh asunder and tear that strained soul away from the world of the living I understood why his eyes were sunken and his speech minimal. I can still remember the next few days, despite the trauma. I remember how the child had reverted to the look of pleading hunger when we first tamed him as we dragged the corpse away. I remember how, on our way to bury the evidence of the incident in the woods we found the pit. I remember the way the stench of rotting humanity gagged Dr. Harlan, but not me.
The bodies were piled in the pit in strange layers. Those at the top were men in work clothes. Each appeared to have been shot by gunfire as well as significant unidentifiable flesh wounds. The bottom layer was mangled and shredded as if ripped apart by some pack of creatures. Almost nothing was distinguishable except for the thin nightclothes each seemed to have been wearing. The middle layer was the strangest however. In my catatonic state, I am nearly sure that I could feel my eyes widen at the vision before me. Were that I a medical man that I could describe the distorted musculature and bone of these beings. I am nearly certain that no such creature has ever been described, save in tales told to frighten children or visions from otherworldly planes.
Dr. Harlan continued digging among this inhuman refuse out of some morbid fascination. He started giving me instructions for things to note down in the journals about the lack of necrophages and phrenological observations of the subhumans in the middle layer. I just went to my cabin, now aware that it was the former home of one of those in the pile, and sat in the chair at the table. I stared in silence at the wall, pondering the distant shores of oblivion, and drifting into dream.
While the next few weeks were of scientific interest, there is little about them that hasn't already been said. The findings were denied proper peer-review by the academic community due to the 'questionable mental state of the author' and 'lack of evidence' as everyone is likely aware. Indeed it was the exaggerated reports in the popular press that sounded the death knell for any sort of formal inquiry. While it is true I am guilty of murdering the unidentified old man in the village, I am not responsible for taking any other man's life. The outrageous claims that the late Dr. Harlan was performing unethical experimentation on those villagers is patently false. Such hastily drawn conclusions do nothing but tarnish the name and reputation of a prominent intellectual. The refusal of the Kingdom of Romania and the Duchy of Bukovina to acknowledge the invitation of myself and Dr. Harlan to the area is evidence of knowing government obfuscation of the truth. I have attested before God and man that the events which occurred on the night of the full moon are true and accurate despite the mental anguish from those traumatic days.
The boy in the hut had remained confined there in chains due to aggressive outbursts, especially after durations of hunger. Dr. Harlan had decided that feeding was to occur only once per day to provide a method for reinforcement of behaviors in the feral child. Our sessions consisted primarily of examining the response of the boy to new stimuli and attempting to elicit speech patterns. Naturally, such work would take a significant amount of time, and we were looking forward to the return of the next trading caravan to secure passage with the subject to more suitable conditions. No effort was made to attempt contact with other communities, as the only settlement we knew of was outside of a day's ride from the village. There were no pack animals in the village, though there was evidence that some had been there in recent memory. In fact, there was no livestock in the village, our sustenance was supplied by stores we had found in the village of preserved vegetables and meats. The vegetable matter was not acceptable reward fodder for the boy. I only observed him eat meat. Our theory at the time was the manner in which the boy was raised in the wild, possibly by some native canid, making him unaccustomed to consuming plant life.
The morning of the fateful day began with a short session with the boy before breakfast. This was followed by discussion of possible results of the previous day's work. Discussion was primarily in one direction. Though my voice had returned to me, I was still taken by an ill disposition which kept me in quite a sullen demeanor. After recording the results in the dwindling margins of the remaining notebook, the study and training continued. That day we were particularly interested in physical development of the boy. Dr. Harlan estimated that he was approximately twelve years of age. Due to malnutrition and questionable heritage, this number may be woefully incorrect. We were particularly stymied by significant growths of androgenic hair which we had seemingly overlooked during earlier studies.
The boy became increasingly agitated during the course of the day. I became worried that we had been pushing him too hard to produce results before our return. Dr. Harlan seemed to be growing frustrated as well. His explanations were becoming terse and he seemed near the limit of his capacity for kindness. I willingly stepped in to interact with the savage to prevent any regrettable behavior toward a live specimen caused by mere frustration. By the time the evening had arrived, the professor still seemed upset, and we decided to sup and take a break from the stress of training what may be an untrainable boy. The professor procured the food from the larder in the nearest shack. He chose a rather spartan meal of the drying meats.
Part way through the dinner is when the screaming began. We had grown accustomed to crying and wailing from the boy in the wrecked hovel. Occasionally after leaving him alone in the room to attend to our needs, he would cry out in such a way to convince us something was wrong. We had learned to ignore it, understanding that this attention seeking behavior was to be expected from an unmannered wild creature, human or otherwise. We continued our dinner, taking no note of the sounds as they seemed to grow more pained and anguished. Night was soon upon us, and the weather promised a well lit night by the luminous white orb in the sky as soon as the few passing clouds had gone by. The crescendo of anguished wails coming from the hut nearest the forest began to take a more sinister tone. New tones were added which hinted of snarling like some ravenous beast.
Harlan could stand no more. He took a candle and a slice of meat with him to comfort the monster next door. His present state was not as a caring father, rather as a bedraggled ogre. His frustration was getting the better of him as it all does for us from time to time. I sat resigned to let him work out his frustrations as he needed with the boy while I enjoyed the time alone with my dinner. He began to yell incoherently from the house with the boy. For a moment I considered what dreadful fate he was meeting, whipping the poor whelp in wrath only to be set upon by the chained beast which had bit him those many days ago. After his yells turned to the same sort of pained snarling, I realized he was only mocking the jailed child. As cruel as it may have been, it was better than what my increasingly active imagination would have me believe. I took the free moment to steal away to the larder to scour the pantry for some vegetable portion Harlan may have missed in his haste.
In that dark place I stirred amongst the drying flesh harvested from some unknown local boar. It was actually a fine meat, although I can't say I can place the flavor to anything from my own soil. There in the stores I found plentiful stored grains and tubers. When I was almost finished selecting the ingredients to go into a crude porridge, I heard a sound quite different from the others.
My ears pricked and the hairs on the nape of my neck shot to attention. There are certain sounds among the most primal memories of man which elicit instantaneous response. This rasped howl which was formed from some snarled consonant is the sound of the beasts that come in the night. Soon, there was a change in the other yells. The same blood curdling bellow I had witnessed when Dr. Harlan was attacked that first night issued forth. This time, though I admit my craven feet betrayed me momentarily, I was much quicker to respond. Harlan's yell turned into an altogether more frightening scream, the likes of which are difficult to describe. His scream was stuttered by glottal pauses and growls. As I dashed toward the hut, unburdened by previous notions of fear, I heard the report of the first gunshot. Three more snapped out before I could make it to the hut.
Before me stood, in the middle of the room, a most shocking image of Dr. Harlan. His face was reddened from the previous shouting, and sweat glistened on every surface of exposed skin. In the moment of his fear he was incredibly imposing. Perhaps I was hunched down in fright, but he seemed to tower taller than before. His hat, fallen to the ground, left in its stead a shock of greasy brown hair, long and unkempt from the time away from civilization. His jaw was clenched with muscles such that it seemed to stretch forth like some hellhound. He held the revolver before him as he fired the last shot in the five-round cylinder. I dreaded to look further into the room, knowing the corpse of the boy I would see. I paused momentarily as he reached to the table for the candle and threw it toward where the body of the boy would be. Only then did I hear the primal growl and snap of the terrible night thing that lurked within. A new musky scent accompanied the snapping, maddening sounds. I could feel the heat as the flame took to the dried hay on the floor serving as a mattress. The orange light played against the other walls. It danced over the crumbling stove as the bar holding the chain was strained by some force with the strength of several men. The glittering flame glanced across the dark brown stains on the piebald table and the new red stains it had acquired. The growling turned into otherworldly screeching. It was as if something was trying to tear through from the other side. Gathering my nerve I began to poke my head through the doorway and toward that inferno with the thrashing maw of some abomination within. I only saw the black figure for a moment. The hair covering its body were curling in the flame. It screeched in pain and terror as the tugs on his chains became more and more urgent as each of his hairs began to set alight and curl in upon themselves. The scent of burning flesh overwhelmed me as much as the impossible sight, and I recoiled in horror.
As I recovered my senses, I again focused on the deranged Dr. Harlan. His muscles flexed under his stretched and sagging skin, tearing itself open and revealing sprouts of gray hair underneath pink muscle tissue. The hair was bursting forth from under this thinly stretched fleshy veil. His nose, jutted further toward me as his phalanges grew more twisted and sinister before my eyes. The gray spines eventually poked through the face of the man I had spent so much time with these past few months. As the blood from his self inflicted emergence dripped from his lips, these new haunches raised revealing growth of such terrible fangs, I went beyond such fear that I had known in my life. And when those eyes regained focus and the slits looked deep into my soul, I could not stop myself from becoming a monster myself. The fire had spread to ancient table and chairs, rags across the floor began to blacken. The walls and roof were nearly aflame themselves. That is when I pulled the door shut tight and held it.
I could feel the monster, still somewhat human trying to work the latch with his cumbersome gray paws. Giving up, he growled as he dug into the flimsy wood of the door. As he did so, those enraged snarls turned to howls and wails of suffering. The roof had been fully consumed by the flames, and the dry thatch other buildings were beginning to catch. I held the door fast as my hands were screaming in agony to release. The noises inside eventually turned to fainter and fainter whimpers as bubbled flesh of my palms finally slipped from the latch. I could not move, and the fire closed in around me. I succumbed to the smoke, as soon as I was confident that nothing could be heard in that little shack besides the crackling of blackened wood and the roar of a fire.
I was in France when I came to my senses. The story, to the best of my recollection, while I was out was that I was saved from the flames by the fortunate arrival of the gypsy caravan. While I appeared to be in good health, I was taken back to Czernowitz in some sort of delirium. Doctors in the city could not find any major illness outside of some temporary damage to my lungs. The gypsy remembered our story, and took me to the consulate. From there I was sent back to Nice by ground service. I had been retrieved by the colleague we had previously stowed our possessions with during the earlier voyage. There I was able to recuperate before returning by liner to the Miskatonic, where my reports promptly led me to be locked in the asylum.
While the health department maintains that I am still 'profoundly disturbed', after seven years of treatment I am now considered sane enough to 'be a contributing member of society.' Few actually believe me, and my attempts at corroborating my story have met with resistance due to recent upheaval in the region of interest. I fear that what was uncovered in the town near the forest will forever be lost to time. Perhaps it is best this way, but I cannot sit idly by and let others tarnish the name of that good professor, who was tragically lost in the flames of hell.
