This is where I’ve collated just the story parts of my reviews together so you can read it as one ongoing piece without all that pesky reviewing!
SUMMERISLE
As you step onto the moss covered dock, a woman in archaic Victorian garb approaches you. Her dark blonde hair falls to her shoulders in curls and her eyes, a piercing blue framed by dark shadow, stare intently into your own.
Welcome weary traveller, welcome to our beautiful island. I am Lady Summerisle.
How was your journey? Not everyone enjoys flying, and fewer still a landing on the water, but it really is the only way, the mists, you see.
Your room is prepared at The Green Man, our finest Inn, and a hot meal of local fare; and then a welcome rest in a comfy chair and a tipple of your choice, you shall not want for anything. You are, after all, our guest.
Now you are fed and watered and sat cosy by the fire. I hope you will indulge me. I’d like to tell you a story, a ghost story. Do you believe in ghosts? I do hope so, for this story is true, and it happened right here on this island. Out on the west coast, near the lighthouse, was a home for little boys and girls with no parents of their own. Now you wouldn’t think there’d be many children like that on an island this size, but you’d be wrong, or at least you would have been…
Come, bring your chair a little closer to the fire, that’s it. Are you ready? Good.
The sound of silence greets you as you awake, a sliver of sunlight cutting across your eyes like a bright scar. You slept well, despite the muffled sounds of singing from the rooms below going on well into the night. After freshening up you head down to the bar area where you are greeted by a thin, middle aged man with a thick black beard and deep set green eyes.
Good morning friend, I am Gregor, the landlord. I hope your night was a pleasant one, no bad dreams, no tap tap tapping at the chamber door?
Excellent! Breakfast will be served once my daughter Willa returns from the well, if you’re hungry you may wish to give her a hand, it’s out back, can’t miss it.
At the far end of the Inn’s rear garden you see a young dark haired lady in a light summer dress, its geometric pattern reminds you of the 70s, all oranges and browns. She turns quickly at your approach.
Oh! You startled me! You must be our new guest, and come to help with the fetching of the water, very good of you. I’m Willa, and this is our well, deep, dark, and full of history, as well as water. Sometimes when I’m bringing up the bucket I fancy the weight of the water is something holding onto the other end, wanting to come up. A girl can dream. Here now, help me with this water and I’ll get some breakfast going for you.
No, no, you’ve done more than enough already, go sit in the lounge area, put your feet up, breakfast won’t be long. Why don’t you read a book or watch a videotape, hah yes VHS, after all, the old ways are the best, don’t you think?
As you stare at the TV screen, engrossed, a respectable looking man in a tweed suit walks into shot and turns to camera.
Scientists have yet to determine the age of the craft, or who created it. What they suspect is…hold on…it looks like the first team is returning, perhaps they can…oh…I think somebody is hurt. Dave, cut it there, we’ll do some interviews once we find out what’s happened.
That’s all there is.
Willa steps into the room. The TV screen has turned to static.
Local kid found that tape floating in the brook just east of town. Strange thing is, nobody has any idea where that was filmed. Oh the island is small, but it’s also big at the same time, like a scrunched up piece of paper. You never know what’s hiding round the next bend.
So! How do you like your eggs?
Your breakfast consumed, you sit in a comfy chair by the fireplace, a cup of strong herbal tea steaming beside you. All of a sudden you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder.
Sorry to bother you. My name is Steven Banner, I’m an archaeologist from the mainland. I hope you don’t mind me intruding but it’s just, you have the look of a mainlander yourself, am I right in my observation?
Oh good! Wonderful! May I join you?
I’m sure you think me mad, but I’m telling you, the Egyptians came here, she came here, the Princess, I’m sure of it. The locals tell me I’m wrong, oh they’re nice enough in how they say it, but I don’t like the look in their eyes, they’re hiding something, they don’t like us mainlanders, you’ll find that soon enough.
So what do you say, will you meet me there? I’ve marked the location on this map.
He looks up suddenly, his eyes darting about the room, he stands quickly, speaking overly loud.
Mad am I? I take my leave of you then, good day!
Then in a lower voice.
Come soon…
Stepping from the Inn you find yourself on a wide cobbled square surrounded by thatch roofed buildings. At the centre of the square is a tall pole. Different coloured ribbons hang from the top and flutter lazily in the breeze. Your hand brushes the scrap of paper in your pocket…the map, perhaps later, there’s a whole island to explore.
Hullo there friend!
A cheery voice rings out. You look over to a quaint little shop with a multipaned bay window where a jolly looking man with white mutton chops is beckoning you over.
My name is Albert, I heard we had a new visitor to the island. I’m the town chemist, can I interest you in anything?
You glance into the shop through the open door behind the man. Various jars line the shelves, full of things you’ve never seen in any other chemist shop, is that a tentacle?
No? How about some advice then? Not everyone is as they seem. Beware false friends. But most of all, enjoy yourself!
With Albert’s ominous warning still fresh in your mind you make your way north through the town, looking to escape the strangely deserted streets flanked by crooked buildings, the occasional twitch of a curtain catching your eye where the windows aren’t covered by shutters.
Did somebody move across the end of that alley?
Was that the sound of shuffling feet?
ICE CREAM!
The voice seems to come from directly behind you. Crying out you spin about and see a thin man with a gaunt face wearing white overalls and what appears to be a sailor hat.
Surrounding him is a gaggle of children, but surely you would have heard them, children are usually so…silent, these children are silent. They fidget and jostle one another reaching for the Ice Cream cones the man is handing them, but they don’t say a word.
One by one the children claim their treats and patter off down side streets and into doorways, soon it’s just you and the Ice Cream vendor.
Little rascals, I’ll lose a hand one of these days.
With that he turns his cart around and shuffles off. The streets are empty again.
You finally reach the edge of town. Cobbled streets give way to trodden dirt and ahead, a wall of green, a forest, with an opening like a gothic archway of viridian leads into darkness.
At the edge of the wood, there has been a massacre. The stumps of trees fill the space, like islands in a sea of muddy ground. You look closer, the earth has been trampled by the coming and going of many feet and the stumps themselves appear worn and smooth on top, smooth except for numbers carved into each one. The ground slopes down to the west and there beyond the rows of stumps, is a stone dais…this is an amphitheatre
A stout wooden table sits in the centre of the dais, dark wood with dark stains.
Looking down, a sheet of paper flaps against your foot. Picking it up you see it’s a flyer for some event.
Mittwoch the Magnificent!
Magic and Mayhem.
You won’t believe your eyes, if you still have them!
A magic show then, but promising something more than just the usual mundane tricks. The flyer has no date but looks fairly new, perhaps the show is still on, if not here then somewhere else on the island…is there anywhere else on the island? People weren’t clear on that.
You fold the flyer and slip it into your pocket with Steven’s map.
Taking one last look at the dais, you turn and stride towards the trees.
This doesn’t seem right.
You were following a path, it seemed fairly well trodden, there was even a sign, what did it say? Tavernmaw, so there are other places.
But now the forest has closed in tight on either side and looking back the path has all but disappeared behind you, as if erased by your own steps.
You recall Steven’s Map, perhaps it could shed some light on your whereabouts. Reaching into your pocket you freeze as a low growl comes from somewhere to your right, was that a dog? Again…that doesn’t seem right, it sounds like an imitation of a dog, from a human throat. Then an odd noise and the growl again, but this time from your left, and closer.
Breaking into a run you thrash forwards through the trees, blindly pushing your way through the undergrowth which seems to be getting thicker, and thicker, when suddenly you burst out into a clearing, trip on something solid and come crashing to the ground.
Dazed and slightly winded you look up through a low thick mist and see writing.
Here lies Father Lovecraft
Parish Priest of Tavernmaw
May God have Mercy on his Soul
May God have Mercy on us all
It’s a gravestone. This is a graveyard. Now the growling is everywhere.
Rising to your feet your eyes dart about in search of shelter, somewhere to escape from the growling all around you. A Church, there must be one, this is a graveyard, surely a chapel at least…there! Rising like a mirage from the mist is a dark stone building with a crooked steeple. You run.
Dodging left and right to avoid the crumbling decrepit tombs and gravestones you quickly arrive at the front of the church where your reflection in a large window draws an involuntary cry from your lips. You look behind you for any sign of pursuit then back at the…window? No, a door, and made of dark, damp wood, then why? No time for that now, the growls are getting closer. You grasp the iron ring of the door handle and wrench it open, slamming it behind you and slapping the bolt closed.
It’s gloomy in the church, the windows yielding little light…when did it get so dark outside?
Slowly you become accustomed to the dim space and make out two lines of pews with a tattered line of carpet sandwiched between them. At the end of the carpet stands a simple altar, cobwebs hang limp between two candelabras set on top of it. This place hasn’t been used in a long time.
Off to your left a faint glow catches your attention. A strip of yellow outlines a small door set into a stone pillar. Stepping over to it you pull the door open and peer inside. Steps. A spiral staircase leading not up, but down. Electric lightbulbs strung together like a line of paper dolls disappear round the bend…a crypt?
Down seems to be the last place you want to go right now, down is dank mortar and mould, down is grave worms and rot, down is death.
A crash echoes about the church as something slams against the front door.
Down it is.
Moving quickly but cautiously you descend the spiral staircase, down into the coolness of the earth, down into the unknown, down into a dead end? Why would there be an exit down here, all you’ve done is trap yourself, but what other option is there?
You continue down, the string of bulbs lighting your way as the stair spirals ever onwards. Deeper, deeper, dee…you falter as the floor levels out, your foot coming down hard.
You peer out into a large rectangular room, stone pews are arranged in two lines facing a stone altar, just like up above. This room is a duplicate, but unlike the dusty neglected chamber in the church this place has seen plenty of use. The altar has a richly embroidered, deep red cloth neatly arranged on its top. A pair of ornate gilded chalices sit either side of a stone tablet which on closer inspection is covered with a strange symbol carved over and over into the surface, like two Carets either side of a capital T, or an M over a T, it isn’t clear. Whatever the symbol’s meaning, it certainly isn’t something you’d expect to find in a church.
Behind the altar you see a faint red glow, a passage leading further into the crypt, a way out?
As you head along the passage the red glow becomes stronger and a low humming noise begins to resonate all around you, inside you, pulsing, like a heartbeat. All of a sudden the passage opens up into a large cavern bathed in a red glow, the light emanating from an otherwise black metallic looking object at its centre. The humming is louder now, growing in volume with every passing second the pulsing getting faster, overwhelming your senses, a drumbeat against your skull, THOOM-THOOM-THOOM-THOOM-THOOM!
Everything goes black.
You awake. The red glow seems diminished, the sound has stopped but your head feels thick and heavy…congested. As your sleep wracked eyes adjust you see why the glow is reduced, a bright shaft of sunlight spears from an opening in the upper side of the cavern. Tumbled rocks from the opening suggest whatever made the hole came from outside, the black object perhaps?
Making your way towards the…sphere, it’s a sphere, you stumble and throw out a hand to break your fall, grazing your palm in the process. You cry out! In…silence. You make no sound, not your voice, not your feet on the rocks. Nothing. Did that sound deafen you. Is this temporary…or…
You scramble away from the object, turning towards the opening, towards the sunlight, eager to get away from the sound which you can no longer hear. The scattered rocks and scree form a treacherous slope up to the exit hole and you scrabble your way up and out into a brilliant blue skied day.
As soon as you exit the cavern the sound of rushing water fills your ears. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. Before you a narrow gorge splits a valley not much wider. A road twists and turns up either side, joined by a simple metal bridge spanning the turbulent crevasse, the rushing river that formed it the source of the sound.
Looking down you see a clear path down the grassy slope to the edge of the road. The grass of the path is not just trampled though, in fact it barely looks disturbed. Except for the fact that it’s dead. Wilted and brown next to the bright green either side, you don’t like the look of it.
Keeping to one side, you follow it down.
You reach the point where the grassy slope meets the edge of the road. The trail you were following ends, whatever had caused the grass to wilt and die had no effect on the unyielding tarmac it seems. Checking both ways for vehicles, which side of the road do they drive on here anyway, you make your way across and see another strip of deceased foliage plunging down towards the edge of the gorge itself. Cautiously you make your way to the edge.
Peering over into the shadow strewn depths you see the rushing torrent below, imperceptivity carving its way down through the rock. The water seems to be pooling up slightly against some trapped debris, or a dam perhaps. No…not a dam. Dams don’t move like that. Dams don’t pulsate, and dams certainly don’t eject rough, scaly looking objects like fossilised popcorn from a pan. Popcorn with arms and legs…hands…eyes…
Panting, you step back from the edge. Did it see you? What was that thing? Something from the sphere? Deciding that you don’t really want to know you turn around and look down the road, first left, then right, but which way? Left looks as though it could head back towards town, but it might pass through Tavernmaw and after the experience by the church you’re not sure you trust the place.
Turning right and keeping as far from the gorge as possible you make your way along the side of the road as it winds its way up the edge of the valley. Looking back you think you see movement in the shadows of the trees below, small shapes flickering in the dark areas, never emerging into the light.
Turning away again you double your pace. Who knows, on this island, it could be night soon…
After walking for some time, the road winding its way out of the valley, you crest the top of the rise. The sun is high in the sky and you get your first real look a the Island from anything approaching a vantage point.
Trees and swampland stretch away before you to the north, with a glimmer of blue in the distance hinting at the deep waters of the surrounding sea. South, back the way you have come you see the deep valley and the imposing cliff of the valley’s southern edge, taller than this side, impenetrable.
To the west is thick woodland, stretching both north and south. The southerly section presumably containing Tavernmaw with the port town of Summerisle itself beyond.
To the east, a strange mist blocks your view, strange because all else is clear in the bright sun.
Looking north again you see a large house in the swamp, the road you are on passes close to it before disappearing into the mists to the east. Perhaps they have a phone, the Inn back in town would be wondering where you are.
You pass no vehicles or people on your walk to the house. A potholed driveway leads to front door and as you approach you see the building is in the Georgian style, a mansion, something the aristocracy of earlier days would call home. It also appears somewhat neglected, the white paint is peeling and several of the window shutters hang askew.
After knocking on the door for several minutes you try the handle and find the place unlocked. The door swings inwards with surprising smoothness and a waft of stale air greets you. You call out but again meet with no response. You search the entrance hall and adjoining rooms, all lavishly appointed, but terribly neglected. You do not find a phone, but you do find a tape recorder on the floor of a plush sitting room. A tape recorder in the middle of a dark red stain.
You press play.
Once Upon a Time there was a little Girl. One day she was playing in the woods out the back of the family home, playing all alone. What fun she was having, she didn’t need friends, just the wind through the trees, the light flickering through the branches above, and a voice calling to her…a voice? But who could be out here? Nobody came here but her.
Curious, she followed the sound until she came to a rotten, hollow, old tree. The voice came from inside. Come closer it said, look inside my tree it said. So she did, she peaked inside, the voice sounded friendly after all, and it knew her name, Wendy, maybe she did want a friend, but then, she was dead.
What a silly little girl, wandering off all on her own, following strange voices in the woods. Her poor parents will be devastated, oh deary me, whatever can be done?
I know! I look like her now, I have all of her traits all of her memories. I can take her place, just as I took her life.
So off I went, laughing and skipping through the trees, for that’s what little girls do, and soon I was splashing my way through the swampy ground around the big white house with the shutters and there were my Mother and Father smiling and waving at me from the back porch.
They’re not waving anymore. They’re laying very still on the floor. That’s going to have to be it for my tale I’m afraid. I’m running out of tape…
As the tape comes to a stop the room falls silent. You sit a while, listening, listening for the sound of a footstep, for the sound of a door opening, for anything.
Several minutes pass, still nothing. Slowly you stand, turning, scanning the room…nothing.
Perhaps the creature on the tape has moved on, maybe it was a prank, stories like that can’t be real. It all sounds like the work of somebody’s over-active imagination. You’re guilty of it yourself, sitting here in this old house, imagining monsters laying in wait, monsters in some dark cellar, monsters climbing the creaking stairs…
Creak…
You run, bolting for the front door as you hear wood splinter behind you as the monster bursts out from the cellar staircase and into the hall. Throwing the front door aside you think you feel the creature swipe the air where your head was moments before, its razor sharp talons cutting the air instead of your scalp.
You know it has those talons, you just know. Just like you know that it’s huge, big enough to get jammed in the door frame, the momentum that carried it through the cellar door having ebbed away. You know that it won’t stay stuck there forever though, even now it’s probably searching for another way out, perhaps a French window.
Crash!
Your lungs burning, you know it’s gaining on you…so of course, it is. You think you can make it into the mist up ahead, so of course…you do.
The mist surrounds you, and all is white.
Stumbling about in the featureless mist you soon lose your sense of direction, even the ground seems to have become smooth, like marble, or glass.
Just then you think you can hear a faint sound in the distance, something vaudevillian, something from those old seaside towns in their heyday, is that an organ?
You must have turned north in the mist and reached the northern coastline of the island, perhaps there’s a resort town here. Not for the first time you wish you’d done some research before coming to this nightmare of an island.
Following the sound a pink glow soon appears in the distance and then you can make out the silhouette of a man, sat at a gaudy magenta pipe organ, the instrument giving off an ethereal glow.
You call out to the man but he doesn’t seem to hear you, the music is very loud now as you approach still calling out ineffectually over the tremendous volume. Reaching out you place a hand on the man’s shoulder. Cold, hard, like metal.
The music stops and the metal man’s head rotates towards you. His head is spherical, his features simplistic like a child’s drawing, something both infantile and terrifying at the same time.
The lifeless eyes stare at you, stare through you, and without turning back to the organ, he begins to play.
Backing away from the mysterious staring organist you turn and wander further into the fog, still travelling North, you think…
Another sound pierces the air and draws you like a moth to a flame, a telephone, an old fashioned ring with an odd flat sound like it’s being played through a speaker. Eventually the mist begins to clear and a deep blue colour fills the horizon, the sea.
A rusting white ironwork barrier borders the promenade above the sandy beach below, with slatted wooden benches spaced at 50 meter intervals receding into the distance. The ringing is coming from a mobile phone discarded on the bench closest to you.
Wandering over you slowly reach down and pick up the phone. Unknown number. You answer.
“Hello. You answered…you must be new here…”
The voice on the phone is odd, strangely grating, like each word is the first uttered after a long sleep. The speaker sounds calm, relaxed, as though speaking to an old friend.
“What brings you to our fair isle? Adventure? Escape? It doesn’t matter I suppose, the end result is always the same, one way or another…perhaps you could be different though, come and meet me at the cinema on Elm Street. I hope you like scary movies”
Looking up from the now silent phone you are surprised to see something normal…people.
Since leaving the relative normality of the town of Summerisle you’ve not seen anything that could really be described as normal. I mean, you’re fairly sure that the people weren’t there before the phonecall, but right now you’re just happy to see anybody.
You approach a young couple who look like they’re dressed for a formal occasion, the man in a suit with a hat and the lady in a vintage dress, perhaps a 40’s themed event.
“This? Well this is Ubiquity, premiere seaside resort on Summerisle and proud of it! You’re staying in Summerisle itself you say? Well yes it IS the capital I suppose, but not half as big or grand as this place.”
After a short conversation in which you learn that Ubiquity is the second largest settlement on the island, you follow the couple’s directions to the recently opened Elm Street Cineplex. On the way you pass various people of all ages and all…styles. There really must be some kind of event on, so far you’ve passed a punk rocker, a Victorian lady and a group of children looking like they’d come straight out of a medieval fair.
Reaching Elm Street you are confronted by a Cinema that looks far from new. The neon sign has more letters missing than on and graffiti adorns the façade. A man is stood in front of the cinema, he looks familiar…it’s Steven Banner, from The Green Man back in Summerisle.
“I asked you to come soon! It’s been…oh never mind, this must be fate. I started without you, I was right, they did bring the princess here! I was making good progress but then strange things started happening, the men I hired, not locals mind, started to go missing. It was then that I received a note, telling me to come to this location…was that you? Did you…”
There’s a loud crash as a heavily bandaged figure smashes through the paint daubed glass of the cinema’s façade, his hands clasping about Steven’s neck, embedded shards of broken glass slicing the flesh of his throat even as the bandaged man’s horrific strength crushes the flesh to pulp.
Dodging to the side as the mummified figure’s attention is squarely on the late Mr Banner, you dash through the jagged glass opening and into the dim foyer of the abandoned cinema. Turning this way and that you flee down a long corridor with sets of double doors set along its length. Choosing one you burst through the doors and into an ornate looking Auditorium.
Crouching low you slip into a row of plush red velvet seats, a musty smell assaulting your senses, the place has seen better days. Listening intently you hear the slight swish swish as the doors you burst through moments ago slowly stop swinging, then…silence.
With a screech that threatens to send you once again into a sprint you realise it’s the sound of the projector starting up. A bright beam of light slices through the darkness and onto the screen at the front of the room.
Mesmerised you watch as black and white footage appears. A grisly scene, a first person view, looking down at bandaged, bloody hands emerging from the body of a man. The view lingers for a moment before the camera, or the eyes of the killer, turn sharply to the left and the familiar broken glass opening into the cinema comes into view.
The shot moves through the opening, the view bobbing up and down, matching the measured yet relentless pace of the creature. Now the shot is in the corridor…it stops. Moving again, left, then right, finally settling on a set of double doors…but which ones?
A familiar voice, the man from the phone call, cuts through the air.
“I think you should be going now.”
As you hear the doors to the screen crash open you scramble madly along the row of seats, head ducked down in a vain attempt to remain unseen despite your clattering progress.
At the far end of the row, on the wall, about half way between the back of the room and the screen itself a dimly flickering ‘EXIT’ sign can be seen. Stumbling but not daring to look back you push your way through the door beneath the sign.
On the other side of the door is a bare concrete corridor, to the right it curves around a bed, to the left another ‘EXIT’ sign glows at the end of the corridor, you turn left.
Reaching the next door you’re momentarily stunned as the door remains firmly closed as you crash into it. Gasping for breath, the wind knocked out of you, you look more closely at the door and see that somebody has removed the push bar to open it!
No time for that now, you turn to run back the other way when The Mummy lumbers its way through the door from the cinema screen, blocking your exit and turning towards you, relentless.
Desperately you look around you, searching for a way out of this. Your eyes fall on a small metal hatch with a red push button to one side and a long handle along the bottom. Grasping it you pull upwards revealing a bare metal box, a dumb waiter, but what a strange place for…no time!
You scramble inside, slam your palm against the red button and pull the door closed as best you can.
Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the box begins to descend. Just above you there is a crashing, wrenching sound, a snapping sound and then suddenly…you are falling.
Seemingly as soon as you begin to fall you’re brought to a crashing stop as the dumb waiter slams into the base of the shaft. Above you the Mummy’s hand grasps at the empty air before disappearing from view.
Where are you? More importantly is there a way out for you…or a way in for…
Stumbling to your feet you look about you, dim light filters through a high dusty window and all about you are racks of circular metal tins…film reels, this must be some kind of store room in the cinema’s basement.
Searching the room for an exit you hear the sound of static and see a flickering light filtering through the racks of tapes. Mercifully as you round one of the stacks you see a door illuminated by the static fog emanating from a TV on a wheeled trolley. An old V/H/S tape player is stacked on top of the TV but there’s no time for that now, you head for the door.
As you reach for the handle you hear soft whirring and clicking sounds, the sound of a tape being pushed into the machine.
The static stops, and so does the light…
The darkness is shattered by a glare of white light as the tape begins to play, static again? No, this time it’s actual snow, a blizzard, it swirls about the screen, the camera is fixed on something blue- grey, is that? The picture spins, a dizzying whirl, the sound of howling wind and…other howling.
The spinning abruptly stops and the camera focuses on a snow boot, the top of the foot, we’re looking down, did somebody drop the camera? The picture slides slowly to the right, blurry dark shapes move about against the fuzzy grey-white snow below, out of focus.
The camera jerks into motion again, the ground rushes up to the meet it, with a loud screech the picture turns black again but the howling continues, the wind and the…other. You’ve had enough, you reach to eject the tape but the tape is already out.
The howling…continues…
The wolves are real, you turn and fling open the door behind you which presents you with a long and dimly lit corridor.
As you rush down it’s length you see a stairwell on your right, but the bandaged foot you see descending from the floor above eliminates that option and you sprint straight ahead. The corridor seems endless and the sound of the wolves is still there, the echoing making the distance impossible to judge, waiting any second for claws on your back or teeth at your ankles.
Another door! Hoping that it opens outward, heedless of what is on the other side…hoping that it isn’t locked…you push down on the handle as you slam against it.
It opens, you fly through and crash painfully into a metal railing, almost tumbling over it. Winded you manage to turn and slam the door closed, wolves can’t open doors right? Mummies can though…
Looking around you it seems this door has come out away from the town of Ubiquity, a path leads into some nearby woods, a sign reads ‘Llort – 2 Miles’.
You plunge onwards.
Wandering through the woods, moving towards this new town of Llort, you begin to wonder what you’ve got yourself into on this island of horrors. As soon as you make it back to your room you’re packing your bags and getting the hell out of here.
“Help me!”
You stop in your tracks, a voice, asking for help…ordinarily you’d call back, try to find them, but your experiences so far have taught you to be…cautious…
Fuck it they’ve taught you to stay as far away as possible from, well, anything.
“Please…”
Telling yourself that you’re making a big mistake you creep cautiously towards the voice. You see a faint glow through the trees and eventually make out a clearing. A young boy is laying prone, a small tree lays fallen across his legs, beside him is brightly glowing object, an eerie, yet enticing aura surrounds it.
“Is somebody there? Please…my leg…”
Never taking your eyes off the object, you step from the trees.
As you approach the injured child you find yourself distracted by the glowing object. The boy is saying something to you but his voice seems to fade away the closer you get, the colour bleaches from the clearing and your hand reaches out, not to the boy, but to the object.
The boy appears to be shouting now, though his voice is barely audible, a faint whisper in the monochrome shroud. Your fingers brush the object.
A grip like iron fastens itself around your wrist…the boy. You turn, the world is silent now and the child has changed. Beneath a smooth bald scalp his face seems to have elongated, rat-like, his teeth likewise longer now.
You cry out, a silent cry and the boy creature bores into you with a beady intense stare, it draws you in, soothing and terrifying all at once.
Suddenly the rat thing jerks it’s head to the side, it releases it’s grip and you find yourself pulled backwards by strong hands, pulled back into a world of sound, and shouting, and colour.
It seems an age since that day in the clearing. The day the darkness tried to take you. The day you were saved.
The good people of Carpenter’s Meadow pulled you away from the creature and chased it into the trees. They brought you back to their sleepy forest town and nursed your body and mind back to health.
The experiences over the days preceding…was it even days? How long had it been since you left the town of Solstice and your bed at the Green Man. The whole thing has felt like a dream, or more likely a nightmare.
I must say you’re looking a good 20 years younger than the day I first saw you in that clearing.
The voice belongs to Donald, the town physician and the man who truly brought you back to yourself again.
The island is a dangerous place. Most people stick to the towns and villages and rarely travel alone, and that goes for island folk. Being an outsider I’m frankly amazed you made it this far, you’re something special it seems, or lucky…
Come. I think it’s time you joined the land of the living again. Ironic really, you’re just in time for the festival of the dead.
Standing beside Donald on the village green you cast your eye about at the fantastical costumes people are wearing. The event feels similar to Halloween back home but only if everyone put 110% into their costumes and took things very seriously.
Mentioning this to Donald he smiles and explains.
The Festival of The Dead is a local tradition going back centuries, though it shares the costumes with Halloween we’ve kept our own festivities strictly traditional. Some of those costumes you see are passed down through the generations, you won’t find any shop bought examples here.
Every year we don these ancient outfits and this year’s narrator reads from The Book of The Dead. Every year a single sentence is read, no more, no less. Then we proceed through the woods in a great procession, each villager with a lantern and we sing to the dead so they know we haven’t forgotten them.
Ah see, this year’s narrator is stepping up.
A small wooden stage has been set up and you see a young woman open an ancient looking book. She runs a finger down the page, pauses briefly and then begins to speak.
As the woman begins to speak, a wind begins to whip about the crowd. There are a few murmurs and the narrator’s voice falters slightly, but she continues.
The last word of the sentence is spoken, the wind dies, the murmurs cease…
The stage explodes. Splinters of wood whip past your face and those nearest the front are thrown to the floor, the narrator lays slumped at the foot of a tree several feet from the remains of the stage.
As the dust kicked up by the detonation begins to clear, an arm reaches up out of the pile of blasted wood. The arm is ragged, all sinew and bone. Tatters of cloth are wrapped about it in places and you feel your heart begin to race.
Could it be? Is this the creature from the cinema? No…it’s different…similar yes…but different.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the figure of a man pulls himself out of the wreckage. The head is more skull than anything else, the empty eye sockets, horrid pits.
Groping about, the man…the thing…finds the still breathing body of one of the unfortunate people who had stood in the front row. The grasping fingers find what they seek, there is a terrible scream.
The thing looks up. The sockets are no longer empty.
The man stares at you for a long time, his eyes piercing in their intensity. Then, turning his attention once more to the prone figure before him he lowers his head. A loud, sucking, squelching noise fills your ears and you see rivulets of gore flowing up and onto the man’s body, reforming sinew and tendon, muscle and fat.
The sight is appalling, a hideous un-melting of a human body but you cannot look away, transfixed like the deer in the headlights.
A bell tolls. The reforming man looks up. An eerie blue light flickers through the trees.
No! Not yet, I cannot go back. His rasping voice cries through his still lipless mouth.
Staggering to his feet the cadaver of a man looks once more in your direction before loping off into the trees away from the pulsing blue light. The bell tolls again, this time in the direction the man left, the light too shifts in pursuit.
You don’t know how much time has passed but eventually you can no longer hear the bell, or see the light. All about you those who can are standing, helping those who cannot and weeping over those who never will. You turn to Donald and find him flat on his back, eyes closed. Fearing the worst you grasp him by the shoulder and shake him. A rattling cough emerges from his dust caked mouth and rubbing his eyes he looks up at you.
What happened?
You describe to him what you saw, the explosion, the reformed man, the blue light, none of it draws any flicker of recognition from the physician.
A puzzle indeed…
Summerisle 