Unspeakable

My attempt at writing something akin to Rudyard Kipling's collection of darker short stories.  This was definitely more of an experiment than an actual attempt at writing something publishable, but sometimes it's best to try painting with your off-hand.  It's educational, at least.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

I met him per his request in a dingy bar on the north side of town. The once-polished wooden bartop was etched in swirling patterns from numerous beer mugs and bottles, sent and received, tender to patron and vice versa. Dim lighting, having once created a calm atmosphere, now served to conceal, if badly, dirt in the corners of the room. The tavern was dark enough in some places that its few occupants, whom I assumed to be regulars, stood out as little other than hazy forms, for there was smoke in the air. Apparently, non-smoking laws did not apply here.

I returned my gaze to my acquaintance who was also smoking a cigarette. It wasn't his first, either, judging by appearances, for a boquet of the things already occuped the nearby ashtray, fresh enough to avoid the mashed, ashy look of their comparts. His face, though white, was still handsome, or had once been, as it was now lined with age. I took his appearance in with a start, for the last time I had seen him, he had been dressed in a well-cut suit, with hair well-arranged and his shoulders square.

But now before me sat a man defeated, it seemed, by whatever ordeal he was about to reveal to me. An ordeal, I hoped, would be false, for a tale with such an impact would undboutedly excercise some of its power upon me as well.

And, though it has, I record the following for more to read. Not to invoke fear, though I am without a doubt that it will, even, terrify some, but to inform. Because no man should have to suffer as this man did, mentally and emotionally, that is, for he emerged in better health than would be expected. But that is cutting in near the end of our story and I have yet to begin, so without further adieu, I shall write it.

And I do hope my tone echoes his, for, though I have replicated his words as accurately as I can, I fear that my own voice speaks these words in my own way. He was no storyteller, of course—which is why he asked me to accompany him through his memories in such a manner—so some aspects may have changed, but only in form and not in fact, I assure you. Although he did resort to pen and paper near the end, for his voice quaked so. That writing is his own.

- - -

It was a hot, August day and I sought to escape some of the many duties afforded me by my home. I had allowed the tidiness of the place to escape my day-to-day control and it cried out to be thoroughly cleaned, but I could not bring myself to do so as the sky was so beautiful. I am not a lazy man, I will have you know, but summer is so short-lived in these parts, it seemed ludicrous to miss it.

On this particular day, I had taken it upon myself to venture out to the foothills of the mountains and I took my time preparing my lunch, which I had brought with me, upon a blanket I had also brought, while I took in the vista. Before me, rolled out far into the distance on many moguls, stood the mountains, their grandeur naught but complimented by the array of lush, green landscape before them. Hay bales scattered the land and a stream cut its way at the bottom of the nearest valley. A breeze was singing through the grass, harmonizing with the birdsong and putting me in a fantastic mood.

Not long after my lunch, I was finding my way through the grass; it was tall, you see. Up to my waist at places, in fact, and filled with brambles and thistles, though I did not mind much, being far too caught up in the beauty of the place. In the distance, I heard the starting of a chainsaw, but paid it no mind because it did not concern me. I wondered, if only briefly, who would find it in themselves to fell these trees, but dismissed that, too, as none of my business and returned to ambling without purpose.

In time, it became evident that I was drawing nearer to the source of that one sound that was not natural. The roaring of this tree-felling instrument. From my vantage point, I could see no trees falling, nor could I hear them, so I assumed the wielder must be clearing a path somewhere, perhaps reducing a tree to something more easily managed. I gave it a mental shrug and, for what I hoped was the last time, allowed my mind to wander about. This was my day off, my hooky from responsibilities unimportant in comparison. It did me little good to worry about things out of my control.

But I drew still nearer, for I did not wish to cross the river and it was winding toward the copse of trees from which came the sound. Reluctant, for I am not an outgoing man, I decided against attempting a crossing and proceded, instead, to convince myself that, were I even to cross the path of whoever was behind that shroud of wood, it would be a mere passing greeting, perhaps a small, polite exchange, nothing more.

Thus satisfied, I pressed forward a bit more quickly, now eager to get it over with. The trees drew near; I could see between them now, make out the occasional glimpse of the man inside. He seemed intent on his work, however, unaware of my presence. Ahead, I spied a small opening between the trees and river, a place where I was sure I would be able to find solid footing. Grateful to avoid unnecessary confrontation, I made my way forward again.

But my reverie, and I will admit some relief as well, was shattered by a scream. I whirled about as the sound of the chainsaw sputtered and died. It seemed as if the scream was still echoing through the valley, so clear and anguished it had been. Hesitantly, I turned toward the copse and made quavering effort to call forth, but it stuck in my throat. It could not have been a wild animal, I concluded as I passed through the first few of the trees; the birds had taken up singing again.

It amazed me how little sunlight filtered in through the trees, even when I entered the small, recently created clearing. Why someone should choose to work in such a setting, especially on a beautiful day like that day, was beyond me, though I soon saw the reason for the clearing.

In the very center of the felled trees and branches gaped a maw, which just happened to take up most of the space where a long ray of sunlight penetrated the cover overhead. Tiny particles of dust swarmed in swirling patterns at the mouth of the hole, illuminated by the golden beam.

Cautiously, though I did not know why, I approahced the opening and peered downward, then pulled back with a gasp that seemed murderously loud in the quiet. The birds had stopped singing now; I looked around for a source to their fear but saw none and returned my stare to the chasm at my feet.

The man was lying facedown, legs obscured in darkness though the sunlight displayed his plaid shirt quite clearly. His arms was splayed on either side of his head as if they had meant to catch his fall, and perhaps they had, it was hard to tell. I called down once again, but got no reply.

Then the thought occured to me and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out at the idea that he might be dead. Furiously, I settled down to my haunches and extended both feet over the rim of the abyss, determined now that the unnamed, yet faceless man be proven alive and well.

- - -

And the rest is told not by me, but by the man who experienced it. He is not so accomplished a storyteller, but perhaps the rawness of his words will help convey the message better. I will admit that the tale seems extraordinary, for it is, but implore the reader to continue on.

As written by the man who experienced it:

- - -

Then I felt myself slipping, cos of the grass you know, it was long-bladed and slippery, and I fell forward. Miraculously, because I cannot think of another reason for it to have happened this way, I landed upon my feet and fell to my hands, unhurt.

For a moment, I was unsure as to why I was uninjured but soon found the source, and this shames me almost as much as it horrified me—my feet had landed directly on the back of the man below me, pressing him further into the mire that was the bottom of the pit.

And then my worst fears were confirmed, for he had not uttered a sound. I was forced, then, to come to terms with my situation. I was trapped at the bottom of a pit with a dead man lying facedown in the mud.

I was suddenly taken by a desire—the need—to see his face, for I didn't think I could ever be sure there was no hope for him if I didnt lay eyes upon his, if only for a moment. I fell clumsily to his side, getting mud all over my pants, and made to heave him onto his back as I gripped his shoulder.

I was surprised, then, to find that he would not move as easily as I had expected, but was stuck on something. Puzzled, I gripped both of his shoulders firmly and pulled one, to no avail, and again with all of my might.

Something popped, I heard a sound like liquid pouring onto dirt, the body came free of the ground and turned over with a ragged gasp that sounded more of a roar. I screamed then, I think, but I'm not sure. I did scramble backwards as fast as I could, though, because the dead man was sitting of it's own akkord, to my great disbelief.

The sight of him sitting like that has been burned into my memory forever, I know I will never forget it. Mud dripped from it's face, lining the wrinkles and forming them to be darker. It's white eyes stared at me from a gaunt face, they were rolled back so that I could hardly see m. Blood gushed from it's chest, too, where a big chunk had been tore free and when I looked to see what had done it, I saw a hand made just of bones sticking up out of the ground and holding something like meat.

And then he reached for me. I cant explain it, what happened next, but to say that I panikked. And wild as my eyes were, I laid them on the chainsaw that had also fallen in and made for it as quick as I could but he caught my ankel so that I tripped. My hand closed around the handle of the chainsaw as I landed so I pulled it toward me and pulled at the black handle on its side.

The thing almost sputtered to life on the first try and I should of been happy about that but the dead man was crawling towards me, his hand still firm about my ankel. His mouth was gaping, like it wanted to bite me. I think I was screaming the whole time.

Finally, the damn thing started up and I pulled the trigger as hard as I could, swinging it at him with all my might. The chain hit it's head, I don't know why I was watching still unless it was just to see that I didnt miss. I swung again and again, the chainsaw screaming and spraying more mud than blood, but there was plenty of that too, I can tell you. It covered my clothes.

Pretty soon, the body was lying still in the muck. I don't want to go into detail of how it looked now. I threw up more than once before I realized that the hand in the middle of the room was moving from side to side, seeking, I thought, to escape. I was horrified, all of a sudden, to think that it might be attached to another body.

And then I began to search for an escape in ernest. I could not see how far the walls of the cave extended, only one side was visible to me and I put my back against it, terrified of what might present itself from the shadows.

My searching gaze soon revealed to me a way out, but the hand in the middle had created a bit of a depression already and it's arm was revealed up to the elbow, which had enough room to bend now. I cursed, and there were tears falling down my face, returning my gaze to the beam that held up the roof.

The chainsaw was still rumbling in my hands, spattered with muck though it was, so I raised it to the ceiling support and cleaved it in two. Immediately, dirt began to sift from the ceiling, but did not fall. The beam had slipped down a few inches, but had enough support still that it was resting against itself at an angle.

A sound from the rapidly emerging skeleton brought my attention back around and I saw that it was now struggling to free it's last leg from the murk. My voice was nearly gone by that time, I am ashamed to admit that my breath had been coming out in a most unmaskulin way, but I managed a roar of fear as it took it's first step towards me.

I cannot say how or why, but I turned the tool in my hands not toward the enemy, but once again to the ceiling supports, this time directed at the vertical beam which supported the quivering one over head. It cleaved in two without much effort, the wood was old and brittle though damp as the rest of the pit. With a thunderous noise, the ceiling support crashed into the mud, crushing the skeleton a moment before it reached me. Still whimpering and drawing breath hastily I scrambled up the beam, which was now angeld into the hole so that I could make my way up to the surface and soon found myself panting for breath on the cool grass.

- - -

Thus ends the words of this unfortunate soul, safe though he may be. I shan't think the man will ever be the same for the things he has seen, whether they are believed or not, but there seems to be a twinkle in his oft glazed eyes, perhaps a joy found not in the memory of horror, but in thankful realization that it is over. And while I cannot support his story with any facts whatsoever—the pit seems to have been filled in—I can attest to the look in his eyes when he first revealed it to me, the look that did not vanish even after I had bought for him far too many drinks. Let his tale remind us all that an evil exists, not undefeatable, but exists nonetheless.