It had been years since Taylor had done this walk, and
boy was he starting to feel it. He must have covered five or six miles so far,
following the narrow, winding path leading from Wood Forge up into the sprawling,
picturesque hills flanking the tiny village. Right now, the path was skirting
an impenetrable-looking forest thick with lush vegetation.
What a way to blow the cobwebs off
and get some exercise. Apart from a solitary dog walker an hour earlier, he
hadn’t seen another soul all day. The path wasn’t exactly made for cars or
bicycles, and was so over grown in places it was difficult to even walk on. Even
so, it felt good to be out in the sunshine, doing something active. He spent
far too much time cooped up in the office. It wasn’t healthy.
He just wished he’d brought something
to drink. A cold beer would be spectacular right now. Though if he’d carried it
with him all this way it would no longer be cold, obviously. Unless he’d
carried a refrigerator too.
Then
he remembered something. Wasn’t there a pub somewhere around here? Perched high
on the mountain, just over the brow? One of those old, traditional country places
with whitewashed walls, picnic tables outside and a horseshoe above the door.
It was called the Halfway House. Logic suggested because it got its name
because it was situated half way between two villages, but a more romantic idea
would be that because it was so high up, it was half way to heaven. That in
itself was ironic, because when he was a kid he and his friends used to try to
frighten each other with tales of devil worshippers who, it was rumoured, used
to come up to these mountains to perform their satanic rituals away from prying
eyes.
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The sun blazed down on to the bare
skin of his forearms, and he felt his calves tighten more with each step. He’d
worn loose-fitting knee-length shorts and an old pair of trainers for comfort,
but had neglected to put on any socks. Now he regretted it. His blisters had
burst long ago to expose the raw, reddened skin beneath, and his feet were now
wet with a mixture of pus, sweat and blood, which only made his trainers rub
more.
He could just turn back and go back
home, of course. But he was too stubborn for that. He’d come this far, and
persuaded himself that a cold beer or two was the goal. He’d push on for
another mile or so and reassess things then. He wasn’t too proud to find the
nearest main road and call himself an Uber.
There was a rickety wooden sign ahead,
standing on the side of the trail. When Taylor drew near, he saw that it was pointing
at a right angle marking a public footpath leading off the main trail and
disappearing into the thick forest. Except it wasn’t much of a footpath. It was
so neglected that it was barely even visible beyond the first few feet. The
forest looked wild and intimidating, in complete contrast to the wide open
spaces the mountain afforded. It would be easy to get lost in there, but he
assumed the footpath would be marked.
He stopped to catch his breath. It
was decision time.
Should he stay on the main path? Or
take his chances on the shortcut?
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Shortcut to where? That was the
all-important question.
It had to lead somewhere. Every path
did. And he’d been treading this one for hours without so much as a glimpse of
a country pub. Or even a shop. How much worse could this new option be?
If things got out of hand he could
always retrace his steps.
That settled it. With half his brain
still arguing the toss, Taylor found himself venturing off the main path into
the forest. Within moments, the atmosphere changed. He felt cocooned, and was
incredibly glad to get out of the sun. This path was steeper, and a lot harder
on the legs, but he was still under the impression that he was making good
ground.
Deeper and deeper into the forest he
went, sometimes using the trunks of conveniently-placed trees or overhanging
branches to help haul himself along, the wood blessedly cool to the touch.
Occasionally, a small animal would rustle in the undergrowth causing him to
stop in his tracks, but he never saw so much of a glimpse.
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In his mind’s eye he saw himself bursting
out of the forest and back into the sunshine, right in front of the Halfway
House. Its doors would be wide open, and the inviting smell of brewed hops and
barley would carry over on the breeze. There would be newspapers inside, and
ham rolls, and the TV would be set to one of the sports channels. Bliss.
The reality, however, was very
different. The forest was becoming more and more dense, the light finding it
increasingly hard to penetrate the canopy. All around him, shadows slithered
and squirmed. Taylor stopped for a moment to get his bearings, breathing hard. He
looked down at his feet for the path.
It was gone.
How the fuck did that happen?
He glanced behind him, hoping to see
some remnant.
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There was nothing.
What
should he do?
He swallowed hard as a knot of panic
began to squirm in his chest. Then he forced out a chuckle which, in the
oppressive surroundings, sounded more like a death rattle. The noise seemed to
hang in the air far longer than it should have, causing Taylor to look around
anxiously.
Something was terribly amiss.
Then he noticed the smell. Sickly and
thick, it seemed to swirl around him. Something nearby was dead and rotting.
Probably one of those small furry animals that populated the undergrowth; a
field mouse or a vole, maybe.
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No, judging by the stench, it was
something bigger than that. A rabbit or a squirrel? Maybe even a fox or a
sheep?
Taylor’s mind flashed back to the
time when a group of kids at his primary school had stumbled across the body of
a homeless man who’d sought shelter in the grounds over the summer holidays and
ended up dying there. By the time the body was discovered it was a putrefying
mess, and probably smelled a lot like this.
He knew he should just carry on
walking. Nothing good could come from standing around in the middle of a dark forest
looking for an animal carcass. There would be germs and bacteria and all sorts
kicking around.
What if it wasn’t an animal carcass?
What if it was the body of another
homeless person?
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One thing Taylor could do without was
stumbling across a fucking corpse on his afternoon walk.
But he didn’t know which way to go.
Which way was out. The forest wasn’t exactly huge. Assuming he went in a
straight line, if he walked in any direction long enough he was certain to
emerge in an hour or two. He just didn’t want to spend the rest of the
afternoon trudging through dense vegetation.
But that stink!
That was when he saw it. Right in front
of him. How he hadn’t spotted it earlier was a mystery. It just kind of blended
in with the leaves and foliage.
It was an animal carcass, impaled on
a sharp branch just below eye level. It looked like a squirrel, and it had
obviously been there a while. A few days, maybe. Its blood-stained fur was
balding in patches, and the skin had been peeled back to expose desiccated
flesh and a tiny white rib cage. Tiny flies swarmed around it in clouds.
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As Taylor leaned closer, top lip
curling in disgust, he noticed movement. Beneath the flap of skin, a handful of
tiny, pale maggots squirmed merrily.
“That’s fucking disgusting,” he said
aloud, putting a hand over his mouth and backing away.
Then he stopped, and a deep frown
creased his face. Something troubled him. Something above and beyond finding a
dead animal crawling with maggots impaled on a tree branch.
How did it get there?
It surely didn’t put itself in that
position, and no other animal could have done it, predator or otherwise. It was
unnatural. That meant, only another person could have carried out the deed.
Which, in turn, begged the question, ‘Why?’
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Kids messing around, maybe. Though
they would have to be a pretty sick bunch to think killing small, defenceless
animals and impaling them on trees was a fun thing to do.
As Taylor tossed things around in his
head, something else caught his eye. Markings on the tree trunk, just
underneath the sharpened branch. A series of intricate shapes and symbols
carved into the bark. They made no sense to Taylor, but were immaculately done.
Someone had obviously spent a lot of time and effort here.
Could there be some correlation
between the carvings and the dead animal?
Who was he trying to fool? Of course
there was. It was far too much of a coincidence otherwise. Then, another piece
of the jigsaw slipped into place.
The devil worshippers.
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Maybe it wasn’t just a rumour.
Taylor’s heart was now thudding in
his chest so strongly he could hear it, and beads of sweat were running freely down
his face.
What the fuck had he stumbled across?
It was almost a surprise when he
realized he didn’t care. It wasn’t his business, nor his problem.
With a dismissive snort, he made to
walk off. As he moved he happened to glance above him, and what he saw rooted
him to the spot.
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It was a pair of eyes.
Partially obscured, they blazed red,
glaring down at him from above.
It had to be some kind of optical
illusion. A of trick of the light.
Didn’t it?
A chilly, light breeze rustled the
leaves around him bringing goose bumps out on the exposed skin of his arms and
legs and an unnatural hush fell over the forest. The atmosphere felt somehow
oppressive, almost as if he were trapped underground.
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There was a man, or some kind of
creature up a tree looking at him.
Could it be possible?
It had to be possible, it was
happening.
It was happening right now.
Taylor shifted his position slightly,
trying to create more of an angle that would enable him to see exactly what he
was faced with. The man thing didn’t move, but no matter what he did, Taylor
couldn’t seem to connect the dots. Whatever he was looking at remained hidden.
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His senses heightened, he became
aware of a foreign sound. A sound so low that had he been walking, it would
easily have been obscured by his footfalls. It was the sound of air being drawn
in, and then slowly expelled.
Breathing.
It was fucking breathing.
This revelation was enough for Taylor
and, eyes still glued to the glowing red orbs, he started backing away. He no
longer cared which direction he should go in; he just wanted to be somewhere
else. Anywhere else.
For a fraction of a second, the pair
of eyes disappeared. There was the whoosh of displaced air, and suddenly the
creature was standing before him.
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The unnatural eyes weren’t the worst
of it.
The thing towered over him, standing
at least seven feet tall. It looked like a giant moth/human hybrid, complete
with a huge set of demonic, leathery wings folded behind it. It was covered
head to foot in grey or black fur, which had thinned in places to reveal skin
so dry it looked more like scales.
It was certainly more monster than it
was man. Despite the pointed horns on each side of its head, it’s wickedly
elongated face was its most human feature. The oversized red eyes still blazed,
above a long, conical nose and a black-lipped mouth from which an enormous set
of sharpened fangs glistening with saliva protruded.
Confronted with such a horror,
Taylor’s legs gave out and he slumped to his knees as if praying to some kind
of monstrous deity. He was now directly in line with the thing’s sinewy bare
legs, the ripped and torn parchment-like skin studded with those coarse black
hairs. Something almost disembodied flicked the air, as if tasting it. Then,
the appendage lingered, snake-like.
It was a tail. A fucking tail.
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Most terrifyingly of all, Taylor
realized that the joint of the creature’s knee was all wrong. It was bending
the wrong way, and was reminiscent of a goat standing on its hind legs right
down to the hooves where its feet should be.
Hooves.
No. It wasn’t possible.
As he scrambled away on his hind
quarters, Taylor thought of the strange markings etched into the tree, the dead
animal that, come to think of it, looked like it had been sacrificed, the
myriad stories of devil worshippers at work on these mountains, and how all these
things fit together.
They’d conjured something up. Some
kind of entity. Something demonic and inhuman, yet irrefutably alive.
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And here.
In one smooth motion, Taylor leapt to
his feet, turned away from the looming creature, and charged through the masses
of undergrowth and vegetation. He tried to take the path of least resistance,
but moving at speed made it impossible. It was all he could do to avoid running
headlong into a tree and knocking himself unconscious.
Roots and vines seemed to grip his
feet as if trying to trip him up, and within moments both of his legs were
lacerated and bleeding, cut to ribbons by the thorn bushes he trampled through.
But he couldn’t stop. The creature
was right behind him. Close. He could hear the noise it made as it crashed
through the forest in pursuit. Taylor had no idea what it would do if it caught
up with him, but those fangs provided a clue. He had to get away. Far away.
A white-hot flash stung his cheek as
he felt the wrath of a stray branch. Taylor screamed aloud in an explosion of
pain, fury and frustration. He wanted to look behind him to see how far behind
the creature was, but fear prevented him. He imagined turning to see it
reaching out a long, clawed hand and gripping his neck. That would be the end.
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He was convinced he could hear its
ragged breath as it drew ever nearer, eating up the ground between them on its muscular
goat’s legs.
Finding his way blocked by a
sprawling oak too wide to easily get around, Taylor stopped abruptly then set
off again in another direction, praying the manoeuvre wouldn’t prove too
costly.
On and on he went, the forest around
him blurring into a collage of greens and browns. More than once he tripped and
stumbled, just managing to right himself before crashing to the ground.
His breathing was coming in harsh
gasps, every exhalation accompanied by a mournful whimper. He was how
hopelessly lost, and had reduced his objective to simply surviving, a task made
even more difficult in the face of a torrent of vile, defeatist thoughts which
pervaded his mind.
If he died here, how long would it be
before his body was discovered?
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And by the time the demon-thing and
the litany of wildlife finished with him, would there be enough left to bury?
A seemingly solid wall of green stood
in front of him. There was no circumnavigating it. Something told Taylor he
needed to smash right through it to have any chance of getting away unscathed.
He put his head down, raised one arm to shield his face, and took a running
leap. He was airborne.
There was resistance. Branches and
thorns grasped at him like despairing hands and he was sure he felt the
creature claw his trailing leg. From just behind him came a chilling, inhuman
howl. Something like the cry of a wolf, but throaty and monotone. It was a
sound borne of pure frustration.
Then Taylor hit the ground with a
thud, and rolled onto his side. He looked skywards and, rather than a canopy of
leaves, was surprised to see clouds moving lazily across a blue sky.
He had escaped.
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Instinctively, he looked back at the
forest, half expecting the creature to follow him out. If it came for him now, it
would be over fast. He was too cut up and exhausted to run any more.
But something told him it wouldn’t
come. Not now. This wasn’t its domain. It belonged in the permanent twilight
world of the forest, not out here in the open air.
Looking around, Taylor realised that
he was but a few yards away from a road. Not a mere path, an actual road. Not a
hundred yards away he could make out the whitewashed walls of a building set
against the mountainous backdrop and instinctively knew it was the Halfway
House. Stumbling across it this way was almost serendipitous.
As he rose gingerly to his feet, he
brushed himself off and inspected his wounds. His arms and lower legs were
covered in scratches and bruises, and his face still stung from its collision
with the low-hanging branch, but the injuries would heal. What would perhaps
take longer to recover was his mind. He knew it would never allow him to forget
the sight of the creature. It would probably haunt his subconscious for the
rest of his life.
He knew right now the creature was
just beyond the tree line, watching. He could feel its eyes on him. Extending
his right arm Taylor flipped his middle finger, then turned and head toward the
pub.
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THE END
Christian Saunders, who writes fiction as C.M. Saunders, is a freelance journalist and editor from South Wales. His work has appeared in over 80 magazines, ezines and anthologies worldwide including The Literary Hatchet, Feverish Fiction, Fantastic Horror, Flash Bang Mysteries, Morpheus Tales and Crimson Streets, and he has held desk positions at several leading UK magazines ranging from Staff Writer to Associate Editor. His books have been both traditionally and independently published, the latest release being a collection of short fiction entitled X: Omnibus.
So, now that it’s getting cold, here on Nightmarish Nature we’re going to talk about a different kind of terror – the starvation diet. It’s winter, and food is becoming ever scarcer, so many creatures will slow down to conserve energy. Let’s take this a step further to the sleep of the damned… But I’m not talking hibernation, or settling in for a sort of long winter nap version of seasonal affective disorder on steroids. No, I’m talking hummingbirds.
Sugar Rush
Hummingbirds are about the polar opposite of what you’d think of when you talk about inactivity. They’re more the picture-perfect speed demons. And yet, due to their crazy high metabolisms and constant need to refuel by consuming all the nectar and insects they can get their little beaks in or on, they have near death experiences on a regular basis. Even during the summer at night whenever the temperature falls too low. It’s like all their systems have to go offline for a bit just so they can survive.
Energy Suck
Essentially a hummingbird burns so much energy that he can die in less than eight hours of not eating. The little sugar daddy needs another fix just to keep going. This lifestyle is a far cry from the Energizer bunny. Essentially he has to enter a torpor state in sleep so he doesn’t succumb to his own starvation diet. Not every time, but when the temperature drops or food is scarce.
A hummingbird in torpor may, by all accounts, appear dead. He can be frozen in place, his tiny feet clasped rigidly around a branch as if rigor mortis has sunk in. He can be cold to the touch and unresponsive. He can face upwards, unmoving, breathing and heart rate slowed to near indiscernibility. He can even be hanging upside down, oblivious to the world. In fact, the hummer’s heart rate can reduce to almost one tenth of his waking state, and his temperature can drop by ~5o degrees Fahrenheit (~ 30 degrees Celsius).
Miracle Mavericks
Honestly, as shown in this article on Journey North, this ability to exercise such fine control over metabolic rate on a nightly cycle makes the hummingbirds more marvelous than terrifying, switching between cold- and warm-blooded. And they are very well-adapted to their eating regimens, especially given their diminutive size. But such is the cost of burning so much energy to keep going without much room to store fuel. Like I said, a strict starvation diet.
If you’ve enjoyed this segment of Nightmarish Nature, feel free to check out some previous here:
A serene mountain landscape yawns; monumental evergreen trees fingering a brilliant azure sky stroked with wispy clouds. The air is crisper and fresher here, wafting its piney fragrance along the meandering deer path that bends and swerves down the gradual slope…
-Reset-
-City-
A bustling urban environment beckons, its diverse, brightly-clothed denizens laughing with one another, casually parting as you stroll through their midst. Sunlight dances through the crowd, reflecting off of towering buildings, cars, and bicycles. Sounds swell together as though breathing life into all interconnected within this rich tapestry of time and space. The street is a cacophony of alluring smells, and the savory scent of kosher all-beef hot dogs…
-Vegetarian-
Fragrant cumin zing of vegetable samosas…
-European-
Perfume of freshly baked baguettes embraces you in a warm hug as you sit at a small metal café table, savoring an espresso…
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-Caffeine Free-
Lavender cremosa…
-Non-Carbonated-
Limonade…
-Reset-
-Beach-
The warm sand squishes between your bare toes as the soft ocean waves lap at your feet, beckoning you to wade further into the cool water…
-No Swimming-
The woven rope hammock stretched between two perfectly-spaced palm trees sways slowly as you lounge in its cradle, sipping a Mai Tai…
-Non-Alcoholic-
Iced lemonade in a highball glass through a red plastic straw…
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-Eco-Conscientious-
Paper straw, the citrusy elixir providing respite from the steamy…
-Less Hot-
Warm breezy summer…
-Spring-
Spring air, children…
-Nature-
Birds…
-Silence-
You close your eyes, hammock gently rocking you to slumber.
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We here at My Universe wish to thank you again for choosing our services. We know that there are many post-cataclysmic alternative realities available, and we appreciate your business. Please enjoy your respite from the societal collapse, and remember us next time you need to unwind.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website. And if you really feel like getting away and helping clean up the beach a bit, check out this relaxing video from Dylan Clark titled Seagrass. Or maybe that wasn’t so relaxing after all… 😉
Somehow I came across an older Midnight Panther comic book, Feudal Fantasy #2 from the late 1990s to be precise, and I thought I’d reappropriate it into a new story as a collage. Anyway, this is what evolved. Honestly there wasn’t a lot of content to work with, but that isn’t surprising seeing as how that wasn’t really the point of the original… And sorry, I saved the erotic bits for another project, though even that was pretty tame in this one – just a bunch of boobies.
Images: Black and white line drawings of wide-eyed anime women and men in various states of undress, looking cute, being coyly pensive, and hack ‘n slashing.
Text reads: I like… men who are dying. We ought to just kill everyone involved. The scent of blood!! I never see his face, he always wears a mask. What a waste of time. I don’t like this. The horny bastard. What a pig!! -Slash- Sounds like it could be fun.
Images: More black and white line drawings of wide-eyed anime women and men kissing and hack ‘n slashing.
Text reads: Mercenaries of glorious Edo, if you can make the flowers that bloom along the rivers during spring drop their petals, then do so. I’m the Ferryman of the River Styx. Whssh.
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