In a dark hallway of common wood a Grandfather clock stood, beside it a table with a simple decoration of now dead holly branches with once red berries tied in red ribbon. The clock whilst not wound, chimed a silent toll for eleven o’clock.

The child’s room was dark and dusty, a sense of memories and tears floated in the air with the tiny pieces of dust that swirled around the room. Clouds of the past caught in the moon beams through the ice covered windows that projected an age old tale to be told forever. Toys scattered the floor, made of wood, tin and rough furs. Lead soldiers in red jackets stood in uniform blocks, others scattered from the bullets, cannons and bayonets of a make believe war and innocent death. A lost teddy bear sat one-eyed under a small bed that stood in the corner. Iron bars curved and beautiful adorned the ends whilst blankets once warm now emanated loss, laying scattered and uninviting upon the worn mattress. Hung from a tarnished brass bed knob was a large sock, the red colour of the wool faintly still showing under the dust that had settled upon it’s empty presence.

Something moved in the darkest corner where a bookshelf stood, it’s overbearing form leaning into the room where the wooden floor had settled unevenly. Children’s books filled the lowest shelf, some upright and well placed, others stacked on their sides, pages worn and crumpled from small hands that held them whilst dreams of heroes and monsters were fed. The next shelf was full of collected curiosities,  the possessions of a child treasured as gifts from someone loved or found on a special day that would be remember forever. Amidst the intentionally placed small wooden chest, semi-precious stones and a carved wooden bear sat a monkey. It’s brown fur dressed in a red and gold laced waistcoat and a bellboy hat of the same design. It’s arms raised in joy enhanced by the painted excited expression of it’s face. It’s grin was eerie in the dull moonlight that barely reached it. In each outstretched fabric hand a tin symbol had been fixed with cotton, like buttons through small holes at the peaked centres of the tarnished disks.

The symbol in the monkey’s left hand shimmered slightly as it gently vibrated from the movement of the arm. It pushed at the air and against the years of dust and damp, it wanted to move. As it began to edge inwards the other arm joined in strained motion. The metal discs edged closer with agonising slow effort, it was not until they almost met that the laws of nature relented and the monkey’s arms moved with any apparent observation. The symbols gently touched, ringing out with an almost inaudible pitched clang. The long silence of the seemly unoccupied room was interrupted. The grin of ink and lead emanated the glee of changing the world around it even if only for a brief moment. With stuttering motion the monkey’s arm moved outwards as far as their creator would allow and then with a new smoothness and urgency back in again, the symbols clattering like a gun shot. Again and again the arms moved back and forth, with each inward stroke bringing the clattering sound of tin upon tin. The monkey began to jump up and down from the frantic motion of it’s upper limbs, legs unmoved in their crouching position against the body. The unnatural movement brought the toy to life, a soul behind painted eyes celebrating in the joy of breaking the silent veil.

Snow began to fall outside the window and as the large frozen flakes began to fall the monkey stopped suddenly. A curtain flinched briefly sending dust into the moon beams in a spectacular dance, specks twisted, raised and fell in a chaotic beat. A Spotlight highlighted the dust celebration as some of the moisture on a glass pane at the window was roughly wiped away like a small hand had been moved across the surface to see outside. It was magical outside, pure moonlight brought a mystic blue to the night as the land outside turned white with the heavy fall of snow flakes upon the ground, trees and hedgerows. Thoughts of snowmen, sledging and snowball fights with friends filled the room, an excited smile for the day that would not come. Before long the garden outside was completely covered, no dirt, grass or brick path showed. A fox trotted out of the hedge leaving a trail of paw prints in the fresh snow. It stopped suddenly as if it had sensed something different in the night. It looked up at the window to the dusty bedroom and cocked it’s head looking directly at one pane of glass that was a clear patch amongst the ice that filled the other panes. The fox stared as if it had made contact with another creature, both sets of eyes meeting and trying to understand one another in the silent conversation. Before long the fox looked down and then continued on with it’s journey, disappearing into the hedge that edged the garden. It’s previous tracks now lost, new tracks started as if the creature had appeared from nowhere in centre of the cottage garden. But before long even the new footprints had vanished in the continual snowfall.

***

Footsteps, small and solid ran across the room away from the window, sudden silence as a moment later the mattress compressed and more dust erupted in the air, playing in the moon light, creating patterns some random, some more recognisable to a human eye. It was Yule tomorrow and he must be asleep when Santa Claus arrives. But he was too excited, snow was falling and tomorrow would bring a wonderland for him to play in after opening presents and the glorious goose dinner. It was all too much and he smiled until his face ached with joy. As he laid there he began to notice the cold, a cold that chilled him deep inside. The house was old and full of drafts, he thought of the warmth of the fireplace with his parents sitting there after they had placed him in bed, smiling and wishing him a good night. He pushed himself under the blankets in attempt to become warm, but no matter how long he laid there, the cold always sat within him. But he was used to that, he had been cold as long as he could remember. Before long he drifted into a slumber with a small smile on his face.

He was unsure how long he had been asleep for when noises from outside disturbed him. But he woke with an excited mind and jumped from the bed running over to the window where he had stood previously. His mind raced with thoughts of Santa. As he looked out upon the snow covered ground, he saw four men, dressed in black on horses, each carrying a flaming torch, three with rifles slung across their backs. They dismounted and the sound of banging upon the wooden door echoed through the stone building. He heard shouts and the screaming of his mother, a deep booming voice cried out “Witch”. He jumped in fear as a gun shot boomed in the night, followed closely by a second that brought silence to the home.

***

Heavy footsteps not like earlier, but heavy and full of dread echoed in the hallway, coming closer and closer to the door to the dusty child’s room. Each step echoing until they stopped, heavy breathing replaced the deathly beat of foot against wooden floor. The door swung open violently, curtains moved, not from the sudden cold wind that entered the room from the door but a presence of scared innocence. Tears fell to the wooden floor, there was a moment of hesitation and the room filled with the tension of both fear and belief. The room suddenly smelled of burnt gun powder, it lingered in the cloud of dust dancing in the moon light, a final memory.

One year later.

In a dark hallway of simple wood a Grandfather clock stood, beside it a table with a simple decoration of now dead holly branches with once red berries tied in red ribbon. The clock whilst not wound, chimed a silent toll for eleven o’clock.

“So, you only harvest the good experiences?” I asked, quite enjoying the game that either he started or I did, and he truly believed he could sell time. He looked at me and answered: “Not just the good times, obviously the sensation of love, a party at the Playboy Mansion or a child growing up are some of our finest wines, each sip to be savoured for the pleasure and happiness. But some require just the house wine and we provide those with times like watching six episodes of some trash American series. Then you curse when it’s 3am and feel tired the following day at work; or you’re in a pub on an average night like this, having a quiet drink with a friend. Those bits of low event time can be scrubbed clean and used like new for our clients. Think own brand with no taste till you add your own recipe options.” I really had trouble trying not to smile or even burst out laughing as he tried to bring me into his world. “You harvest the good and average time, so I guess only leaving mostly just bad times?” I enquired, now making odd sense from his logic.

“Totally, can you see now why often the bad times stick in your mind, whilst some of your best can barely even be grasped in detail?” He leaned in again and said: “Well, we do harvest some of the bad times, we do have some clients with particular tastes.” He took another gulp of the ale, more for a dry mouth than the ale itself. I leaned in as well to encourage him to continue. “They are more difficult to harvest, dangerous one would say. Protective gear is necessary and a lot of man power.”

“Wow!” I said. I would like to think it was an act of clever wit, but it was the only thing I could think of as he described the act of harvesting time like some sort of mining operation. Time, drilled, collected, cleaned, packaged and sold to… “Hold up, who are your clients? Who buys this time off you? Something like time must be expensive and you would not be selling it in a student pub.” He looked straight at me, his almost closed eyes boring deeper than made me comfortable. He raised his glass of ‘Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar’, motioned a respectful tilt and proceeded to down the last of the golden liquid. He took a deep breath and said: “You’re right there, I would not be selling it here,” looking around at the now mostly empty bar and the few odd groups, well past the drunk and boisterous stage. He then stood up and looked down at me, “I was just taking your time up and now I bid you farewell.” With that he walked up to the door. The doorman, who looked like he wanted to be going home, opened the door and let him out into the night. I sat there for a minute, looked at my book, noticing the ale puddle gone and tried to process what just happened with little real comprehension, except the guy was not playing with a full deck. I picked up my mobile, pressed the unlock and looked at the time. It was 2am and I wondered how that happened. So I finished my pint, stood up, put my coat on, grabbed the book and left the pub, saying my farewells to the doorman and went home cursing myself as I would be tired at work tomorrow.

*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman

Thanks to the Hobbit Pub for use of glasses, tables, bartops and I hope Adi enjoyed the pint once not needed for the photo shoot.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

As consciousness swirled back to Darren, he felt about six foot under, in the grave of his own digging. When will the maggots come and take what is left of his flesh, to release him to another existence, a second chance to feel alive? He looked up at the ceiling of his bedsit. The ceiling was a murky yellow colour, years of smoke and living had produced a masterpiece up there, and he could see patterns and shapes on the blotches and damp stains. He saw a barren desert with small settlements of mould. As he stared, the ceiling had moved. This was normal, the visual distortions of so-called reality brought on by his choice of addiction, if he could call it a choice now. The atmosphere in the little room had become oppressive, the air heavy and difficult to breathe. The cupboard loomed over Darren, its doors slightly ajar. His mind started to play tricks – something in the closet was looking out, one eyeball peered from the crack. Its iris studied Darren on the floor in his sorry state.  He could see the thing in the closet looking at the puddle of piss on the floor between his legs, the acrid smell making him feel like an incontinent old person who belonged in care. Darren looked away from his mind’s invention of self-judging, knowing it is just his head messing with itself.

His eyes traced back to the ceiling and its swirling desert storms, and as he stared harder, the lines of yellow started to move. The shades changed colour, only slightly, hints of other colours mixing in with the tobacco yellow. Shapes were forming, they formed creatures from the dark places. He could hear voices hissing and wet tendrils slithering like eels caught in a net. Darren felt a dead weight all over his body, more than is usual for his state, his brain ached and thumped. He closed his eyes to the forms on the ceiling, the darkness engulfing his brain, as did the entities he was trying to hide from. He could see them clearly now, no longer were they patterns on a stained ceiling but images in his head. They looked too real to be the drugs, the edges too clear and crisp, the detail intensely sickening. These creatures with drool falling from salivating mouths, between razor-like teeth. Their eyes bulging from half decayed sockets and stems, tendrils reached out to grab at him, he could feel the cold, damp secretions of these monsters. The smell that came with them was worse than any cesspit he had called home over the years. It felt like barbed wire being pulled through his nose and throat, his stomach convulsed and he vomited, still the stench was drawn into his lungs, his eyes started to stream. The noise they made became louder and louder, it made his ears hurt and the intense riot of screaming, insane laughter and stomach-wrenching noises overtook his senses, it felt like his head would explode. He continued staring at the evil which clawed at him, the smell burned his insides, the primeval grunts and groans too loud.  Darren screamed and opened his eyes. They were gone, it was just the same old yellowed ceiling, no monsters, no pounding noises and no vile smell, just him and his room. Darren breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He noticed the puddle between his legs was growing as his mind and body relaxed and escaped into unconsciousness.

Darkness had fallen by the time Darren woke up. He could feel stinging on his thighs, remembering that he had pissed himself. Suddenly, Darren remembered the ceiling and the horrors he had seen. He looked up and started to shake, and then relaxed when he saw his ceiling was still just the ceiling and not horrific entities trying to take his pointless life to another place, a place worse than this. He got up and put the light on, a dull light spreading across the room. He went to the cupboard and opened it, screaming as he fell to the floor expecting to see glistening teeth surrounded by decaying lips, wanting to smother him in fatal kisses. Darren lay there for a few seconds, then realised that what had come from the cupboard was only junk. He started to laugh, more of a delirious giggle, growing louder until his chest started to hurt, but the laughter would not stop. A coughing fit took over the insane laughter and Darren forced himself to calm down and sit up. He started to wonder if he was finally losing it, too much heroin and too much paranoia. Leaving the contents of the cupboard on the floor, he stood up and shuffled to bathroom to run himself a bath.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

The boy ran into the classroom, his class friends sat at individual desks looking down at the books in front of them. No one looked up at his manic entrance, as if he was not there. The teacher leant against her desk at the front of the class, also reading from the same book as the children, but she read it aloud; or so it seemed. Her lips moved as her eyes scanned from left to right, but he could not hear the words. The noise was there, but faint and garbled –  he knew he should be able to understand, but it was as if this reality was now out of reach for him, a veil had fallen between him and them.

The boy fell to the ground, his back sliding down the wall, removing the edges of dry paint cracks, revealing dark red brickwork underneath. He looked around the room at everyone. Not one glance of acknowledgement from any of them, even those he counted as friends. Why had the teacher not seen him? She must have seen his distress, his terror, and like adults do, come to the rescue and make it all better, make the bad ‘it’ go away.

It all had become too much, the familiarity of what was his normal day no longer his to seek comfort in. The boy knew he was alone as he lowered his head into his huddled arms, tears streaming down his cheeks, his ability to act with composure gone. He was alone now; knowing only that ‘it’ was getting closer and closer.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The monolithic walls loomed over the large courtyard. Weathered graffiti spread across the crumbling brickwork telling its story of despair. Sprayed eyes stared unblinking across the concrete, their gaze reflecting the lifelessness of the children’s own eyes; those who stood entombed within the four walls. Silent screams emanated from the young bodies, filling the acrid air like an invisible mire that drowned those who are drawn to its haunting ethereal mists or fell into its deathly caresses when everyone else pushed them away.

The girl tried to run, one leg stumbling in front of the other, her own exhaustion tripping her up whilst her mind tried to concentrate on escape, getting away from them and ‘it’. The dry, thick air stifled her breathing, her head was pounding and exhaustion ravaged her limbs. She could not see straight any more, blurred repetitions of the world around her, fading like ghosts. As she turned her head looking from an escape, she could only see more and more wire fencing blocking her path as if she were a prison inmate.

The colours blurred and edges became lost to her. She fell against the rust coloured wire fence, its lattice weaving digging into her face. Dried encrusted dust separated from the rusting metal, billowing into her mouth and removing what little moisture remained as she choked, bile rising from her empty stomach. She clawed with her fingers at the fence, trying to pull herself up with no avail as her legs gave in again and again. As she fell to the floor, her tired limbs finally giving up, she turned her back against the fence, gouging flesh on broken wire. The clay-like dust mixed with the red blood added further agony upon her senses, layering on top of her exhaustion and terror and almost bringing a torrid sense of peace amidst her panic ridden mind.

She gazed randomly upon all the children, her eyes tearing from one child to the next. They stood like statues, all facing her, all motionless; all dead in their souls. Their eyes bore into her and penetrated her fractured soul, threatening to shatter it like a mirror; breaking her. Unspoken voices tell her to give herself to ‘it’ and let go of life, for she would be all the sweeter to feast upon.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Inside a chest, enclosed in the dark oak of memories a solitary feeling scuttles around in the dark, seeking, knowing once it had been so much more. It has tried to escape, sneaking through cracks. It hears its name whispered across the air, sometimes it recognises the voice and other times it does not. But the black tar that lines the lid stings and it goes back to resting in the darkest corner.

The man looks down upon this chest, small and heavy. The key in his hand, worn down by the years since it had last been used. The surface of the chest is old and stained, it released a stench of fear and regret as he pulled out from the ground that he had buried it in so long ago. The handles slippery with the vile black substance the chest secreted. He had become angry with it, as he pulled it from its grave. His hands slipped and the dirt kept falling, covering the chest. The labour was painful and tiring, but he knew the chest and his buried emotions must be exhumed.

Sun beat down across the landmass that emanated from the south of the island. Air was humid, begging for Storm to honour it with it’s battle drums and spears to clear the way. Rock sat patiently whilst the beating of Sun pounded against the stone, the heat being given to Air. Rock took some for itself, it only lost to Air as the day wore on.

Sea lapped quietly at Rock, cooling waters followed directions taken by its ancestors, who slowly formed a passage into the land. The deep currents and shallow waves brought up Thought from the depths, carried up from the deepest trenches where Life knew how to live.

As Rock warmed, Thought moved through the dark caves carved and settled in by Sea. It left the waves and found parts of Air forgotten but traces of Sun mapped a way through heat and then light.

Thought spilled out rising on the warm currents and causing Air to move more than it cared as Sun burned away. Wind saw a chance to fly once more and carried the thought inland. Thought found Tree and its leaves whispered the word “Follow”.