Harbinger Island Read online

  Dorian Dawes

  Harbinger Island

  Manifold Press

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by Manifold Press

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 978-1-908312-47-1

  Text: © Dorian Dawes 2017

  Cover image: © Grandfailure | iStockphoto.com

  Cover design: © Michelle Peart 2017

  Ebook format: © Manifold Press 2017

  Proof-reading and line-editing: Zee at Two Marshmallows | twomarshmallows.net

  Editor: Fiona Pickles

  For further details of titles both in print and forthcoming, see: manifoldpress.co.uk

  Characters and situations described in this book are fictional and not intended to portray real persons or situations whatsoever; any resemblances to living persons are purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements:

  To my boyfriend, Ryan, without whom I probably would have never gotten this far.

  Dedicated to all the outcasts, the marginalized, and the downtrodden. You're not alone. I love you.

  Table of Contents

  The Strange Childhood of Bartleby Prouse

  Songs of Chaos

  The Historical Society

  Photographs

  Witches and Cornfields

  The Boy with the Golden Eye

  The Man with the Yellow Tie

  Blood Moon Rising

  About the Author

  The Strange Childhood

  of Bartleby Prouse

  Shelby Prouse spent a great deal of time indoors, leaving her unnaturally pale as a child. One of her mother's friend's had once described her as "ghoulishly thin" right to her face. It didn't help much that she'd inherited her father's beakish nose and wispy frizzy hair, or that she was near-sighted and wore the most awkwardly-fitting large glasses on her narrow face. She had all the appearance of a sickly baby bird.

  Her parents, Alfred and Linda Prouse, didn't much like having her around when they vacationed. She was well-behaved enough, but had a nasty habit of questioning things. For example, following a sermon given by Pastor Mayhew at the New Life Assembly Church in Wakefield, she'd had the most scrunched-up inquisitive look on her face, indicating one of those questions burning inside her. Her parents hadn't the time to stop her before she'd rushed to Pastor Mayhew's side to demand to know the answer.

  "You said wives ought to submit to their husbands," she'd said in a calm, respectful tone. "Why?"

  "Because it is the Lord's will, as written down in his book of teachings." Mayhew's initial response had been with a condescending smile; her inquisitiveness easily brushed off and disastrously underestimated.

  Her brows had furrowed, and she'd demanded once more. "Why? And does that still apply even when they are abused by their husbands? Nearly half of women in the United States have experienced psychological aggression by an intimate partner in their lifetime. What does the Bible have to say about that?"

  She’d had a particular interest in gender-studies at the time.

  Shelby's parents had immediately rushed to her side, apologizing for their daughter's blunt and rude questions, and promptly escorted her from the church. They took to leaving her at home on Sundays afterwards, which suited her fine. She had more time to read the books she'd collected from the Wakefield Library.

  When she turned ten years old, she discovered Virginia Woolf's novel Orlando, a story of an immortal poet who changed from a man into a woman throughout the course of her life. It quickly joined A Wrinkle in Time as one of her favorite books, to endlessly reread and underline favorite passages and quotes. Shelby sat alone in her room, contemplating the fluidity with which the book dealt with gender, unlike anything she saw around her in the stuffy little societies of Wakefield.

  It was the first time she ever felt that she might be different.

  During vacations, Linda and Alfred Prouse had taken to letting their daughter stay in Strathmore with Linda's father, Obed. Shelby minded this little, mostly because Grandpa Obed's had a sizable library filled with near-ancient tomes and antique books she wouldn't find at the Wakefield Library. Some were written in languages she'd never seen before. When she'd asked her grandfather about them, he'd chuckle and say they were sounds not meant for human mouths.

  Strathmore itself was a queer little fishing town with a dank air about it. Every building and rooftop appeared to have a crooked slant, and all the wooden walls were in various stages of rotting from the long-exposure to seaside air. The sun seemed to have abandoned the community entirely, as it was always hidden behind a bleak and gray horizon. Even its citizens had a foul, unnatural look to them, with bulging eyes and strangely pointed teeth.

  During her stays, she'd spend most of the time alone in her grandfather's library while he toiled away within the large church at the center of town. The Esoteric Order of Sa'lothe had all the trappings of a normal chapel building, complete with steeple and bell tower and quaint little sign out front with community announcements in plastic faded lettering, but even Shelby found the name unwholesome. Her mother absolutely refused to say anything about it. Grandpa Obed would only smile and stroke his bushy pepper-colored beard and tell her that, in time, Sa'lothe would reveal his will to her.

  It became immediately clear that this was no Christian establishment. He never did tell her what he did all day in that building and, for all of her curiosity, Shelby felt it better not to ask.

  On her final trip to the quiet fishing town, Grandpa Obed hardly left his bed. A sheen of sweat coated his unnaturally greenish skin, and new rolls of fat had appeared along the sides of his neck and face, disproportionate to the rest of his body. His eyes had taken on the disturbing cross-eyed bulge native to the residents of Strathmore. Shelby was reminded of a dead fish she'd seen on the beach once - all bloated, with its insides ready to burst from its belly.

  During her stay, she attempted to cook for him, but found that he couldn't keep down anything other than undercooked broth. It was only after his third refusal of her insistence to call a doctor for him that Shelby understood what he meant when he said that he'd be "going away". The old man was dying.

  Maybe that's what gave the child the confidence to divulge their great plan.

  "Grandpa, I want you to do something for me," she said.

  They were sitting together in his bedroom while she read quietly next to his bed. She might have taken his hand for comfort, but couldn't help but be repulsed by the slime that dripped from his fingertips.

  He gave her a salty smile. "Provided you don't ask me to move, I'll consider it."

  "I'm going to cut my hair and change my name. I want to be a boy." The child's voice didn't even so much as quiver. He'd spent a long time considering everything and doing all the research they could before coming to this juncture, a decision that would forever alter the course of his life. "I want you to pick a name for me."

  Obed took a moment to think on that. He blinked twice, and the child had to convince themselves that he hadn't seen a second pair of translucent eyelids behind the first.

  "This won't be easy," Obed finally said after a solid minute. He spoke slowly, likely from either attempting to choose his words carefully or because at this stage in his condition, it was becoming difficult to speak. "Some may want to hurt you for this."

  "I know."
The child's stance was resolute.

  Obed nodded. "You have your grandmother's determination, and my wits, you'll do fine. Now, let's see … Bartleby, after my cousin. He liked to travel and collect things."

  Bartleby nodded. It felt right, like it actually fit him better. He said the name out loud, tasting it, and could already feel something inside him shifting. He was slipping into the new identity he would craft for himself.

  "Actually, I have something for you." Obed pointed to the mahogany nightstand near the bed. "Reach into the top drawer. You'll find a compass. It belonged to my cousin. I think you should have it."

  Bartleby obeyed, pulling on the brass knobs and reaching inside the drawer. His fingers ran across a weathered drawing of a statue atop a pillar. The statue depicted a winged, squid-headed creature, eyes narrowed and full of hate. He only stared at it for a moment, long enough for it to frighten him. He slammed the drawer closed and returned to his grandfather with the compass, struggling to put the disconcerting image far from his mind.

  "I'm going to leave you soon, Bartleby," the old man said hoarsely. "You understand? I'm dying. Now, there are things you've gotta understand about this screwed up world we live in. I've done things in it … turned myself over to strange forces … and I'm paying the price for the power they gave me. Seek power. You'll need it, but it's gotta be your own. They'll come for you, beggin' ya to open the door and oh, such sweet promises they'll make, but I'm telling you, son, don't you dare open that fucking door. Horror waits beyond."

  Obed took Bartleby's hand in his and clenched his fingers over the compass. Bartleby attempted to pull away as the slime and sweat dripped onto his fingers. Obed only dug in deeper with long, yellowed fingernails. Bartleby looked into his face and couldn't find a trace of his grandfather there, as if something had taken hold of the old fisherman's body in his dying moments.

  The voice that emerged was certainly not his grandfather's. Bartleby recognized portions of the words as some of the Aklo he'd been studying, a language of foul, ancient myth. Obed's voice came out in guttural growls, chanting the same phrase repeatedly.

  "Ia Sa'lothe! Ia Vertatul! Aboleth! Aboleth! Aboleth!" He called out to a string of deities before finally collapsing into a frenetic cackle, ending with a hoarse and terrible scream.

  Bartleby stared for a full minute at the still figure of his grandfather before he realized the old man was dead. He pocketed the compass and fled the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Even as he took the scissors to his hair, he cried. He wondered if his grandfather had gone to Heaven. He doubted it.

  * * *

  For the next several hours, the house remained a bustle of activity. Men and women in black clothes with black bags would drift in and out of the house muttering to teach other. Little attention was paid to the sullen boy sitting cross-legged in the library. He was content to peruse one of the more esoteric books by himself until the procession of house-guests grew so large that the rank, fishy odor of the Strathmore people spilled into the room, making any attempt to translate the eldritch language impossible.

  This was no place for a child. He closed the leather-bound tome and tucked it carefully beneath his arm. It was easy enough for him to duck beneath the crowd of people that had assembled inside the living room. Some of them were dripping all over the carpet, as if they'd arrived here fresh from the bath.

  He brushed past a crooked old woman and hurried out into the cobbled streets of Strathmore.

  She didn't seem particularly pleased with that and lashed out with a, "Fuck off, little boy!" in a snarling voice.

  Bartleby was so delighted with passing for a boy that he felt free to ignore the hostile tone.

  He checked his watch. Six o'clock. It was getting darker now, and with Grandpa's house full of people who looked rather eager to be rid of Bartleby, that left him with little elsewhere to go. That's when he looked across the town square, where the street lamps were barely visible through the dense fog, to the looming steeple of the Esoteric Order of Sa'lothe. There was a light streaming through the open doorway.

  Bartleby let out a little gasp. He'd never been inside the strange church before. Every time he'd passed by it with his grandfather, the double doors had had thick heavy chains draped across them barring entry. He had to wonder if they were trying to keep people out … or keep something in. He felt a familiar tingling, that nagging curiosity that couldn't let things go.

  "'Wild nights are my glory'," he whispered, quoting his favorite book, and made his way across the lonely quiet streets towards the church and stepped inside.

  The floor creaked noisily beneath his feet with each step he made, causing his heart to shudder, fearful of being caught. Two rows of soggy wooden pews atop a moth-eaten and moldy carpet lined each side of the narrow building. There was a small stage with an altar and pulpit, with every inch covered in a decade's worth of candle-wax. Similarly melted candles lined the sills of a disturbing panorama of stained glass windows, each depicting impossible creatures overlooking mounds of corpses built into the walls of factories and incomprehensible machinery. The largest window standing at the back was of a great humanoid figure. Its face was obscured in shadow. The rest of its body was covered in scales and gills, and far too many eyes lined its bulging stomach. This figure alone had a name emblazoned across a scroll pane at the bottom: SA'LOTHE.

  For a moment, it appeared as if a light had passed over the scarlet lettering. Bartleby left the heavy book on the edge of one of the pews and crept cautiously closer to the pulpit. Beneath the window sill was an open trap door containing a flickering light gradually lowering into a cascading darkness. He kept quiet for several minutes, watching until the light vanished from view.

  Bartleby took a deep breath, and waited for his desperate need for answers to overcome all the senses screaming for him to flee. These moments of clarity passed and he was able to descend the ladder without hesitation. Each rung down he thought would be the last, only to find the floor still swallowed up by the void beneath him. That dark descent allowed him plenty of time to conjure wild imaginings of an endless ladder where he'd simply be climbing down forever.

  After what felt like an eternity, he finally reached the bottom. He could barely see in the pitch darkness, only the cavernous walls around him. He stumbled his way towards one of the walls and attempted to place his hand against it, only to find it falling through. He held his breath to keep from crying out as his bare shin scraped against the rocky ground, cutting it.

  Standing, he felt his way around the crevice. There appeared to be something thin and bumpy lying inside of it. He blinked several times and peered closer. His eyes were still adjusting to the overwhelming blackness but he was almost certain he could perceive - he quickly removed his hand from what was most definitely a human skeleton. One of the bones crumbled to dust in his hand. He clamped his clean hand over his mouth to keep from letting out a startled yelp. This place was a tomb.

  Footsteps echoing from a turn in the corridor to the right alerted him to his real purpose down below. He followed as quietly as he could, keeping one hand flat along the sides of the walls, though obviously taking care not to disturb any more of the skeletal remains buried within.

  The man traveling ahead was walking slowly, with an old cigarette lighter held high over his head in one hand and a pistol aimed in front of him with the other. He had all the looks of some grizzled 30's noir detective stereotype, complete with fedora and trench coat, but with none of the confident gait or swagger. His hands were shaking and covered with sweat, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks.

  As Bartleby drew closer, he noticed that the man's clothes were wrinkled and dirty, as if he had been sleeping in them for the past several days. He had to wonder if the man had slept at all, considering the thick dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes.

  All the while Bartleby followed him, keeping to the shadows and out of the light. He found he would have to duck into a corner at random times
, for the man would swing around, darting his eyes from side to side, like a frightened rat scanning the room for predators. The man would repeatedly mutter quietly to himself in a quivering voice.

  At the far back were two statues of strange humanoid creatures with gills and fins; a lone pedestal stood between them. At the center of the room was another pedestal as well as a silver basin. He took a step back, letting out a muttered swear word in shock and horror as he lifted the lighter over a gruesome, blood-splattered sight.

  The light danced across the fully-nude corpse of a man strung up on wires, his rib-cage exposed, his skull crushed inward like a tin can after being kicked and stepped on. The body was positioned so that its blood would drip into the basin in ritualistic fashion. Bartleby stumbled back, clasping a hand over his mouth too late to stifle a horrified cry.

  In a startled movement, the man turned his gun on Bartleby. He froze and almost started crying then and there. They both stared, regarding each other, unsure of how to act.

  The man didn't even think about lowering his gun. "Kid. Did anyone else come with you?"

  Bartleby shook his head.

  The man marched forwards, pushing Bartleby to the side to veer around the corner. He checked, and then double-checked again. He made a sigh that sounded like a quiet sob and retreated back into the room of horror, where he didn't so much lean against the wall as he collapsed against it.