The Uplifting Tale of Jonathan Mores - My homage to H P Lovecraft written a decade ago
With this in mind I present "The Uplifting Tale of Jonathan Mores"
The human mind is a vast,
convoluted space; filled with realms of unimaginable beauty and grim ravenous
darkness. These conflicting natures exist within each of us yet no man should
seek to find them. Jonathan Mores was a man who tried.
Jonathan had been a prominent psychologist before the death of a patient led
him to retire to Havershire. Havershire, was a ponderous and isolated town on
the coast. Jonathan had chosen to take retirement there. The briny sea air
would be a revitalising balm for him. His colleagues assured him that in short
order he would return to the profession, and that this flagellating sabbatical
would be a short one. Yet Jonathan felt that he no longer had the ability to
work in psychology.
On his decision to leave the profession, his colleague David Macready had
offered Jonathan the use of his house in Havershire. A fully furnished,
two-storey country house. Though he did not live in the town, David had the
house freshly painted and cared for by a local man.
Jonathan stood in front of the old home. It dominated the property outside of town. To one side it bordered the sea and cliffs. To the other side the town lay a short drive away. The house itself stood proudly on a small hill. Its pristine white panelling spoke of the love David’s groundskeeper had for the home. The upstairs windows formed two peering eyes; the old white curtains reminded Jonathan of cataracts. They betrayed the house’s youthful façade. Inside the house it was clear that David tried to keep a vintage feel to the décor. The air was not as musty as Jonathan had expected. Clearly the groundskeeper had aired the house before Jonathan’s arrival.
Jonathan unpacked and drove down to purchase supplies. The
town’s main street was a collection of specialty stores. Green grocers, shoe
and clothing stores; Even a small barbershop with a white and crimson candy
cane marked its door. Jonathan entered the grocery store. A row of cashiers
served whilst others bagged their customer’s purchases.
“Mores, Jonathan, Mores?” came a small voice to Jonathan’s
side. Jonathan turned to find an old man. He wore a simple white shirt with the
sleeves rolled, brown slacks and green apron. His face was lined and slightly
red. Jonathan guessed he was about sixty years old.
“Yes, and you are?” he asked taking the old man’s hand and
shaking it.
“Terrence Bridle, I am the groundskeeper for David” Terrence explained as he offered to guide Jonathan around the store. The two men discussed all of the house’s nuances and idiosyncrasies. However, Jonathan was still thinking about some advice Bridle gave as he drove back to the house. ‘Be careful not to wander at night, it is dangerous at night with the cliffs’, though it was a simple enough advice it felt as though he was still quite nervous about it, as if the man had withheld something. Jonathan pushed the thought from his mind, he was analysing again. I am done with that now, he thought to himself.
When he arrived back at the house, Jonathan carefully stacked all of the cupboards and refrigerator with groceries he had purchased. Now he was fully settled he decided to use the remaining time before lunch to acquaint himself with the grounds.
Immediately beyond the back porch there lay a sprawling garden of flowers and small hedges. The view itself could be called a ‘postcard’ vista. Jonathan paced the narrow garden paths. He found himself standing in front of an ornate fountain. Though moss had grown over a large section of the fountain. The large grey weathered stone figure, straining under the weight of a large orb was unmistakable. In Greek Mythology Atlas was a titan that held up the world. It must have been a magnificent statue in its time, however now it was in decay. Jonathan looked at the moss that seemed to creep up the statue. He suddenly had the impression the ground was trying to reclaim the stone taken from it. The notion was deeply unsettling to Jonathan and he decided to continue on to the cliffs.
The walk was a short one. Sharp gusts of wind rose up from sea and waves below, the frigid air chilled Jonathan to the bone. Far below an ancient elemental ballet was taking place. Jonathan watched as waves rose and crashed against the rocks. Great explosions of white spray plumed beneath him. A great cacophony of booms thundered as waves impacted upon the stone. Just then Jonathan spied a silhouette among the white wash. Roughly the size and shaped of a man. Some poor soul, about to be dashed against the rocks or drowned. He stepped closer to the edge and tried to shield his eyes from the Sun. the ground broke beneath his feet, gravity pulled him down. He turned and frantically scrambled like a wild animal. His hand caught the rock’s edge. The sting in his palm told him he had drawn blood. Contrary to his desire, he looked down into the sea. The man he had spotted struck the cliffs and broke apart. Driftwood, it had been a piece of driftwood. Jonathan cursed his over active imagination. He fumbled and found an awkward foothold and pushed himself up. He was thirty-four but certainly not the fit for his age. As he pushed himself upwards, the sea below roared and seethed. One slip and he would fall into it, drown and never be seen again. His breath came in ragged gasps and sweat beaded on his brow as he made his final push. He rolled himself over the lip of the cliff and lay on his back, his breath slowed now. ‘Bridle was right about the cliffs’ Jonathan thought to himself darkly.
Jonathan wrapped his hand and prepared a late lunch on his
return to the house. He retired to the small study to read. The study consisted
of a number of bookshelves, which held a mixture of books and souvenirs from
David’s travels. There were two large chairs near the fireplace. Above the
fireplace was mantle piece with a myriad of photographs. In the far corner of
the room was an antique desk and chair. Jonathan selected a book and was just
about to sit down when the phone rang out. Its harsh brass bell shattered the
quiet in the house and reverberated in Jonathan’s head. He crossed the room and
answered it.
“Hello, Jonathan Mores speaking” he answered as though it
was the phone in his old offices. There was no answer. He tried again then hung
up. He turned to go back to his chair and again the brass ring filled the room.
He snatched up the receiver and again found no answer. He hung up again. No
sooner had the receiver touched down then the blaring brass ring sounded again.
Jonathan grabbed the phone.
“What” he snarled into it. Yet all he heard was the waves at the cliffs. He paced to the window and peered out. Perhaps it was kids on a mobile phone out to harass the new guy in town Jonathan thought to himself. He felt watched. So he drew the curtains and lit the fire.
The sun had set now and Jonathan was in the kitchen cooking
dinner. He found that such mundane tasks always settled his mind. The phone
calls and the near cliff plunge had left him on edge. However, Jonathan
suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. He could smell something putrid. It smelt
like burning rubber or ammonia. Outside on the porch he heard a commotion.
Someone ran along the porch, footfalls clearly audible over the wind. Jonathan
called out but received no reply. Behind him Jonathan heard a peculiar noise.
The door that led from the kitchen to the porch rattled slightly. He heard a
sound like a hound sniffing at the door. A wild dog perhaps Jonathan thought as
he moved to open the door, intent on scaring the beast away. But he stopped.
The stench hit him again and he recoiled. A sudden violent strike shook both
the door and Jonathan. His eyes widened as at what he saw. From underneath the
door four tendrils had crept in. Jonathan would have called them fingers except
they did not behave as such. They had no joints. Instead they resembled four
oily black tentacles. They worked their way along the door. Only when they
reached for the handle did Jonathan, perhaps out of some feral instinct react.
He launched forward and sliced at the thing with a knife. The blade caught one
of the tendrils. There was an unearthly screech, like a hundred people crying
in unison. The tendrils disappeared under the door like water down a drain.
Jonathan looked at the knife there not a single stain on it.
Jonathan flew through the house and checked every entrance
was secure. He tried the phone yet it was now dead. His isolation no longer
appealed to him. He looked out around the house. There was no sign of whatever
had been at the door. What had been at the door? Jonathan forced the thought
from his mind and kept himself busy. He had searched the desk and found a small
pistol with six shots, though he had never fired a weapon simply holding the
cold steel gave him comfort. The wind had strengthened and a storm had
gathered, lightning flashed outside. To his horror Jonathan saw an oily black
mass perch atop his car. It was apelike in shape, except that its skin and
fingers. Those to Jonathan resembled a sea creature of some sort. The things
tentacle like fingers spread across the car’s windshield. ‘How did it know’
Jonathan thought. He had planned to make a break for town in the car. The phone
suddenly rang, its cold brass staccato made Jonathan leap.
“Hello, thank God I need help” he said all in a rush.
“So did I doctor” came a familiar female voice that jarred
Jonathan’s mind as he recognised it. There was no mistaking it. Rebecca
Springs, his patient that had killed herself. The same sentence came again and
this time it was spoken in a hundred voices like the screech earlier. Jonathan
hurled the phone across the room in a panic. Then he saw it. It was not her,
that thing had imitated her. How did it even know about their relationship, no
one knew about it. ‘God forgive me, but I loved her’ Jonathan pleaded in his
own mind. Had he tried to help her, he thought so. Or perhaps he was too
distracted to see the tell tale signs of her depression.
At the window the thing sat peering in at him, though he
could see no eyes amongst the jet black hide he knew it was glaring at him. In
an instant of rage Jonathan raised the pistol and fired. The window pane
exploded and the cold air rushed in and with it the creature’s stench. Jonathan
stood gun raised and waited. The entire window exploded as a large weight tore
through it. Jonathan fired a second shot and fled the room. Over his shoulder
he saw the creature silhouetted against the flames, its oily shape shifting as
it turned to pursue him.
Jonathan hurtled up the stairs his pursuer close behind, its
footfalls heavy on the stairs. He flung himself through a doorway, slammed it
shut and pushed a dresser against the door. Outside the thing howled and
flailed against the blocked door. It could not be kept out for long and Jonathan
knew this. He sunk down to the floor the pistol now loose in his grip. It could
not be stopped; it could not be outrun this thing. Jonathan was without
options. The door began to be knocked open inch by inch, the stench almost
tangible to Jonathan.
Jonathan Mores raised the pistol to his head. Jonathan Mores
was a man who tried, and failed.
The Reflection
In real estate they say it is all about location location location. Well in horror it is pacing pacing pacing. By that metric I feel that this piece suffered from some pretty rapid pacing. I tried to cram an entire horror novella into a mere few paragraphs. Due to this is lost that slow creeping dread that Lovecraft was so well known for.
I am rarely tempted to return to a piece and make it longer though if I ever were to do so. Then this would probably be that piece. If I were to go back I would have to space out the introduction of the creature who I have now dubbed DidiThulu, the cuter chibi Cthulhu. Having Jonathan continue to spy the creature out of the side of his eye. Introducing the question of Jonathans incredulity and education vs what he is seeing.
The voice on the end of the call I am sure at the time was something I thought quite witty, though now I find it just a little hacky. Maybe I am being harsh, but it was a little ham fisted. Yes the overall idea for the piece was that his guilt at losing a patient had driven him mad. But, I probably could have conveyed this in a much less on the nose manner. Moreover, in retrospect I didnt do enough throughout the piece to set that moment up.
Still overall, as I look at this piece written over a decade ago I am not enitrely let down by it. My first foray into horror writing and I did not feel like I did too badly. I think I may need to work some more tense horror moments into my current projects. Either way dear readers I hope you enjoyed this offering.
As always remember hospitality is sacred.
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