Harold pulled on his shirt, wincing when he felt the damp material touch his skin. He hadn’t had time to wash the garment since the previous night and it was still stiff with dried mud. So were the trousers which he put on but, after a moment or two, he grew to accept the cloying feel of the odorous cloth against his skin. He pulled on his coat and tucked the torch into one pocket – he’d taken it from a store-room in the hospital earlier in the day. The fifty watt bulb hung above him. He hadn’t put it on since returning to the hut over four hours ago and the hands on his alarm clock had crawled around to 12.26 a.m. Harold knew that he was taking a small risk leaving the hut earlier than usual but, he reasoned, his business in the muddy quagmire was more important than usual and, besides, if someone did see him it would be easy enough to explain away the fact that he was out that late. Also, he was carrying nothing with him tonight. Nothing, that was, except his fear. He realized that the men from the electricity company who had repaired the downed power line could not have discovered the grave of foetuses, he would have known about it by now. However, he was worried that the driving rain might have disturbed the top soil which covered the grave.
He folded the blanket up as small as he could and tucked it inside his coat. It was to be used as an extra covering on the grave. He would drape it over the eight bodies interred there and then build more layers of earth over the blanket, ensuring once and for all that they were hidden from prying eyes. It was cold but, despite that, Harold could feel the beads of perspiration on his forehead and between his shoulder blades. He swallowed hard, checked everything one final time and then headed for the door of the hut.
Harold peered out, making sure that there was no one about, then he slipped around the side of the small building and was swallowed up in the shadows which formed so thickly at its rear. He walked to the low barbed wire fence and clambered over it, nearly slipping on some damp grass at the top of the ridge. It had stopped raining and the night air smelt crisp, filled with the aroma of wet grass. His hot breath formed small white clouds every time he exhaled and Harold was pleased when he finally reached the bottom of the ridge, almost slipping half way down. He walked across to the pylon and felt his feet sinking into the mud at its base – a testament to the comings and goings of men and machinery earlier in the day. He flicked on the torch and shone it over the ground, seeing the outline of heavy footprints in the soft soil.
There was not enough natural light for him to find his way so he kept the torch on.
Above him, the sky was a patchwork of clouds and stars. It looked like a canopy of soggy black velvet that someone had thrown a handful of sequins onto. There was a slight breeze, cold and just strong enough to send the clouds rolling across the dark backdrop.
Harold shone the torch down once more and saw where the fallen power cable had scorched the earth over a wide area. He didn’t know how many volts each of those massive overhead wires carried but it certainly had done some damage. The blackened grass and mud seemed to extend as far as thirty yards, perhaps more. He could pick out the tracks of the crane in the mud too and, close by, someone had dropped an empty cigarette packet. He kicked it aimlessly with the toe of his shoe and walked on, the breath now rasping in his throat. He was very close to the grave.
The boot marks and crane tracks ended abruptly and Harold realized that the men had not gone anywhere near to the hole. He moved on, slowing his pace some-what. He sucked in a shaking breath, the frosty air making his mouth and the back of his throat even drier. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. It felt as if his heart was trying to smash its way through his ribcage. He played the powerful torch beam over the area ahead of him, his boots creaking on the soft mud as he advanced.
Something pale gleamed in the shaft of light and Harold held the torch on it, moving forward with even more deliberate steps until he was at the spot which he knew so well.
“Oh God,” he croaked.
The bulbous head of one of the foetuses had been exposed when the constant rain had washed away the covering of earth. As Harold had feared, the top soil had been almost completely eroded and, as he shone the torch over the length of the grave, he saw that more of the tiny creatures lay virtually in the open, only the tiniest covering of mud hid them from view. He scratched his head in puzzlement. Even if the men from the electricity company hadn’t actually come as far as this, surely, he reasoned, they could not have avoided seeing the exposed bodies? The grass round about, what remained of it, was blackened so the cable had discharged its power into this part of the field too. How could they have missed the small grave? However, the important thing was that he was still undiscovered. He knelt, and scooped up a handful of wet earth, ready to cover the corpses once again.
But, looking down at the vile array of abortions which lay before him, something nagged at the back of his mind. He dropped the handful of soggy muck and frowned. It was something about the position of the creatures. Harold had buried them in a straight line and yet, three, perhaps more, were lying sideways now. One even lay spread-eagled across one of its unfortunate companions. The driving rain would have been enough to wash away the top soil but not to move the position of the foetuses. Had the men from the electricity board found them? Had he been reported? His mind suddenly began to race, his heart beat even faster. It would take maybe a day or two for the people at the hospital to discover that he was responsible. He would not know immediately that he had been found out. He began to shudder with cold and fear. What would they do to him? He clenched his fists, his confused mind searching for some-other answer. Any other answer. Perhaps animals had disturbed the grave. A fox? A badger perhaps? He picked up his torch and shone it over the nearest foetus, inspecting the small body for damage. The arms, the legs, the body were all untouched. Harold leaned closer, casting furtive eyes over the head. It looked swollen, mottled red and black in places, it appeared like a huge festering sore. The tiny mouth was open, pieces of mud clogging it. Harold reached forward with one shaking finger and brushed the muck away. The body looked so limp, not rigored as would be expected, but soft and malleable. Harold shone the torch close to it, prodding the skin with his fingers, mildly disgusted by its slimy softness. He was breathing hard now but his fear had been replaced, to some degree, by an appalling kind of curiosity. He prodded the tiny body with his fingers, even touching the torn, putrescent umbilicus for a second before returning his attention to its face. The stench which rose from the grave was almost overpowering, a cloying odour of decay which couldn’t even be driven away by the fresh breeze which sprang up but Harold didn’t seem to notice it. He shone the torch over the other bodies, some of which were in an advanced state of decomposition. Harold looked on them with a feeling akin to pity and, for long moments, he crouched in the mud gazing at the bodies, then, he took the blanket from his coat and laid it beside him. He decided to lay the foetuses back in their original position before completing the burial so he lifted the one nearest to him and placed it gently between two smaller specimens, one of which had already had its sightless eyes devoured by worms. Harold shuddered and hurried to complete his task. The smell, which he had not noticed before, suddenly seemed to be unbearable to him, filling his nostrils and making his head ache.
Each foetus he touched felt similarly cold and soft, the touch of their flesh on his fingers making him quiver violently. But, nevertheless, he completed his task, finally reaching for the body which he had first inspected. Puzzled once more by its position in the grave, Harold lifted it gently in order to replace it in the original space he had made for it. It seemed heavier than the rest and he guessed that it must have been aborted at a much later stage than the others. He lowered it gently into place and shone his torch over it one last time.
The foetus opened its eyes.
Harold’s body stiffened, his hand almost crushing the torch. It was as if thousands of volts of electricity were being pumped through him, the shock making him rigid. His single good eye bulged madly in the socket, he shook his head gently from side to side.
The foetus moved one arm, raising it slowly, as if soliciting help and Harold heard a low sucking sound as its mouth opened. A blob of black fluid appeared on its lip and trickled down its chin. The tiny chest heaved once then settled into a more rhythmic motion.
He kept the torch aimed at the thing, his entire body shaking uncontrollably.
To his left there was another low, liquid, noise which reminded him of asthmatic breathing only it was thicker, more mucoid and Harold swung the torch beam around. He began to mouth silent words as he saw a second foetus slithering awkwardly in the sticky ooze. It was smaller than the first one, its umbilicus moving tentacle-like, as it struggled in the slime.
Harold felt his heart beginning to pound. He felt as though his head were swelling. The execrable stench filled his nostrils, hanging in the air like an almost palpable cloud of corruption. He dropped the torch but it fell to the ground with its light pointing into the grave and, in that light, Harold saw a third creature begin to move. It rolled onto its side, yellowish fluid so viscous it was almost jellied, oozing from the hole in its belly where the umbilicus should have been. Part of its body was blackened and rotted, one arm mottled, two of the tiny stubby fingers missing. It clambered up and fixed Harold in a hypnotic gaze, the twin black orbs which were its eyes holding him immobile.
He pressed both hands to his head and screamed but no sound would come. His mouth was stretched open as far as it would go, the shriek of terror and revulsion waiting to be released but he could not summon it. That ultimate exclamation of disgust remained deep within him. He tried to stand, to get away but his knees buckled and he fell face down in the mud, close to the edge of the grave, watching helplessly as the three living foetuses crawled towards him. He felt as if someone had laid a huge weight on his body, for when he tried to rise again he felt an intolerable pressure pinning him down as surely as if he’d been skewered to the mud with a long knife. He could only watch, mesmerized, as the trio of abominations drew closer to him. He was babbling incoherently now, his words unintelligible even to himself. His mind struggled to accept what his eye saw but could not, would not. He fought against the pressure above him and managed to rise, dragging himself to his knees, eyes still locked on the monstrosities before him.
“No,” he murmured, his entire body trembling.
The leading foetus had reached the edge of the grave and was trying to crawl up the side.
Harold shook his head violently. He heard voices.
Was there someone else with him?
He spun round, searching for the source of the voice.
Had someone discovered him?
“Who’s there?” he gasped, his gaze still riveted to the trio of creatures beneath him.
Again the voice came only this time it was joined by another, and another. Soft, hissing words which he could barely understand seemed to flicker inside his head like a dying candle flame. He stopped trying to back away and watched the three foetuses writhing in the grave. He tried to tell himself that he would awake in a moment, safe, in his hut. He would leave this nightmare behind him, wake up to find that it had all been a figment of his imagination.
He bowed his head and tears began to flood down his cheek. Kneeling like some kind of penitent, he remained where he was, his body racked by sobs, his vision blurring as he cried like a child. Gradually, the spasms subsided and he stared down at the three creatures which lay in the sticky mud, pinned in their collective gaze. Then, very slowly, he unrolled the blanket and lifted the first of them out, putting it gently onto the soft material. He repeated the procedure with the other two. They lay before him, grotesque parodies of human babies – living nightmares. The third moved slightly and Harold reached forward and wiped some of the thick yellow discharge from its belly, rubbing his hand clean on the wet earth.
“Yes, the grave,” he said, nodding blankly, as if speaking to some invisible companion. He began scraping huge clods of reeking soil onto the other five bodies in the grave, sweating with the exertion. It took him nearly half an hour to fill it in then he turned back to the three creatures who lay on the blanket.
“I will find you shelter,” he said. He smiled crookedly. “Gordon.” He looked down at them.
“Gordon.”
The word echoed inside his head, swirling around in a fog of confusion that seemed to be thickening by the second. A mist made of nightmares from which there was to be no escape.
Harold sat on the edge of his bed, looking down at the three foetuses on the blanket before him. He had left the light off in the hut and, in the darkness, the hands of his clock glowed dully. Harold noted that it was approaching 2.23 a.m. His head was throbbing and his body felt stiff, every muscle crying out for rest but he could only sit. Sit and stare at these. . .
He didn’t even know what they were. He realized that they were abortions but, more than that. . . The thought trailed off once more.
Words. Soft, sibilant, came hissing inside his head once more and Harold wondered if he was imagining them. Were they really his own thoughts? He swallowed hard. The voices seemed more distinct now, as if they were speaking directly to him.
He nodded in response to the silent question.
“Yes,” he said, softly. “I am afraid of you.”
A pause.
“Because I don’t know what you are.” If not for the fact that he was constantly pulling at the flesh on the back of his right hand, he might still have thought that this was some horrendous nightmare from which he would be hurled screaming at any second, to wake up sweating and trembling in his bed with the daylight streaming in through his window. As it was, all he heard were the voices again, echoing, resonating like whispers in a cave.
He gave answers to unspoken questions.
“Food? What can I do?”
Hissing inside his head.
Harold shook his head and stood up.
“I can’t.”
The whispers became louder.
“No.” He backed off until suddenly he felt a searing pain explode inside his head. White light danced before his eyes and he felt something warm and wet trickle from his nostril. He put a finger to the orifice, with- drawing it to see dark fluid on the tip. The blood looked black in the darkness. Harold swayed drunkenly. It felt as if someone had clamped a vice on his skull and were twisting the screw as tightly as possible.
“All right,” he yelled and the pain receded. He leant against the nearest wall, panting. “Tell me how,” he sobbed.
The words came slowly and, at first he recoiled again but remembrance of the awful pain when he disobeyed forced him to listen. Tears streaming down his face, he sat motionless, hands clasped together, head bowed until finally he got to his feet and walked into the tiny kitchen. He pulled open one of the rotting wooden drawers and rummaged through until he found a butcher’s knife. It was a heavy bladed implement, rusty in places, its black handle missing a screw but, as Harold pressed his thumb to the cutting edge he found that it was still wickedly sharp. He shambled back into the other room and sat down on the bed, the knife held in one unsteady hand. The ghostly voices spoke to him once more and he put down the vicious blade in order to undo his shirt. As each successive button was unfastened, he could hear the soft sucking sounds which the foetuses made echoing around the room. They moved only occasionally on the blanket but, all the while, their black glistening eyes were fixed upon him. One of them, the smallest of the trio was gurgling thickly, a stream of fluid spilling from its mouth which it kept opening and closing rather like a goldfish. Harold looked at it and then across at the knife.
Perhaps he should kill them now, destroy these foul things. Cut. . .
He groaned once more as a white hot burst of agony seared his brain. He imagined his head swelling then exploding into a thousand sticky pieces. He undid the final button and pulled his shirt off then, with shaking hands, he reached for the long bladed knife. His own body looked pale in the gloom and his skin was puckered into goose-pimples. He held the knife before him, looking at the wicked weapon then, with infinite care, almost without looking, he pressed the sharp edge to his chest. It felt cold and he held it there for what seemed like an eternity then, with one swift movement, he drew it across his pectoral muscle, opening the flesh, slicing through veins. He moaned in pain, felt the hot bile bubbling up in his throat but he fought it back, hacking at himself once more until a bright stream of blood gushed from the torn breast. His second cut was more random and he was fortunate not to carve his left nipple off. His chest felt as if it were on fire and he swayed for a second, some of his blood splashing the bedclothes and, all the time, the voices inside his head urged him on.
He bent forward and lifted the first of the foetuses, cradling it in his arms for long seconds, allowing some of his blood to drip onto the tiny body, then he raised it to his torn chest. He felt its jellied, putrescent flesh in his hands, he smelt the stench which it gave off and he allowed it to press its bulbous head against his wounds. Harold was shaking uncontrollably as he felt the thing’s lips on his chest, probing the ragged edges of the twin gashes, burying its small mouth inside the bleeding maw as it swallowed his life fluid. It bucked violently in his hands and he felt that familiar wave of sickness sweeping over him again but the pain in his chest kept him conscious. Tears streamed down his face, dripping from his chin to mingle with his blood and the odorous fluid which the foetus itself seemed to exude.
He heard the voice deep within the darkest recesses of his mind and he laid the creature back on the cover where it lay still, its face slick with blood, its body bloated and immobile.
He repeated the procedure with the second monstrosity, opening a third wound on the other breast to satiate it. He moaned once more, feeling the thing grip his flesh with stubby fingers as it pressed itself tightly to the weeping wound. It too signalled its satisfaction and Harold completed the vile ritual by lifting the third foetus to his tom pectoral.
When the task was over, Harold got to his feet, unhindered, and staggered into the kitchen. He hung over the sink and vomited violently, remaining there for a long time afterwards, finally spinning both taps and washing the foul mess down the plug-hole. Then he sponged down his chest wounds with a wet towel, – pressing it hard against the wounds in an effort to seal them. When he withdrew it, the material was stained orange and red. He was bruised black in some places where the creatures had fed. Harold held the towel in place until he was satisfied that the bleeding had stopped then he dried himself and sought out some adhesive strip which he had in the bedside cabinet. He carefully cut some lengths of it and placed it delicately over the wounds. It still felt as if someone were using a blow torch on his chest but the pain was diminishing somewhat.
Bleary eyed, he looked down at the three abortions.
Where the hell was he going to hide them?
He inhaled deeply, wincing as his torso began to throb once more, looking around for a suitable place. There seemed to be just one.
There was a large cupboard beneath the sink which appeared to be ideal. He carried them, one by one into the kitchen and knelt before the cupboard door, a sliding effort with a metal handle.
“I have to hide you,” he said. “Someone might come here.”
Silent questions.
He nodded, pulling open the door. A strong odour of mildew wafted out, taking Harold’s breath away momentarily. He looked inside and saw that, but for a couple of old saucepans and a plastic bucket, the cupboard was empty. He hastily removed the offending articles, pushing them to one side. A silver-fish scurried from the dark confines of the enclosure and Harold crushed it beneath his foot, gazing down at the shape less mess for a second before lifting the blanket into the cupboard. This done, he carefully laid the foetus’ onto it, finally pulling it over them. He gazed into the darkness, heard the vile mewling sounds which they made, the soft mucoid snortings and gurglings and he closed his eyes. Then, the voices came to him again, soft but full of menace. Full of power. He slid the cupboard door shut and stumbled back into the other room where he collapsed on the bed. Immediately, he was overcome with the welcome oblivion of unconsciousness but whether it was sleep or a blackout he was never to know. Either way, he sprawled on the blood-speckled bed, the odour of the creatures still strong in the air.
Outside, the rain had begun to fall again, pattering against the window, thrown by the wind which rattled the glass in its frame. Inside, the steady ticking of the clock was the only sound.
It was 3.17 a.m.