Fogbound

For Inktober, Friday, October 30, 2020. Prompt word: "ominous." Tuckerization: Gregory Salter

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, no similar characteristics are implied. 

This story is a continuation of the city stories that began with Sarkomand in Some Would Call it Worthless and continued in The Library.

Fogbound

by Alan Loewen

Gregory Salter continued his trek toward the west, following the road until the city-sized library was merely a speck in the distance. Having escaped the ennui of Sarkomand, he left the Library behind to see what might lay ahead of him.

The plethora of books he read was fascinating, and he was enchanted with the hundreds of lives he had lived, but after a while, he noticed, to his growing horror, that his real life began to disappear in countless incarnations. When Gregory discovered the basement filled with living skeletons, impulsively grabbing and reading one book after another, he filled an improvised backpack with food and water and fled.

With the weather warm and comfortable, Gregory passed the next two nights comfortably on the eastbound road, using only the canopy of trees as his only shelter.

It disturbed him that he had met no other people on the road, and the woods bordering it were eerily silent, devoid of the usual sounds of animals and birds. However, he continued his journey, and on the third day, he found himself walking into a mist that soon turned into a thick fog. Still able to see the road under his feet, he wondered if he should turn back but decided to soldier on. To bolster his courage, he found a thick branch in the woods that doubled as a walking stick and an improvised cudgel.

To his relief, he came to a set of city gates set in a stone wall. The fog was so thick that it was impossible to guess their height. Cautiously, he stepped past the entrance, surprised to see no people on the cobblestone street before him.

It was only until he walked a reasonable distance that he saw people furtively moving through the mist. They occasionally glanced at him but continued on whatever personal missions they had. None of them seemed willing to stop and talk to him, even though he tried to stop a few to ask questions.

He decided to avoid the dark stores with large empty windows, and though he was tempted to knock on the doors of the brownstone houses, he continued his trek through the fog.

A sign above a door gave him hope of finding answers to this weird city that had entered. The Cobblestone Pub beckoned him, and when he walked through the door, the patrons, sitting at the scattered round, wooden tables or leaning against the bar, turned as one to stare at him. Within seconds, they lost interest in him and either returned to their whispered conversations or turned to stare sullenly into their mugs.

Wishing to stay invisible, Gregory made his way to the bar. He beckoned to the barkeep, who came and silently stood before him with raised eyebrows.

“Excuse me, sir, but …” Gregory began, but the man interrupted him.

“You came from the Library,” the barkeep whispered. “You should have stayed there or returned to Sarkomand.” Stunned into silence, Gregory stood there as the barkeep turned and filled a mug with a dark liquid.

“On the house,” the barkeep said. “You’ll have to find a job to pay for your livelihood. There’s a guesthouse just down the street. They’ll take you in until you settle. Just don’t be out in the fog when night truly comes.”

“But,” Gregory stuttered. “I’m just moving on.”

A grim smile came to barkeep’s face. “Bad news, newcomer. Those who enter this city can never leave. Surely, they told you at the Library that no one ever returns from following the eastern road.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Gregory snarled. “The gate I entered is just down the street from where I entered. I can leave anytime I want.”

The barkeep shook his head slowly. “When you walked through the gate, it changed into a solid, unclimbable wall. It was the same for all of us. There is no escape. Now, drink your beer and get to the guesthouse. We’re an hour away from nightfall. I have no rooms to let, and I don’t want you sleeping on a table.”

“What …” Gregory said. “What happens at night?”

The barkeep shrugged. “People just disappear. Sometimes, we hear screams when some idiot loses track of time and doesn’t find shelter. Now, let me be. I have work to do.”

The barkeeper turned away to check on other patrons, leaving Gregory staring at his own beer mug. Tentatively, he took a sip, and hunger and thirst made him drain the mug dry.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Gregory shouldered his knapsack and made his way to the guesthouse.

True to the barkeep's word, he was taken in and given a week to find a job and a place to live.

Also, the barkeep spoke truth about the gate. Gregory never found the entrance where he had entered or any way to leave. The stone walls surrounding the city were smooth as glass, and when he tried to talk to people about building a ladder to find the top of the fog-shrouded walls, they stared at him and passed on.

He found work with a mushroom farmer, as the various types of fungus were the only edibles that would grow in a city perpetually covered in fog. A two-room flat became his new home, and he quickly learned to avoid being out at night in the ominous fog. Occasionally, Gregory would be awakened by a distant scream of some victim of the night, and he would tremble in his bed until the morning, unable to return to sleep.

Countless years later, Gregory shuffled his way through the streets like the other citizens of the city. He never learned the name of the fogbound city. It was a mystery, a town without a name.

One evening, Gregory sat at his small dinner table and quietly spooned tasteless soup into his mouth. He blinked his eyes and shook his head. A sudden realization came to him. He hated this city more than anything. He hated his life, day by day, digging mushrooms out of offal and trudging home before the dreaded night claimed him.

He quietly put his spoon down and shuddered. Better an end to this nameless purgatory than another day of soul-crushing ennui.

Gregory got up, tucked his chair into its place by the table, and walked outside into the fog.

As night quickly descended. Gregory swallowed his terror and waited quietly.

He gritted his teeth until he feared they would crack under the pressure of his jaws, but he clenched his fists and refused to move, ignoring the other people fleeing to shelter.

Complete darkness crept upon him, and Gregory felt a cosmic cold envelope his body. He could not help it when a nameless dread made him turn toward his door for shelter, but it was too late.

He felt gravity reverse, and Gregory fell into the sky with a shriek.

He plunged heavenward, tumbling through the fog until he was above the clouds in a maddening fall upwards. He suddenly saw the stars. As he was swallowed up in their glory, Gregory, in his terror, abruptly realized he had discovered a way to leave the city after all.

The House on the Borderland; A Review

In the early 90s, I had the privilege of traveling to the British Isles and, while there, picked up a small paperback. I had never heard of The House on the Borderland or its author, William Hope Hodgson. I remember that Brian Aldiss wrote the introduction. Then I remember being so captured by the story that I reread the novel several times until one day, one of my cats destroyed my original copy.

At that time, I discovered ebooks, so I always had a copy of this incredible tale. However, a few days ago, I found a small paperback (see the above graphic) at a bookstore in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Once again, I wandered with the narrator through the western part of Ireland, which is so rural and desolate that few maps of the area exist.

Written in 1908, the main story is framed by two men, Tonnison and the unnamed narrator, avid anglers who fish obscure streams for prize catches. One day, they discover the ruins of a large building perched precariously above a water-filled pit. Nosing about, they find the manuscript written by the last resident of the great House, only referred to as The Recluse.

Accompanied by his elderly sister and dog, Pepper, the Recluse enjoys his extreme solitude until one day, the House is unexplainedly besieged by hideous creatures in the shape of anthropomorphic swine from a nearby pit.

The story continues as the House works its evil will on the Recluse. With him, we fight off waves of the Swine-Things, explore the massive basement, the Pit, and experience a vision of the end of the universe. 

The bottom line is that lovers of weird literature can call themselves true devotees only if they have read this classic story. 

H. P. Lovecraft loved this tale, and he wrote:

The House on the Borderland (1908)—perhaps the greatest of all Mr. Hodgson’s works—tells of a lonely and evilly regarded house in Ireland which forms a focus for hideous other-world forces and sustains a siege by blasphemous hybrid anomalies from a hidden abyss below. The wanderings of the narrator’s spirit through limitless light-years of cosmic space and kalpas of eternity, and its witnessing of the solar system’s final destruction, constitute something almost unique in standard literature. And everywhere there is manifest the author’s power to suggest vague, ambushed horrors in natural scenery. But for a few touches of commonplace sentimentality this book would be a classic of the first water. (Supernatural Horror in Literature by H. P. Lovecraft)

Having reread this tale just a day ago—even though I knew what would happen—the writing still has the power to sway me with its cosmic horror, wonder, and subplot of lost love.

The House on the Borderland by William Hope Hodgson is in the public domain. eBook and PDF copies can be found through any of your favorite search engines. Paperbacks are available through any book dealer.

Good News For Writers

 

False Advertising

I am a huge fan of old-school horror and will eagerly read anything from the late 1800s to the 1980s. I eagerly scour used bookstores for such treats, but occasionally, I run across one that is a real dog.

I introduce you to Earth Sound by Arthur Herzog.

Warning: Spoilers Ahead, but as nobody reading my review will include this in their library anyway, I write a review with lots of spoilers and not a molecule of a guilty conscience.

Harry Vail has a doctorate in seismology. However, he and his girlfriend were present at the March 27, 1964, Alaska Earthquake and Tsunami, an actual historical quake measuring XI on the modified Mercalli Intensity scale. Seeing his girlfriend buried alive under a landslide invoked in Harry an overwhelming dread of earth tremors of any size.

Eventually, Harry marries and moves to what he thinks is the most geologically stable part of the United States, a fictitious coastal town named Old Brompton Village in New England that makes Lovecraft's Innsmouth look like a Pocono resort.

Harry begins feeling tremors in the ground, but even though he is an expert in earthquakes, nobody believes him, and nobody else feels these quakes. Nor do they hear the Moodus noises, the earth sounds of the title.

Combine this with weird summer neighbors that have all the caricatures of the spoiled filthy rich, the hostility of the townsfolk toward outsiders, in the end you have an incredulous tale where you do not just suspend disbelief, you have to drag it kicking and screaming into a dark alley and beat it to death.

Of course, in the end, the big earthquake hits, one even larger than the one Harry experienced in Alaska that wipes out the town (where we eventually discover the townsfolk have been worshipping the Moodus noises for generations and, for some reason, will kill to keep it all secret). Unfortunately, I found the earthquake so anticlimactic that when I finally reached the end, I was grateful to have finished the book but saddened at the loss of time I invested in it. I'm just thankful the used bookstore only wanted $3.00 for it.

So why is this a good turn of events for writers? Because if Herzog could publish this doggeral, there is hope for all of us.

Now, what should I do with this book? I cannot give it to friends, and I certainly do not want it taking up space in my library. I will most likely donate this to a thrift store with this review tucked away within its pages.

An Important Note to My Readers

 Dear Readers,

Your support means the world to me, and I would be incredibly grateful if you could take a moment to review my books. Your honest feedback not only helps me grow as a writer but also guides new readers to discover my work. When writing your review, mention what you enjoyed most about the story, how the characters resonated with you, and any favorite moments or themes. Whether it's a sentence or a few paragraphs, your words make a huge difference. Thank you for being such a wonderful part of my literary journey! Not a reader yet? Start your journey here. Welcome aboard!

A 30-second Horror Tale

I gradually awoke to hear, “I ... I had a bad dream.” Her tiny voice trembled with fear. “C ... can I sleep with you?”

“Okay,” I said groggily and scooted over to make room. She got under the covers, her little body snuggling close, seeking warmth. Slowly, my awakening mind reminded me that I have lived alone for 20 years.

Apologia: This is loosely based on a real event in my life. And needless to say, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Writing Exercises From A Rather Odd Mind

The first Thursday evening of every month, I meet with an eclectic group of Christian writers in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. We have been meeting for at least 29 years, and my publishing success, as sparse as it may be, comes from the encouragement and wisdom of this group.

Each month’s event follows a specific outline; one part is known as the Writer’s Prompt. A phrase or situation is given, and those attending have 10 minutes to craft a quick story or poem to share with the group.

I came across a collection of my older prompts when going through some old files, and I am offering them to you with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

Needless to say, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The first tale comes from the prompt, “Write about an allegory”:

It was a beautiful autumn evening, and the Halloween party at John Walker’s home was going full tilt. The full moon, the chain of pumpkin porch lights, and the scent of cheap Pumpkin Spice candles from the local Dollar Store brought an almost magical effect to the atmosphere.

John left his kitchen door with a massive pitcher of green bubbling brew. “Are there any takers?” he asked.

Sam Smithers raised his hand, and John poured him a tall glass of the heady, smoking brew. Sam raised the glass in a toast and took a tentative sip.

Immediately, he turned several rainbow hues and, gasping for breath, fell to the floor, reminding me for all the world of an October leaf, struck by an early frost, ripped from its secure perch to plummet to the moldy forest floor below.

“Heavens, John,” I said. “What did you give that poor soul?”

“I call it my Autumn Drink,” he said. “One sip, you turn colors and fall.”

I meditated on that for a moment. “John,” I said, “I hate to change the subject, but what is an allegory?”

John shrugged. “I don’t have a clue.”

I don’t remember what the given prompt was for this short, but I do remember it was fun:

“I didn’t think you were serious,” she said. “There are several reasons why time travel is not a good idea, and I’m surprised that I have to reiterate them to you. Paradoxes are the dilemma of not knowing whether time is malleable or rigid, the possible annihilation of self, and the possibility of breaking the linear nature of time and turning it into a loop. One does not dabble in affairs best left to God.”

I gritted my teeth and tried to remain calm. “That is all well and good,” I retorted, “but as always, my dear, your warnings always come in hindsight. Too little, too late, you might say.”

Outside the narrow cave entrance where we had taken refuge, we watched the tyrannosaurus as it continued to turn our time machine into rubble.

Again, I am trying to remember the prompt and the time ran out before I could finish the story. However, I include it here for your amusement.

It is said that there are realities that humanity was never meant to know, and for those who knew him, Terry Magee knew half a dozen. Once every Saturday evening, members of the Fox and Hare would gather around one of the oaken tables and over large mugs of everyone’s chosen beverage—nonalcoholic as everybody there was a teetotaler—Terry would regale us with one of his adventures.

“I remember back in my ill-spent youth, I served as first mate onboard a three-masted schooner dubbed the Ruptured Duck, a name that is a story in itself. We were bound for the Hebrides and had to take the treacherous waters around Cape Fear. It is said the waves there can surmount Big Ben, and the tides are faster than the intestinal agony of those who have eaten my great-aunt’s meat pasties, but the greatest danger”... here he paused for dramatic effect “... are the mermaids. Now, what any red-blooded man can see in a woman who is half fish is beyond me, but many a hardened sailor has thrown himself overboard from hearing the dulcet tones of a choir of mermaids singing He Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog.

“As we made our way through the treacherous waters ...”

As you may have perceived in the stories above, I enjoy picking on fellow group members, and I trust they’ll consider the source and respond with pity. Again, I have no idea what the prompt could have been.

Stephen Hensel is a Jack of all Trades, a fascinating individual who is a treat to talk to about any subject. John Walker is an ordained pastor writing a genuinely chilling horror tale.

“It is said, Reverend Walker, that there are things that a man was never meant to know,” Stephen Hensel said. “And I know at least three of them.”

“Ah,” John Walker replied, “but as a man of the cloth, I know at least four.”

“But what does your knowledge gain you?” Stephen snorted. “Can you craft the full moon’s light into beasts of legend? Can you cast the illusion of life on a figure made from sticks? Can you convince a person the reality of a dream?”

John smiled. “All that and more. I do not mean to brag ..”

“Too late,” Stephen interrupted.

“...But,” John continued, ignoring the insult, “I can mesmerize a crowd by merely speaking, a feat I perform on the first day of the week without fail. Not only that, but I can make food from a potluck dinner look, smell, and taste palatable by merely the power of suggestion in the form of a prayer of grace.”

“Ah,” Stephen said with a smile, “” but I have yet to reveal my most extraordinary feat of legerdemain ...”

Suddenly, the two men were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a third. “Lights out, gentleman, but first, your medications. Then sleepy time for all patients.”

“But,” Stephen pouted, “we were first promised ice cream.”

I have always been fascinated with cryptids, especially the canine version, whether they be called werewolves, dogmen, lycans, or spectral canines. Needless to say, they sneak into my writing quite often, and my writer’s group is very patient with my obsession. 

My wife was furious when I walked through the front door.

“It followed me home, hon. Can I keep it?”

“No!” she sputtered. “A dogman? What are you going to do with a dogman?”

“Well, it seems to have latched onto my pants leg, and I think it likes me.” I shook my foot, and it growled, never releasing its fangs from Levi’s.

“No!” She said adamantly. “I refuse. What if it bites one of the kids? Is it even housebroken?”

“Look,” I said, “it seems to be well-behaved. Let’s try it for a few days and see.”

That was eleven months ago, and I regret I didn’t acquire a dogman but a dog woman. Now we have five of the little ankle-biters running amuck. If anybody wants one, they’re adorable, have had all their shots, and are free.

If you have enjoyed my foray into writing, you can read more of my insanity in the links below. Not all of it is humor, and I have dabbled in dark fantasy romance (with a body count), science fiction, and horror. Enjoy.

• Amazon U.S.
• Amazon Canada
• Amazon UK

I Have Found My Treasure!

After years of searching, I found my genuine desire: an all-metal, manual pencil sharpener. I have destroyed numerous cheap plastic imitations that adhered to a flat surface with a suction cup and burned out countless electric pencil sharpeners.

Mock me if you will, but I sneer at mechanical pencils that gouge the paper and snap off the lead with the slightest pressure. Alone, I am the last person on this planet who uses #2 pencils. 

I have found my Precious. Leave me content in my cave while I scribble out riddles on cheap pads of yellow paper.