Guess I'm bloody well stuck with these cunts, aren't I? Weirdest thing, though, ever since that time I was out, been having strange flashes of memories come back. Like the flashbacks, but not as intense, and not as terrifying. I see bizarre buildings and great cone-shaped things, moving about, writing on these stone tablets like the Ten Commandments. I never see 'em clear-like, so I can't give a good description, but they're definitely not human. They're aliens. I was hijacked by aliens, and for all I know, they did something real weird to me. If anything bizarre happens to my body, I'll let you know, but until then, all I have are occasional memories of weird shit and a feeling that something bad happened.
The others filled me in about Port Hedland, Darwin, and what happened between the time I'd been out of commission. They also tell me I made some blackfellas on the train nervous, and I saw for myself when we headed down to the train station to board for Cuncudgerie. They were shying away, acting like I was some sort of big important businessman or something. "They think you're a god," McCloud said, and that was enough for me to feel damn put out. Even more so than that, my mate Bradford got some sort of telegram. Some little larrikin come up at the station, tells him he had a message, and when Bradford opened it and read it, an odd look crossed his face, followed by one of vague nostalgia.
"S'my uncle, Jack Ramsey," he said, "Wants me to stop by for tea in Yirrimburra, not far from here. Maybe four hours by train. Shouldn't be too long of a visit, and hell, I haven't seen the bloke in ages... bit of a black sheep, him."
We agreed to accompany Bradford on his little family visit. Might give me an excuse to get some of my memory back, I thought, and besides, Cuncudgerie could wait a while, couldn't it? So, we boarded the train for the tiny mining town of Yirrimburra - I didn't even know we had such a town round these parts, but the Outback is full of little villages and that - and off we went. It was a fairly smooth ride, no transfers or anything, but them blackfella workers sure did keep a wide berth from me during the trip. I just hope I didn't do anything too rash, or hurt anyone... from what the others say, I was mostly speaking weird and acting funny, but one can't ever be too careful, can they?
Did I mention Yirrimburra's tiny? Yirrimburra's tiny, smallest rural village this side of the black stump, I'd wager. We got off around 6:45 in the evening, just in time for the sunset. According to Bradford, Jack was supposed to pick us up, but for some reason he wasn't there. Nobody came, and we waited for hours.
"Your uncle normally late?" I asked Bradford.
"Nah, he can be a bit late for things," he explained, "But never like this... He makes a promise, he keeps it."
Eventually, we realized we weren't going to be meeting Jack any time soon, and went looking to one of the only places we could think of for help - the local pub. The Yirrimburran Arms it was called, I think, and all I can tell you is it had good, cheap pints and a nice friendly atmosphere, could be a popular spot if it were in any other town. The barmaid, Florrie, she's a sweet gal, and was kind enough to help us out with our problem. She called over a big man with a red beard, some bloke named Mick, and he offered to drive us up to Jack's place. So, into this bloke's rusted Ford truck we got, and off we rattled into the farmland nearby as the sun sunk below the horizon.
"Awful small town," the American bloke said, peering out the grimy windows.
"Small, and getting smaller," Mick replied, focusing on the dirt road before him. "I'm not sure how much you all heard back at the pub, but unfortunately, death's on this town's mind... We lost two of our founders this month, Jim Trent and my own pa, Ted Keelor."
"That's awful, sorry to hear that, mate." I glanced at him, confused as to why he'd even bring something that morbid up. "What of?"
"Well that's just it. They don't know."
Now it was everyone else's turn to be confused. Mick noticed, and elaborated.
"Well, you see... they found 'em in bed, looking like the Devil Himself spooked 'em. They said death was by heart attack, but I've never heard of no one dying of a heart attack looking like that. And that's not the only thing, either - my pa, he was having awful nightmares. I took care of him in the final days, and he would wake up screaming... saying something was after him. I've heard rumors from Trent's boys that he had a similar problem with sleep, and now there's rumors the mayor, Fred MacKenzie, is having nightmares, too."
We looked to each other suspiciously, half-suspecting something unnatural was up, but said nothing as Mick continued.
"As if that's not enough, three months earlier Peter MacGuire, the gold mine foreman, he died in a terrible cave-in in the lower level of the mine. Poor blighter suffocated to death under tons of rocks. Too much death to be a coincidence, if you ask me - everything in Yirrimburra seems to be drying up and dying... the mill was closed recently, people have been moving out. There haven't even been any Abos near here for years now, not even out on the fringes, so you know the land must be bad. The cows give sour milk and sheep spook too easily, and when you get up at night to pour yourself a cuppa, calm your nerves... you can't help but look out at those hills out there, wonder if they're not coming to claim this place back for themselves..."
An uneasy silence fell over the cab, and a long minute passed before Mick turned onto another dirt road encircled by eucalyptus and patches of farmland. The old truck rumbled up the dirt road, red dust spewing behind its tires in clouds and the sound of kookaburras calling in the night behind it. Soon, we stopped before a small farmhouse and a quaint iron gate.
"This is the place, Jack's farm," he said, glancing to us. "I'm awful worried about him, he's known for tardiness, but not outright lateness... You find out anything, you can come see me down at the mine tomorrow. See you later."
Out we got, saying our goodbyes as the beat-up vehicle left us alone in the dark. The farmhouse's gate was locked, but fairly easily picked open, and dogs set up barking as we entered the premises... yet nobody came to check or wave us off. There was a single light on in one of the windows, covered by red curtains in what seemed to be a kitchen. When we knocked, nobody came to the door, and when we tried to open it, it was locked.
"Wait," the blackfella said, getting an idea. "Before we do anything, let us try the other door around back..."
We agreed that was best, and both he and the German, along with McCloud, went around back. It was around this time my mate Bradford got an odd feeling, and checked in the window nearby.
"Hang on a tic," He murmured, pulling away. "Come have a look at this, you..."
I peeked inside, and there found we'd literally dodged a bullet - a well-tended shotgun was aimed at the door, propped up on a kitchen chair and with a string around the trigger tied to the doorknob. Had we opened it, the trap would have easily gone off and we might both be dead.
"Your uncle liked his privacy, eh?" I joked, smirking.
"Oh, sod off, Neville," he replied, waiting for the others to return.
And return they did, or at least the blackfella did, motioning us to come around back. We followed, and found McCloud and the German struggling with the door, which they'd gotten crackled open slightly.
"Something is blocking it," the German said, so we added our weight to it and the door finally pushed open. Something was indeed blocking it - a load of furniture, probably all the furniture in the whole house, I'd reckon. Climbing over it proved awkward, and as we explored the house we found it nearly empty. The lone light we'd seen flickering was from a nearly burnt-out stub of a candle, sat on a kitchen table barren of chairs (they were blocking the door and holding that shotgun, I suppose). This we expected, since Bradford had said his uncle was a black sheep type.
What we didn't expect was for the American to run off into the lone bedroom, and then to hear them cry out in alarm five seconds later.
"Uh, Lucas?!" He half-shouted, voice tinged with dread. "You might wanna get in here!"
We rushed in, only to find out too late why Jack Ramsey had not picked us up from the station. He was lying on his bed, face and body twisted in absolute terror, a silent scream frozen onto his features and a piece of paper clutched in his hand. He was stone cold dead, and had been for hours judging by the rigor mortis. My mate stood in shock, horrified, trying to correlate how this had happened and why, face pale as a sheet as stark realization hit him. It faded to a profound sadness, but it was nothing compared to the letter he shakily retrieved from his late uncle's hand, reading aloud while trying to hold back his sorrow.
I think it will end tonight; it nearly had me last night.
The farm is yours now.
I am truly sorry this is not a proper legal paper, but there is no time.
Besides, a man's word should always be honored.
Please, send my darling sister my love.
God bless her, she was the only one I missed... and I missed her so much.
I was about to see her child, my kin, after all these long years.
It seems a long time wasn't quite long enough.
The past has come back to us.
I always knew it would, but I'd hoped we'd buried it deep enough.
It's been a long while, after all.
It seems, however, that time never really mattered, did it?
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
- Jack Ramsey
"Well, allow me to look at the man, then," the German offered, stepping forth with his doctor's bag. "I might be able to tell what happened..."
We left, allowing the doctor to do his dark work, and attempting to comfort Lucas as best we could. There was a phone in the kitchen, so I rung the police. When we explained there'd been a death we'd found, they promised they'd be over right away, though it was still several hours before they finally arrived - that's how tiny this little town is, it has its own constabulary and it still took hours for them to get here. When they did, they brought a small entourage, though, and they demanded to interview us and to take a look at the body themselves as the German - Ludwig, I think his name is, but who bloody cares? - clinically explained his findings to the bristle-mustached constable.
"You see, the symptoms are reminiscent of myocardial infarction, yes," he said, "But they are very atypical. I would need to perform an autopsy to be certain. Perhaps, with your morgue's permission, I can aid the coroner?"
"I don't see why not, you have the legal title," the man, whom we later learned was one Constable Wise, replied. "Come down to the station with us tonight, maybe you can figure something out about the other corpses... They were found in similar states."
It was during all this commotion that another man entered, this one a slick-looking, well-dressed bloke, who introduced himself as Fred MacKenzie, the mayor and first founder of Yirrimburra. He apologized for my mate's loss, and explained he would ensure a proper funeral was held first thing in the morning, but seemed concerned about something. We questioned him and told him a bit about ourselves, and he seemed a nice enough bloke. Then he brought up his concern, and to say it caught our attention would be an understatement.
"I hate to burden you with this," he apologized, "But you seem a clever sort and you did say you were looking for work. I'm in great need of information about the demise of my good friend, Peter MacGregor. I'm sure you've heard from the townspeople by now, but what troubles me is he had confided to me before his death that he suspected robbers in his gold mine. I'm not entirely unsure that he wasn't perhaps murdered by those robbers, and I would be willing to pay for any information regarding it. More if you could apprehend the people responsible... Does this sound like a feasible opportunity? I understand if you say no..."
Well, I need the cash, my mate needs the cash, and as for the others they didn't want to leave a man in distress without any help at all. So, we took the job as freelancers, and agreed to meet him at his house the next day to discuss the leads he had. He was even kind enough to set us up in the boarding house for the next few nights while we looked into the case, getting us a private room up top and brekkie every morning. Couldn't bitch about that, so we settled in while the German left to do his autopsy.
It was around half past 10 PM when there was a knock on the door. "Room service," a local voice said cheerfully, so we answered. He was a tall, fair-skinned little blighter, couldn't have been more than about 18 and was wearing one of those red bellhop uniforms. He carried a tray with cups and a teapot, sugar, and lemon wedges, setting it down on a side table.
"Who are you?" McCloud asked, a nervous look crossing his features. Couldn't fathom why, but his blackfella mate was looking nervous too behind those wrappings of his.
"Noah, sir. Noah Prattley," the bellhop said, smiling gently and bowing slightly. "One of your friends said I should bring this up for you lot, the fellow over in Room 214. I think his name's Alton Payther? Some blackfella from America, says he's a friend of MacKenzie's."
"Oh, well how nice of him, we'll have to thank him," I responded, but then I noticed McCloud's scared look. I don't know why on earth he would be so scared of a gift, but he refused to go thank the man for the tea. Typical rude Americans. Off we went to thank this Alton bloke, and of course we found him - a well-off looking black American bloke, rather handsome and well-groomed. He was more than happy to speak with us, and explained he traveled often out of personal interest. This fascinated me, as I'd never been out of the country and to be honest, have never planned to.
"Oh really?" Payther queried, his eyes glimmering with what might have been intrigue and amusement. "You really should... I'm particularly fond of Cairo myself. Why, the Pyramids of Giza simply must be seen to be believed! If you ever do go, you really should see them, especially the Bent Pyramid from inside. I assure you, the experience is... quite a thrilling one."
He smiled, and then Bradford got a strange look on his face, followed quickly by one of dread. This bothered the German, who left at this point. Something wasn't right, and I had no idea what, and it was bothering me. But what troubled me even more was when we returned to our room, and found McCloud and the German pointing guns at the door and looking nervous.
"What the bloody fuck?" I responded, hands up. "Have you gone yarra?!"
"He's not who you think he is," McCloud responded, dropping his gun suddenly. "Neither of them are. Anagram the names, you'll see."
"What are you even talking about?"
"Shut up, get in here, and lock the door - now. We have a lot to tell you..."
"Hell if I will, you right loony! What, a bellhop comes in, brings us tea, tells us the cunt next door sent it up as a nice gesture, and you panic? You've got 'roos in the top paddock, mate, you really do. We ought to -"
"Neville?" Bradford said sharply, and I turned to him irritably. "That man's teeth, they weren't normal. They were like a shark's, and his eyes were like voids. You must not have been paying attention, but I saw it, alright, and so did Ludwig over there. The American's right, it's not what it seems. Besides... didn't it ever occur to you that boardinghouses don't have bellhops?"
The sudden shock caught up to me then at my mistake, and I felt a chill run down my back, but was unsure why. Then I had a strange thought, one I couldn't help but give voice to.
"... Sand-Bat?" I asked, and the others looked to me grimly.
"That's one name for him," McCloud confirmed. "Just one. We saw it in Shanghai. Our informant, Clayton, saw it in Cairo. And as far as we know, it's got a more proper name. Something like Nar-ru-lut-hotep, at least that's what Clayton told me."
My mind reeled. I'm not sure what came over me, but it was like another flashback. I was in a library, one like from the earlier flashbacks, lined stem to stern with shelves, and I was reading from a strange tablet I pulled off the shelf. Glyphs glowed on it and moved in an inherent spiral, glyphs I somehow understood, and that name... that name came to me. I read and read, my horror growing as I did, and realized the vastness of the information. It was a being of chaos. A being of madness and despair. A being of multiple forms I heretofore only knew as Sand-Bat. And over and over, repeated on that tablet, that name that chilled my core. Nyarlathotep. Nyarlathotep. Nyarlathotep...
The vision ended as quickly as it came, and my hands trembled, palms slick with sweat. I looked to the others with fear, and my mate Bradford had a similar look to him.
"You have a lot to learn about, boys," was all McCloud would say.
For once, I agree with him. There's too much weird shit going on. I'm not sure if I'm going mad or if there really is something deeper here. The others certainly aren't explaining much, only that there's some sort of global cult conspiracy involving this being. Part of me wants to know more, to stop it, but I think that part of me, the less human, primal part of me, already knows it can't be stopped. Not really. I think this is only going to end with one outcome. Either I die, or I'm the only one alive. I just hope to all bloody fuck I don't end up dying in a tiny place like Yirrimburra. I guess that's for tomorrow to tell, though.
God, I'm really not looking forward to any of tomorrow, at all.
-- Neville Harris, Questioning Everything (June 18th, 1928)