When I first dreamt that
I would pay a visit and stay with my former friend, Doom, my mind
had been ‘cloaked’ to the extent I felt no cause for alarm. In fact
I found the whole idea most amusing. It was only later the next day,
taken by idle reflection upon my previous night’s subconscious wanderings,
that I realised it was not a good sign for one to dream so vividly
that a visit (and stay!) with a person who had been dead for almost
thirteen years was suddenly on the cards. The information concerning
this forthcoming visit had been imparted to me, I recounted, by way
of a voice which whispered sharply in authoritative fashion, informing
me that my ‘friend’ Doom had gone on to take several metaphysical
steps forward since we had last met, and would now like to
demonstrate them.
The voice that had spoken
(or whispered) to me, had done so while I had been enveloped in total
darkness, yet somehow I had known that I was within a cold room with
no doors or windows. This, of course, ventures the question as to
how I had entered inside, but the absence of logic within the dreamstate
is widely known, and deeper study will most certainly find it replaced
with various forms of symbolism. Nevertheless, my memory of this peculiar
incident within the subconscious had the effect that I felt not unlike
I had been abducted. Had part of me not been taken from a state of
peaceful sleep and planted elsewhere against my will? There
was no denying that some element of my subconscious had been sown
like a seed in the dark, and that it would now continue to grow rapidly
towards the time when my visit to Doom would take place. Not surprisingly,
the following days saw the ‘cloak’ that had so successfully shrouded
certain areas of my mind, begin to melt away and reveal the imminent
danger I was in.
***
Doom’s house, I now recalled,
had remained empty since his sudden death thirteen years previously.
This had been incorporated as an integral part of his will in regard
to the preparation for the occupancy of the main benefactor. The complexity
of this arrangement would be simplified by the natural passing of
the years, his will had stated, and although this was not the usual
procedure, the chosen one would then find himself taking up residency
without the least objection expected from any other acquaintances
of the departed.
Although Doom had never
denied to us that he occupied the house, the fact there was no obvious
door to make entrance and exit by caused yet more feeling that the
building had been purposely constructed to defy convention. When questioned
about this, Doom replied that he made entrance through the mouth
of the house, as he enjoyed the thought of the house consuming him
both mentally and physically. This process, he claimed, brought about
a constant updating of knowledge, allowing a form of mental replication
to take place within the brain of the construction. Despite his words
of explanation, no-one ever saw Doom enter or leave the house, and
so a general sense of distrust continued to grow.
The exact reason why
the house should remain empty for thirteen long years after his death
was never made clear to us in his will, although I had always believed
its appearance and inner workings played some vital but surreptitious
role in the scheme of things. The house itself (known to all as Nightmare
House) was almost as bizarre in its appearance now as it had been
during Doom’s living years. Thirteen days after Doom’s funeral, every
inch of it had been covered by a black leather-like ‘mask’ that purposely
obscured its skull inspired features. I must confess that a certain
quality of unease was still present each time I looked at it, yet
that was nothing compared to the quality of fear its visage had caused
people before this ‘masking’ had taken place. At the same time I am
quite sure the appearance of the house was not so much the instigator
of the panic people felt, just the fact they knew what it was capable
of.
Even now, on those few
occasions when unwary people had wondered close to the house, they
had reported sensations of unaccountable alarm accompanied by a form
of numbness throughout their limbs, almost as though its dormant force,
becoming aware of their nearness, sought some way to reach out to
them. Other people who had known Doom in his living years continued
to reminisce about his strange ways, or even attempted their own transcendent
‘autopsies’ of his mind. Dr. Vern, in particular, remained fascinated
by the many forms of mental disease Doom had maintained afflicted
him. He admitted to me that the in-depth talks they had occasionally
held at his cottage (and which had mostly continued half the night)
very often stretched his own comprehension when they concerned Doom’s
theories relating to spiritual destruction and the constitution of
Nightmare.
"What Doom really
tried to convey to me," Dr. Vern had once said, "was certain
advantages he believed could be brought about only by siphoning all
the intelligence and needless reactionary emotion from the human mind.
If the intelligence of a million men could be dispatched to a chosen
processor; if those minds could be cleansed of what he termed their
parasitic infestations before budding into life once
more, then he believed we’d be in a position to delve deeper and explore
new levels of mental and spiritual attunement."
It was clear that Dr.
Vern still mourned the passing of Doom, at least in the sense that
he could now never hope to decipher the formula needed to transcend
his own limited capability of effectual thought. Yet I, who had been
tuned into Doom’s way of thinking to a much greater extent, saw how
fortunate the doctor’s lack of understanding had been for him. Despite
this, I had grown wary of Dr. Vern and his enthusiasm for understanding
the mind and doctrine of Doom.
***
A few nights after my
first nightmare I fell victim to another of equal potency. I dreamt,
with a terrible certainty, that my mind was being tampered with; that
my thought-patterns were being skilfully directed to new areas that
would somehow endanger my own sanity. Sweating profusely, I awoke
in a state of desperate terror and remained sobbing into my pillow
until my nocturnal distress eventually dissipated. Rising up from
my bed, I walked through the darkness of my room to the window. Above
and beyond the streetlights of town I saw Nightmare House, its masked
outline appeared ominous against the moonlight as it stood high on
Grieves Hill. The eyes of the house, just like the dead eyes of Doom
himself, were now filled with darkness, and thus could turn only inward
to explore new avenues of atonement for all the ‘disabilities’ that
‘life’ had once caused it.
As I stood looking at
that forbidding construction, my thoughts travelled back to the time
it had seemed as much alive as its own creator. Its ‘inner workings’
had made it feared by every occupant in the town, for even then its
stored intelligence, created only to adhere to the mad schemes and
radical ideas of Doom’s living brain, had sought to reach out and
examine, manipulate and redirect, all the instances of human life
its artificial eyes ever gazed upon.
Always during the small
hours of night was the fear of the townsfolk at its greatest, for
this was when the top floor of the house, that which everyone knew
to contain the actual ‘brain’ of the building, began to seek out its
victims. I remembered how the area representing the forehead, that
which Doom had instructed to be fashioned from a new form of transparent
building material, would suddenly light up in the dark with vicious
flurries of green static. I thought of how the frontal lobe would
then glow a deep crimson, and outward from the eyes of Nightmare House
would shine what Doom referred to as its ‘soul lights’. These two
beams of intensely bright white light would then illuminate their
selected prey, immediately causing a total paralysis of body that
would last precisely thirteen seconds.
As Doom always maintained
that the ‘examinations’ which took place were completely harmless,
and since those unwise enough to be outdoors at that time of night
were mostly homeless vagrants, drug addicts, drink-addled youths,
or any others divorced from the realm of respectability, this was
said to be enough to make the anti-social behaviour of the house tolerable.
Some people, I remember, even went so far as to say that Doom’s nightmarish
creation was doing a better job of controlling the town’s undesirables
than any usual form of policing could ever do. But the top and bottom
of the matter was that the town’s respectable populace, being thoroughly
united by their mutual fear, were receiving as one the subliminal
warnings transmitted each night directly into their unconsciousness
by the brain of Nightmare House. Deep down they knew exactly what
the house was capable of, and they knew they were utterly helpless
before it.
On one occasion, I remember,
I went so far as to question Doom about the methods and ethics the
house had recently employed. Instantly his face clouded and he became
annoyed that I had even broached the subject. Yet despite his aversion,
he did go on to mention something he referred to as the constitution
of the inner eye, which from what I could gather was no less than
the unfolding principles of a brain within a brain. "The Inner
Eye," he tried to explain, "is in one way an intelligent
receptacle crafted to store knowledge by gathering more than just
cold data. At present it is a rapidly growing infant that constantly
craves to be like me. It also worships me like a God. If in its development
it shows an interest in minds other than mine, then what more is it
doing than acting as I do?"
The nocturnal activities
of Nightmare House were then to take on a more disturbing aspect still,
when Mrs. Herm, the owner of Carnic guesthouse, claimed that several
out-of-towners staying with her had complained about bright lights
penetrating the curtains of their rooms, causing them to experience
blinding migraines and even blackout. Mrs. Herm, not wanting to lose
future custom, had listened to all their complaints with a sympathetic
ear. Each one, she said, had confided in her that they felt an acute
sense of loss, as though they had somehow been metaphysically mugged
by an intrusive power that worked to a hidden agenda. One man, by
the name of Hoyle, was a research scientist for a company manufacturing
certain ‘heuristic’ building materials. Doctor Hoyle, as he was often
called, had put it best when he said that his brain felt akin to a
book which had had every page photocopied or scanned, and the resultant
information then siphoned to a place of storage and careful
dissection. This turned out to be the only time that Dr. Hoyle ever
visited Carnic guesthouse, and though he had come to see for himself
the innovative materials that Nightmare House was said to be built
of, he had left without doing so.
"It’s as though
my whole reason for being here has been turned around," he told
Mrs Herm, upon leaving. "As if my knowledge and expertise has
been shrewdly built upon by some other form of intelligence rather
than my own, and to stay here any longer would force allegiance to
a doctrine endangering more than my own sanity."
Shortly before Doom’s
sudden death, it was noticed that many of those who had undergone
‘examination’ by Nightmare House, had begun to exhibit mental afflictions
identical or similar to the ones he had, or at least claimed he had.
Most noticeable of all were those vagrants who frequented park benches.
Each one, it was noted, had shaved their head as though purposely
mirroring Doom’s own hairless appearance. When questioned about this,
they would reply that it was in order to ‘deflect the infestations
of life’ which just happened to be the very phrase that Doom had used
on many occasions. In retrospect it seems beyond belief that such
a ludicrous action didn’t attract ridicule from the respectable townsfolk,
and that mere vagrants were referred to as ‘Doom’s Disciples’ not
in mockery, but as a dangerous group to avoid at all costs.
My initial friendship
with Doom, which was inspired by our similar bleak outlooks on life,
had caused many to quietly classify us as being ‘brothers’ of morbidity.
Admittedly it must have looked that way to most people, but what they
couldn’t see was the silent enthusiasm that touched
us both while experiencing together a state of prolonged cogitation.
Nor did they know of our zest for future life of a different kind,
and the possible advantages to be gained by misplaced or redirected
thought. There was no doubt that our two minds working in complete
unification would soon develop the potential to stretch or destroy
barriers which had before prevented complete spiritual replication,
or even a controlled form of rebirth. Yet as the months passed by,
my close friendship with Doom began to sour. I began to realise just
how much of a puppet I was to him -- how all ‘our’ thoughts and plans
were in effect only so much ‘grooming’ of my own mind.
Doom’s process of mind
manipulation was, I realised, aimed at carrying us both far beyond
the boundaries of ordinary reason and into highly contagious areas
that would purposely spread his will like a most virulent brain disease.
For the first time I saw how he had successfully ‘milked’ the inherent
qualities of misfortune, and how he would undoubtedly go on to redirect
that most potent force if his need ever required. My mind cleared
and continued to focus until I realised the innate danger of Nightmare
House, and how its regular night work as Doom’s proxy was in fact
a subtle form of transposition which would ultimately unbalance and
seek to nullify the whole town.
Late one evening, Doom
turned up at my house in a highly agitated state. Evidently he had
looked deep into my mind and found out that I no longer complied to
his dark ideals and manipulative mode of thought. For what seemed
like hours he spoke to me of his many concerns relating to the corruptive
influences of morality, then went on to warn of the dire consequences
which would be brought about by a negligence of real importance.
Yet the longer Doom spoke to me, the more certain I became that he
was utterly mad, and that I had been weak and foolish to be swayed
so easily by one so obviously deranged.
When I eventually told
Doom to leave my abode and never again return, his pale face instantly
transformed to an expression of hatred. Yet within seconds he had
complied with my wishes, storming from my house into the night, never
slackening in his pace as he walked defiantly in the direction of
Grieves Hill. Despite all this, I still felt compelled to observe
his progress, and so remained gazing after him until his small form
blended fully with the darkness of night. It was at this time when
the situation suddenly became clear to me, and in that instant I knew
he intended to utilise the full power of Nightmare House as an irresistible
way to manipulate my mind. Unfortunately, Doom’s brain must have then
been akin to an arena of chaotic thoughts and hatred so far removed
from its usual state as to make his thought-process totally unidentifiable
by any form of artificial brain mechanism.
As I remained gazing
into the darkness hanging over Grieves Hill, my pulse rate quickened
as I waited for what I knew was about to happen. Unlike Doom, I was
not surprised when I saw the brain of Nightmare House light up with
those green forks of vicious static, or when the frontal lobe of its
brain began to glow such a dangerous crimson. Nor was I alarmed when
I saw the white ‘soul lights’ of the house shine outward through those
eyeless cavities and freeze Doom in their glare; or when, before thirteen
seconds were through, he fell to the ground like a stone.
***
Although it was certainly
noticed and attracted some attention, the body of Doom remained on
Grieves Hill until midway through the next day. This was not due to
any sort of attempt to determine the cause of death, but rather the
fact that people remained afraid of being anywhere in close proximity,
even though the body was unmoving and showed no sign of life. Some
argued that physical stillness was a possible indication that the
brain of Doom was actually involved in deep meditation, and so remained
at its most dangerous. Others conjectured that he may have entered
a comatose state, and if so it was highly likely he had established
a stronger link with Nightmare House than ever before.
Only after news of Doom’s
‘condition’ reached Dr. Vern would people finally accept the truth
of the matter. Following a thorough examination of the body, the doctor
went on to confirm that death had probably occurred through heart
failure due to severe mental stress and sudden shock. Even though
he didn’t address me directly while imparting this information, something
in the doctor’s tone made it clear that he suspected the involvement
of another, and the fact that I was one of Doom’s few social acquaintances
did me no favours. From that time on I never fully trusted Dr. Vern,
especially when I saw the ease with which he instructed Doom’s shaven-headed
disciples to carry their mentor’s body to the Holbrook Cemetery. I
also took note that the doctor went on to direct the disciples in
the building of Doom’s tomb, and the application he made to Reverend
Cline for this to take place in a newly acquired area of consecrated
ground (on a hill beyond the main churchyard) was granted without
hesitation.
The tomb itself, which
was built from grey gritstone rocks, was in fact a crude attempt to
resemble the skull-inspired visage of Nightmare House. The exception
to this was a cavity representing a mouth, which was left open in
such a way as to allow Doom’s coffin to be easily slid within. One
week after his death, I stood in pouring rain among the other ‘mourners’
at Holbrook Cemetery to witness the funeral of my former friend. No
doubt the respectable townsfolk that showed up did so only to reassure
themselves they had seen the last of Doom, and that no remarkable
resurrection would take place before his body was sealed securely
inside the tomb that resembled the skull-inspired visage of Nightmare
House.
As rain fell from those
heavy grey skies that morning, I thought back to how Doom and I had
often discussed the insignificance of the physical body, and how on
many occasions he had explained that the unification of his thoughts
with another of equal potential would eventually lead to the door
which opened upon hitherto unknown metaphysical dimensions. At that
time, my mind had known only a feverish excitement causing me to hope
with all my heart that the discarnate advances we continued to make
would one day lead to such a state being attainable. How very different
my views and hopes were now as I watched the absurd spectacle of Doom’s
Disciples carrying that small coffin of his upon their shoulders.
During the time when
Reverend Cline spoke his holy words and the rain fell from those heavy
grey skies, I took note that the face of Doom’s tomb had been positioned
to look away from Holbrook Church. Instead, its purposely chosen position
high on that newly acquired area of consecrated ground, allowed its
gaze to travel straight over the town and directly towards the grim
visage of Nightmare House.
***
In the days immediately
following the funeral of Doom, a tremendous sense of foreboding was
experienced by the respectable populace of the town. How would the
artificial brain of Nightmare House react when it realised it could
no longer link with its own creator? The fact that it was now a free
agent placed an incredible amount of destructive power at its disposal,
and if the house should happen to conclude that it had failed to recognise,
and so gone on to nullify the form of intelligence it had classified
as God, then surely it would be seized by utter madness.
For a week after the
death of Doom the house remained inactive, the transparent forehead
never lighting at night, and the white soul lights never reaching
out to stun and ‘examine’ any of the town’s undesirables. Admittedly
one or two hopeful theories did surface: the house, realising its
mistake, had rendered itself useless or entered a permanently comatose
state. But for the most part the general feeling remained that something
dreadful, or at least something unprecedented, was about to occur.
During this period of
time it was noticed that Doom’s Disciples remained under the leadership
of Dr. Vern. They had retreated to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts
of town, it was said, and were now carrying out Doom’s final wishes,
which they claimed to have received after his physical death.
The warehouse in question had, over the years, offered storage to
many different types of goods, including large quantities of newly
created textiles which would be allocated to certain remote towns
beyond the border. With the eventual abandonment of the building,
which was attributed to what some mysteriously referred to as a
series of future hauntings, it became known as a place to be avoided
at all costs, then quickly fell into a state of disuse and neglect.
The ‘style’ of haunting
said to take place in the warehouse was unlike any other ever documented.
It was claimed that each day a different member of the workforce would
suddenly experience violent migraine, and this continuing to such
a time when temporary blindness was suffered. At this point the man
affected would begin to scream, not because of the shock induced by
losing his sight, but by the sensation of what was termed a metaphysical
hood being draped over his head. The feeling of entrapment which
then followed would continue for precisely thirteen seconds, while
in that time the blind eyes of the man currently undergoing this process
would be made to see a future vision of his own dead self.
In exact contrast to
the former workforce and the fear held by the town’s occupants, Doom’s
Disciples seemed to relish the chance to work within the warehouse.
They were certain this was the right place to carry out Doom’s final
wishes.
***
When darkness fell on
the thirteenth night after the funeral of Doom, the structure of Nightmare
House showed renewed signs of activity. Although it has never been
properly verified, a small number of the townsfolk claimed to have
first witnessed a blood-red glow in the eyes of the house, followed
by the slow opening of the mouth. What is certain is the quality
of sound that emanated from the structure. Described by many as a
soulless scream, its very essence was made worse by the fact it was
an emulation of sheer human grief and hatred.
The volume and intensity
of the scream carried through the very walls of the townsfolks’ houses
to cause pain deep within their helplessly receptive brains, while
those foolish enough to be caught outside at that time were afterwards
to mumble, in their wild-eyed madness, of the soul lights beaming
out towards the Holbrook Cemetery, and of the small fiery orb which
then travelled down one of those light beams as though held in the
grip of some powerful magnetism. The orb, it was said, was deposited
inside Nightmare House via the open mouth of the structure, almost
as though it had been eagerly devoured. But these were, of course,
the claims of just a few men now said to be gripped by insanity.
***
The following day a
small group of townsfolk paid a visit to the Holbrook Cemetery in
order to gain an understanding of the previous night’s happenings.
Once there, they found that the tomb so recently built by Doom’s Disciples
had been destroyed, with the gritstone rocks used for the construction
now scattered about the cemetery. These, they claimed, showed signs
of damage from intensive heat and violent explosion. The decaying
body of Doom had also not escaped unscathed, as the townsfolk saw
when they gazed upon its decapitated state. Despite many misgivings,
a thorough search of the cemetery was then made, although more a sense
of relief than disappointment was experienced when they came across
no sign of the head.
***
Later on that day, I
watched from my window as a small group of Doom’s Disciples walked
slowly in formation up Grieves Hill towards Nightmare House. At the
time I did not know it, but the folded black burden they carried between
them was that mask of preternatural design which they would soon cover
Doom’s entire house with. During the next hour I observed more of
Doom’s Shaven-headed disciples, this time being led to the scene by
Dr. Vern, and between them they carried four wooden ladders which
they proceeded to prop up against the house. The sky grew heavy and
dark as Dr. Vern then went about conducting, what was for him, a very
different kind of operation.
***
Raindrops blurred the
view through my window by the time the black leather-like mask had
been stretched over the grim features of Nightmare House. Nor was
it clear to me why such a bizarre action had been taken, or what the
eventual consequences would be of Dr. Vern following what he believed
to be instructions transmitted from beyond death by the still active
mind of Doom. Yet the act of masking Nightmare House in this way soon
gained the full approval of the townsfolk, especially when Dr. Vern
went on to make claims that the soul lights of the house would now
be contained. This, of course, proved to be true, and yet there is
no doubt in my mind that the brain of the house then sought to reach
its full potential by use of positive internal methods, and
of course time showed that it could still infiltrate the minds of
the townsfolk by the inward frequencies it possessed. In effect
the masking and the complete lack of distraction it had created was
exactly what the house wanted.
***
A few days later I received
a handwritten letter from Reverend Cline, stating that the body of
Doom, albeit found headless, had recently undergone private cremation
in Holbrook Cemetery. It was very much hoped, wrote the reverend,
that this action would help bring about an end to the tragic sequence
of events that had blighted the town so recently. The letter went
on to say that as a former friend of the departed, it would be very
much appreciated if I could attend Holbrook Cemetery at 8.p.m the
following evening for the reading of the will. Upon reaching this
part of the letter I was seized by sudden shock. It had never before
entered my head that Doom may have made a will at some point. This
was, perhaps, because his whole doctrine involved the continued manipulation
of life beyond death, initially via a form of acquired metaphysical
restoration rather than the absolute limitation of plotted thoughts.
***
As I entered through
the oaken doors of Holbrook Church the following evening, I was made
to pause by Dr. Vern, who whispered to me authoritatively that I should
sit beside him. Gazing through the overly dark and incense-scented
church, I noticed a small group of Doom’s Disciples occupying certain
pews, although no other townsfolk appeared to be anywhere present.
The face of Dr. Vern, even though lit only by vague lantern-light,
was noticeably pale and gaunt, and as he spoke to me in his cold,
whispered voice, I fell under the illusion that thin strands of darkness
were stealthily reaching out from all the gloomy, unlit areas of the
church interior, slyly attempting to fasten about his head.
His whispered words
continued to flow, informing me about the will of Doom, and how it
wasn’t the usual type of will at all, but had been ‘spoken’ into his
mind only after the physical death of my former friend had taken place.
"Such a will as
this is the first of its kind," whispered the doctor, "it
transcends the formerly hopeless void of death, correcting misdeeds
in the way a predefined will can never hope to."
"But why involve
a third party in the reading?" I asked.
"The delivery by
religious means is an act of balancing the scales, I think we all
know certain things have occurred that need to be put right..."
A vague movement in
the aisle over to our left put an end to the doctor’s whispered talk,
and after a few moments observation, I was able to make out the sight
of Reverend Cline as he walked towards the pulpit. Although my view
was very poor due to the dimness of the church interior, his movements
seemed abnormally jerky and artificial, reminding me somewhat of an
animated puppet. As he stepped into the yellow glow of the lanterns
that illuminated the pulpit, I was again taken by the illusion that
I saw thin strands of darkness occupying spaces they had no right
to. This time they appeared to have descended from directly above
their target and had already attached to his head, hands, and feet.
One of the strands lowered and hired as the reverend took a crumpled
piece of paper from his pocket, placed it on the lectern before him,
and in a voice that sounded dry and hoarse, began to read what was
allegedly a proxy copy of Doom’s cryptic will.
In the darkness
of a mind far beyond death, or with a billion icy words of vengeance,
I could not hope to portray the desire I have to see the Chosen One
take up residency inside Nightmare House. The spokes of misfortune
will whirl for thirteen years before the unlucky gaze of jealousy
green turns to the everlasting black of eternal death, and within
this period the vital preparation for admission shall take place with
growth springing from death. The end of this time shall simplify complexities
gained of present, and the Chosen One shall take up residency without
the least objection from those acquaintances of faithful allegiance.
Transition will come with the dreamer’s awareness of death, then immediately
will begin his dance to tunes of misfortune and misplaced thought,
an enforced partnership by reversion to how things should have been!
Forever and ever shall he sway only to the black seed of my will,
tainted by the corrosive breath of sin, held tightly in the loving
arms of Doom.
***
When the reverend had
made an end to the reading, his body appeared to freeze in the manner
of those affected by a sudden paralysis, while to my ears came a chorus
of imbecilic giggles from the area occupied by Doom’s Disciples. Although
Dr. Vern obviously realised there was something seriously wrong with
the reverend, he rose to his feet and walked towards him in a very
calm, almost unconcerned manner. For a few seconds I seemed to hear
the words, "There’s nothing at all I can do for him now,"
being whispered around inside my brain. As I rose to my feet and began
to leave the church, there came the soft touch of what felt like cobwebs
brushing against my face.
***
A few days later I was
told of the death of Reverend Cline, and how his naked body had been
found sprawled inside the Holbrook Cemetery, purposely burnt black
from the neck downwards. Although I had always suspected the reverend
to be under the influence of Dr Vern, I then conjectured he must have
maintained at least enough independence to deeply offend him by the
private, and probably even unannounced cremation, of Doom’s decapitated
body.
***
As the years went by
I seemed to become immune to the fear once generated by the threatening
tone and cryptic message of Doom’s will, instead falling prey to an
illogical form of unconcern which somehow transposed the actual
situation for me, purposely diminishing my tension as those thirteen
long years fell away. Yet then, so very late in the day, the veil
of restriction upon my mind suddenly lifted fully to reveal the eternal
fate that awaited me with stark clarity, and I knew the forthcoming
night was the thirteenth anniversary of Doom’s death.
***
It was during what I
took to be the middle of that night when I woke to find my bedroom
in total darkness. For a while I reached out and attempted to locate
my bedside lamp, but suddenly remembering I had left it switched on
and burning brightly, I became confused and worried. Seeking to reassure
myself, I lifted up my hands to touch my face -- to find only nothingness.
After a few seconds of rising panic I attempted to scream loudly,
but discovered that my voice was also non-existent.
Eventually I had the
notion that my death had occurred during the night, and so of course
I now existed, disembodied, inside Nightmare House. How long it took
me to arrive at this idea I do not know. There is no doubt that time
becomes incalculable when one cannot die or has already entered a
dead state, yet it seemed to me that my silent scream had continued
for years. How many more years this rational form of intelligence
and insanity would last was also beyond me, nor could I tell how long
it was before I had my first experience of floating along what seemed
to be a dark corridor of some sort.
Being drawn slowly along
against my will and by some force I could not detect, I grew even
more alarmed when I noticed, to my left and right, what appeared to
be rows of oval-shaped screens the size of a man’s head. Each one
of these, I saw, was trimmed around the circumference with emerald
light, while about them hovered tiny sparks of blood-red fire that
appeared to be under intelligent control, and so ignited in my mind
the theory they may actually be responsible for the continued maintenance
and ‘advancement’ of Nightmare House.
When I was moved further
along the corridor by floating to a will that was not my own, there
sprang into life above one oval-shaped screen, neon-lit letters that
held some forgotten meaning. As I was moved closer, the screen beneath
those letters suddenly glowed a deep green. At this same point in
time I was afforded the knowledge that this particular ‘monitor’ had
been assigned to me, and that the two neon-lit words floating
just above it formed the very name I was once known by. I now understood
that I had been directed, as one might say, to a prominent link with
my former existence. Although this had obviously been done with a
definite purpose in mind, I was still alarmed when my consciousness
plunged through that oval-shaped screen.
Beyond was a narrow tunnel
lit along its length by clusters of blood-red sparks, but this illumination
appeared to be more a guidance in the way to Hell than any usual form
of lighting. At the end of this tunnel, which seemed to me something
akin to the inner barrel of a telescope, I saw a pale object that
I could not properly focus on, and yet which evoked feelings of intense
interest and growing fear. At this same time came the sound of a scream
along the tunnel. Its origins were, without doubt, soulless, and instantly
brought my view into focus to the extent I then gazed in close-up
at the countenance of my own dead self. The mouth, I saw, had stretched
wide in terror, and so of course I envied myself that scream.
***
When I was next taken
along the corridor of oval-shaped screens by floating to a will that
was not my own, I was taken aback to find that each monitor had been
allocated its own neon-lit name. Many of these indicated people that
I found I now remembered, so created the distinct impression in me
that I was passing through a place of honourable memorial. Despite
this I had no desire to gaze into the corresponding screens beneath
those names, knowing perfectly well that their ulterior purpose was
far darker.
All the screens and
lettering, I noted, appeared to be made of the same transparent material
that Doom had used to construct the forehead of the house, but in
all those in-depth conversations we had held, never once had he mentioned,
or even hinted, that such a dire monitoring facility as this had ever
been incorporated into the building. The corridor narrowed as I was
taken further along, though eventually opened out into what appeared
to be a vast chamber, lit only dimly by flurries of green static.
Despite this, the illumination was enough for me to determine that
I had now been guided into the very brain of Nightmare House. Here,
located in a position that I took to be the exact central point, I
discovered the invidious image of the Inner Orb.
As four beams of white
light cut through the dark in purposeful illumination, my sight fell
upon a large callused eye over which a cataract had grown and was,
I observed, now almost at the stage of being ripe for surgical removal.
Towards this I was moved until my sight could be directed through
the remaining slit in the cataract, then with a sudden stark clarification
of focus, I looked directly upon the putrid head of Doom. It was,
I saw, attached to a tangle of tubes and wires that appeared to have
been drilled directly into the skull. On occasion the grey, rotten
flesh of the face would spasm in pain as Doom’s incredibly faithful
black brain mechanism attempted to extract more of the warped knowledge
responsible for its own creation. Any lingering hope died in me when
I noted other areas where flesh and bone appeared to have been surgically
removed in a manner corresponding to the advanced theories and groundbreaking
aspects of neoplasm that Doom had once put forward.
***
The enforced silence
of the house eventually ended when there came throughout the brain
a sound of whispering, seeming to me like a deathly replication of
the voice once produced by Doom’s own vocal chords. It spoke to me
of many things, including the schemes we would work on together for
all eternity, and how a town full of dead dreamers would spread their
nightmares outwards to infect all others in the manner of the most
virulent brain disease. It told of how Doom’s Disciples were even
now engaged in the Great Unmasking that would prime those nightmares,
but I did not wish to hear of this fact and was grateful I would not
see the event.
Nor did I wish to gaze
upon the bones of a house where grey flesh grows to form an image
of Doom’s dead face.
© John B. Ford
Courtesy by John B. Ford
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