Note: You know what? I’m gonna stick with these. Helps the daily word count. Anyway, what follows was an attempt at world-building for Sepulchral Roots. But I’m not gonna put it up for MM’s Roots project. It’s not really my thing because I kinda… sorta… don’t like Lovecraft.
Before you hand me my cigarette and blindfold, please know that I did try my hand at it so at least you have a comment section in which you can tear me a new one. What I have is long and rambling. It won’t stack up against his powerful imagination, not by a R’lyehian mile, but it’s the best I got. Well, kinda, since this is a bit of a setup for part two— and three and four, if I can swing it— and the story keeps flowing.
For those of you who’ll miss the reference: I’m using the building from “Wasp”. You won’t miss much if you haven’t read that story, but I think it’ll be featured in more stories to come. I like that place.
Now, as we bow our heads and pray that Yog-Sothoth finds both key and keyhole, and the Old Ones may once again drown the world in eternal darkness, let’s end with those magic words: if you hate it, let me know. I might even like the comment.
What I won’t do, is give a shit.
Follow the Sepulchral Trail: Chapter 2:1 Chapter 2:2 Chapter 3
February 21,
The old bat that lives in the apartment above mine has decided to spread her wings and flit away.
I’ll admit, I was glad to see the For Sale sign appear on her window this morning, sick as I am of the sound of her Birkenstocks clopping on the hardwood floors at all hours of the day, destroying the fragile bubble of my concentration. One of my friends suggested noise-cancelling headphones but they hurt my ears after a while, and are no match for her— intentionally, I believe— slamming the doors so loud I can feel the tremor through the wood of the table. Working on location has never been an option for me; writing is exposing enough without feeling the weight of actual eyes on me. How others manage it will always remain a mystery.
I hope her place sells fast. I am way behind on my novel as it is.
March 25,
Today was the big day.
I made myself a cup of coffee and watched from the window as the ladder lift brought down her possessions, my mind easing with every box carried into the back of the truck. I couldn’t help but smile as I saw her haranguing the movers, hands fluttering like startled birds as she told them again to be careful.
At some point her eyes drifted up to my window. I rose the cup at the her, grinning, earning a crumpled scowl in return.
Laughing, I turned away from the window and back to my writing.
I’ve not done much these last few days; the noise above my head reaching epic proportions. It seems that she wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to make my life miserable while she still could. I wish the next poor soul that has the misfortune of living beneath her very good luck.
As for me, I have no idea who the new owner is, and I can’t worry about it. The writing comes first now. The blissful quiet left in the wake of her departure has done wonders already. Two chapters have been roughed out so far. A few weeks like these and—
But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.
March 27,
I ran into the new owner as I came back from work. He told me that he has bought the apartment as a rental property. I received this news with a sinking feeling, since the old bat was the only non-tenant on my side of the building. Annoyance aside, she was a constant amid the shifting tides here at the Robin, where eviction notices are a common sight and hurried comings and goings are rule instead of exception.
He also informed me that he’d be doing some “renovations”. Landlords. You have to admire the audacity of slapping some paint around to justify asking a thousand dollars for an apartment that used to be part of a social housing complex. He’s not even fixing up the kitchen, the same mid-seventies grotesque I have. All he’s doing is some minor repairs.
“But don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll try to keep the noise to a minimum.”
I’d barely sat down before the drill began to shriek its way into the walls.
It’s now quarter past ten and he’s still up there. The noise— It’s true what they say: the devil you know…
I wish I could afford to move. My sister has been at me to move closer. If only. No, unless the novel pans out, I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future. Although how I’m ever going to be able to finish it here is beyond me…
April 25,
I believe the apartment has been rented.
Coming home from work I spent some time rereading what I wrote yesterday, when I thought I heard footsteps. Later, I went down to the basement storage and took the opportunity to check the doorbells and found a clumsy piece of masking tape stuck over the nameplate that belongs to the upstairs apartment. On it, printed in black marker, was the name Stewart. At least, I think it’s Stewart; the bunched-up tape makes it difficult to say for sure.
So far, everything has been quiet— apart from the footsteps— but I’m not getting my hopes up. No doubt, tomorrow, the great noise of unpacking and furniture assembly will begin. I just hope I miss it, as I’ve missed the movers. Writing has been good these last few weeks.
April 28,
Another good day’s work. With the day’s labours, I am officially halfway done. I will not delude myself into thinking this means I’ll be able to finish. I’m just— marking the occasion.
Surprisingly, the weekend has passed in relative quiet. I had resigned myself to a tumultuous two days of bumps and hammering from upstairs. But no. All I’ve heard so far is footsteps… and soft dragging sounds across the floor.
I haven’t seen the new tenant— or tenants. I hope that changes soon. Sometimes it’s good to have met, should you have to go knocking in the future.
There’s it is again! What is that? It’s such a peculiar thing, the noise. It starts at the back of the room, running across the ceiling in a soft, slow rush. Every now and then, there are two low thuds in quick succession— like a heartbeat.
Painting, maybe?
Whatever it is, I hope it stops soon. I have work to do.
May 3,
I went upstairs today.
Whatever they (?) are doing up there is driving me crazy. At first, the dragging noises happened maybe once or twice a day, but as the days went on they steadily became more frequent and intense, until I found myself cringing at the slow, whispering sound above me almost every hour.
It isn’t loud, per se; just invasive. Like nails on a blackboard, it seems to pull at your skin. The deliberate, unrushed quality of it.
I knocked on the door three times but no one answered. Listening at the door, I could hear no sign of life inside. Deciding they must’ve taken the elevator while I took the stairs up, I went back down.
Some hours passed. Then the noise resumed again, creeping up the floor with nail-biting slowness. Every now and then, there was a soft squeak.
I went up again, pounding on the door for a full minute but, just like before, there was no answer. In the end, I had no other choice than to go back to my own apartment. There have been no more sounds from above. And yet the potential of it is enough to cull whatever words I might’ve written today.
This needs to stop.
May 5,
So I called the cops today.
The noise started early, waking me at six-fifteen. Around noon, I’d gone up twice to ask what the hell they thought they were doing. Yet every single time they only thing facing me was the door, and the sudden silence beyond. You’d almost think I was going crazy.
I waited until they came back down, hoping to get some answers. What I got instead was a pair of flat looks.
“He says he doesn’t know about any noise, sir,” the tallest of the two said. “Looking around the place, I’m inclined to believe him. Are you sure it’s come from his apartment?”
I couldn’t believe it. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s him, dragging something back and forth across the floor, again and again, all day long.”
The cops exchanged a look.
Tall One sighed. “Look, sir. If it happens again, give us a call. We’ll come check it out.”
“Like you did just now?”
His face was stoic. Hands moved, thumbs hooking behind his belt.
“We did what we could, sir.”
“It’s a pretty old building,” the smaller one said. “There’s gonna be noise. I don’t know, have you considered moving?”
Forty minutes later, I was pouring over my notes when the scraping started inching across the ceiling.
My sister said to come down for a visit. No matter how tempting that idea is, I can’t. I won’t get any writing done entertaining the kids and I was doing so well—
There he goes again. I can’t even—
May 7,
He does it at night too, now. The first night he woke me up at three AM. I called the cops. They came and went. At six he was at it again. The female dispatcher told me there were no units available. When I got a little hot under the collar, she suggested I could talk to the neighbour myself.
Thanks for nothing.
Last night, they promised to send a patrol, but it never came. At four I sat slumped on the couch, listening to the slow drag above my head.
It’s seven now, light out. Almost time to get dressed and go to work.
What the hell is he doing up there? And doesn’t he need to sleep?
May 8,
After work, I went to the mall and bought a white noise machine. My sister recommended it. They used it on the kids when they were having trouble sleeping and kept using it themselves. Toni is a light sleeper; she said it worked wonders for her.
It’s a small thing, white and egg-shaped. It comes with a variety of looped recordings, from strange electronic sounds like a hum or fuzzy static to crackling fires and even the sound of a train rumbling by.
After some fiddling around, I waited for the maniac upstairs to start up again to test the machine’s ability to cloak the noise.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Left with several choices, I opted for the sounds of the ocean. The crash of the waves covers the rubbing on the floor pretty well, and seems to be the least obtrusive sample. Toni will laugh when I tell her.
None of this will help my work any because I’d have to use headphones for full effect. After everything, I’ll still be forced to writing elsewhere.
All that can wait. There’ll be no words today. Too tired.
May 9,
The sounds kept me up for an hour or so, but in the end I dozed off and slept through until morning. Small victories.
May 14,
Another productive day. If this keeps up, the first draft could be done in a month or two (knock on wood). I’m already becoming a regular at the Red Hook tavern. Finding that place was a godsend.
The writing is going so well, it seems to continue in my sleep. For days now, I’ve been having the most vivid dreams— or should I say nightmares— in which I’m walking along narrow streets paved with rain-slicked cobblestones gleaming under the pale moonlight. The houses seem to loom over me like bent and crooked figures, their eyes empty and dark. Always, there’s the faraway sound of a violin, playing intricate melodies at a furious tempo that both stirs and unnerves.
I’m frightened in these dreams, though the reason why is unclear. The way the light and shadows intertwine seems to send ripples across the surface of my mind because they don’t quite… connect the way they should. There’s a fracture that should not exist. The very air doesn’t part in a normal manner, almost as if the atoms themselves have stopped their delicate dance and fallen dead and silent, my movement brushing them aside like floating dust motes.
As I walk, the fright begins to sink into me, like the droplets that soak my clothing, becoming outright panic. I can’t hear anything, I can’t see anything, but I know something is there, some foul, invisible presence whose longing breath does not touch my skin but a deeper, primal part, carried in my genes from the time men lived in caves lit by fickle flames and the world’s darkness still held terrors—
My imagination is working overtime. Perhaps it is the noise machine, messing with my sleep patterns, or something. I don’t know. Toni thought it was pretty funny when I told her yesterday. Once again she brought up the prospect of a visit. I told her soon. I’m ahead of schedule. Another week or so and then— maybe.
Can’t wait to start on tomorrow’s chapters. I’m in a good place right now, the writing has never gone so well. My mind is racing with ideas.
Although, I must admit I could do without the dreams. Toni might think them funny but I doubt she’d feel that way if she had them. There’s a weight, a level of detail to them I find disquieting. Yesterday I made it to the mouth of the alleyway and saw a street sign bolted on the wall. It read Pickman Street.
I’m convinced I’ve never heard of that street before.
May 21,
You know the feeling where
I think the white noise is getting to me.
The last four days the dreams nightmares have changed. I’m no longer wandering around damp alleyways at night. Instead I’m standing on a beach at sunset, looking on as the sun bleeds out across the horizon. Like the other dreams, this one has a remarkable vivid quality, because I can feel the breeze lifting the hair from my forehead. It’s chilly enough to give me gooseflesh.
In time, I turn and see I’m not alone; there are others, men and women spread across the sand. Their eyes are fixed on the empty waters, like mine had been, their faces painted with setting sun. There’s something strained about their expressions, expectant.
“It won’t be long now,” a voice says.
When I turn to look, I find a tall man with a pale and narrow face. He has a solemn, almost sad air about him. Coupled with his dark, sober clothing, he makes me think of an undertaker in old movies.
“What won’t be long now?”
His small mouth gave the barest shadow of a smile. “It will begin in Cannes.”
He turned back to the sea before I could form a reply.
“Look,” he whispers as the ground begins to tremble.
The rest of his words are buried beneath the low, deafening sound blasting the beach.
That’s when I wake.
I don’t know why but these nightmares are worse than the others. Those reaching faces, that pale, frightening man, and that sound—
Yesterday morning I called Toni, somehow sure something had happened, that the dreams were some sort of extrasensory distress beacon. She assured me everything was fine, then flipped it on me, forcing me to lie and tell her I was okay. Because I’m not. Four days of rude awakenings have stripped my nerves bare.
It’s the dreams. Even though nothing ever happens— apart from that dreadful sound— that quiet, reverent congregation digs a sharp fingernail into the pit of my stomach. All made worse by the fact that I never see what that horrible booming horn is that rolls across the beach, leaving my mind to come up with its own terrifying possibilities.
Last night I sat up for hours, afraid to go back to sleep. Afraid that maybe this time— (illegible)
As I held my lonely vigil, the dragging noise started up again. I buried my face in my hands and cried, as above me, something scraped and squeaked its way across the floor. It’s almost hourly now. Unrelenting. Haunting, like the nightmares.
I don’t dare use the machine again. I’ve changed the sounds multiple times now but the dreams remain the same. In my desperation, I even tried the train. It kept me up for hours, an endless parade of steel wheels clattering along the tracks. But when I closed my eyes, the beach awaited, burning in the flames of the dying sun.
Without the sound machine, I’m stuck in another kind of nightmare. Even now, the noises continue. All day and all night. It leads me to believe the cops have lied to me. There is no conceivable way there’s only one man living in the apartment above mine. Exhausted as I am after days without a good night’s rest, it feels impossible that he can keep up whatever he’s doing without sleep.
Tomorrow I intend to find out. One way or the other, the noises need to stop.
May 22,
You know I
The Robin has had
I’ve met my upstairs neighbour, although now I wish I hadn’t. The man is clearly unwell. Funny enough that makes him the perfect tenant in this godawful place, the walls of which have contained more unhinged minds than sane ones, if you can believe the rumours. I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
Already aware that he wasn’t going to open the door when I came knocking I turned to subterfuge, pushing his doorbell and telling him it was the cops. I smiled as he buzzed me in, relishing the prospect of giving him a piece of my mind.
He saw through the deception the moment the door cracked open at my knock. I saw a narrowing bloodshot eye, a glimpse of unkempt hair and stubbled cheek.
“You are not the police,” he said in a voice, hoarse with disuse. Then the door began to shut.
I place my hand against it, pushed back.
“I need the noises to stop,” I said, heart pulsing through the words.
The pressure eased. The eye searched my face. “You… hear them? The noises?”
For a beat or two, I could only stare at the intense stare.
“Yes— You’re the one making them!”
“No,” he whispered. The eye shuddered from side to side in a quick head shake. “No, no, no. I’m only trying to— I need to—“
“What are you doing in there?” I said. Anger flared up and I started pushing against the door. “What is it that you have to do all day and night, while other people are trying to work? Trying to sleep?”
With one final shove the man stumbled back. I pushed past him.
“No,” he said, clawing at my sleeve but I brushed him off. Some part of me knew what I was doing could cost me, but I was past caring. I needed to see, needed to know what the hell was so important he’d been terrorising me for weeks.
I’d gone maybe two steps into the living room when I faltered. Looking around the space, the words of the cop came back to me. He had been doubtful the man had been the one making the noise. Now I understood why.
The room was bare, apart from a mattress against one wall, half-covered by a rumpled nest of blankets. On the floor next to it was a cluster of bottles and tubs. That and a book. There was nothing else, except the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling a the end of a twist of wiring.
Or no. Not entirely.
As I turned, I saw it, leaning against the wall next to the door. A floor wiper with a long handle. Seeing its length of black rubber, I compared it against the noise I’d been hearing for weeks now, and found it to be a perfect match.
“Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?” I said, unbelieving. “Wiping the goddamn floor?”
I snatched at the handle and the man rushed over, panicked. “Careful! Please, please!”
For the first time I had a good look at him. He was smaller than me, narrow in the shoulders. He had sharp features, framed by a tangle of curls, more salt than pepper. The suit he wore looked well-made but was now dirty and crumpled.
There was an air of faded sophistication to him, like a wealthy man firmly in the clutches of booze or narcotics. It’s shadow was there; in the haggard expression, the raw-looking patches of skin, the clothing that had grown too large with sudden weight loss.
Another junkie, I thought, as the man began to wipe at the floor behind me, muttering to himself.
“Listen,” I said. “I can understand you’re having some… difficulties. But you can’t keep doing this. I need to be able to sleep.”
The man looked up from his work, his eyes wide and wild.
“Sleep?” He laughed, a sound halfway between a bark and a sob. “How can you think about sleep, now that their time has come?” His voice fell to a frightened whisper.
I nodded. “Yeah. But still— just, give it a rest at night. You can do all the cleaning you want during the daytime, okay,”
“You don’t get it,” the man said. His mouth twisted. “You lied to me. You don’t hear the noises. How could you? You’re as blind as I used to be.” A cluster of words fell from him; the sound foreign and harsh, despite his cultured tone. Their utterance seemed to hang in the air between us, making me uncomfortable.
I decided it was time to go.
But as I made for the door, the man stepped in front of me, blocking my path, the floor wiper falling from his hand and clattering to the floor.
I could’ve pushed him aside, as I’d done before. But his eyes held mine, wide and burning with a heat I could almost feel wafting across my face.
“I was like you, once. Moving through life, carefree with the belief that this life was mine to do with as I choose. I was an academic, confident that knowledge was the only true path to understanding this world and find a way forward for humanity, create a future in which we might continue to thrive.”
He laughed again, a terrifying, hollow sound.
“How wrong I was! How deluded!”
I tried to move past him but he followed, eyes never leaving mine.
“The mistake of every great scientist. Curiosity that pushes us beyond the point of reason, where passion leads us to dangerous research, and from there yet further, into the pages of questionable works.”
He smiled, a mere twitching of the muscles.
“That’s where I found it. Buried in the unstirred dust of decades. The knowledge I’d been yearning for.”
He chuckled.
“For days I poured over its pages, consuming its terrible truths. Devoured the names that pulled at my soul. Oblivious to the fact that every sentence— every word— only served to seal my fate.”
“Please—“ I said, moving forward. But he pushed me back with surprising strength.
“Not our world!” he hissed. He held up his hands. “This— this is but a thin veil behind which they stride in glorious triumph. They have always been. Before and after they reign with terrible purpose. In the dismal places where their footsteps yet haunt the very earth itself and the flowers shrivel and die with the memory of their breath, there the gate lies, through which they will once again claim dominion over all. Their shadow will snuff out the lights of this world and the earth itself will shudder and crack with remembrance. And all of humanity will be a mere candle flame, burning down in the eternal darkness of their reign.”
“Let me go!” I shouted.
“See!” he said, pushing something in my hands. “Know that the time is near. They can’t touch us. Their fingers are tracing the borders of their prison, envious. Which is why they haven’t gotten me yet. Not directly anyway. But everyday I’m losing more and no matter how I keep wiping the floors and using the lotions— It’s my own fault. I should’ve listened—“
He buried his face in his hands.
I could’ve gone then but despite the lunatic speech, I had to know.”
“Losing? What are you losing?”
The man looked up at me, miserable. “My skin. Everyday I’m losing more and more, no matter how much lotion I use. They mean to erase me— or turn my own body against me.”
His face slackened. Head cocked. “Listen?” he whispered. “Listen! Do you hear that?”
He scrambled for the floor wiper, began to scrape it across the floor again with fierce concentration.
“Have to get it all,” he said. “It’s tricky, the dust. It hides. You can’t let it. You can’t let it—“
While he muttered to himself, I backed away and fled the apartment, pulling the door shut behind me.
By the elevator I realised I was still holding the object he’d pushed into my hands. It was a book, bound in black leather, worn smooth with use. Two filigreed silver snaps reach around the pages.
Reluctant, I turned back and knocked at the door, wishing to return it. But no matter how I tried, he wouldn’t answer.
It’s lying here next to me as I write. A curious tome. I glanced at the title page. There’s a stamp in the corner that reads ‘WIDENER LIBRARY, HARVARD UNIVERSITY’. Judging from the title, it’s an esoteric treatise. Or perhaps a book on philosophy. Although the title hints at some heavy subject matter. Since I believe Necronomicon can be translated to mean “dead images”.
May 23,
Today I once again tried to return the book, and once again there is no answer. I considered leaving it on his doorstep but The Robin is a dangerous place to leave things lying around, and the book is too precious to risk it getting stolen.
May 24,
Still no answer. I know he’s home; the sound of the floor wiper has been going on all day. Last night, I spend hours listening to it going back and forth, the strangest noise madness has ever made.
I feel sorry for the man. But I feel even sorrier for myself, being trapped in this godforsaken place with him.
Toni has called again. I told her I would think about it. Though something gives me pause. I’m not sure, but I believe I had the dream again. I remember waking in the dark, frightened. Yet while listening to the dragging sounds I must’ve dozed off again, because I woke in the morning with no memory of the nightmare— if it even was a nightmare.
May 26,
Something happened last night.
I went to bed as late as possible, preferring to be worn out before attempting sleep these days. For a while, I listened to the man upstairs, busy at his work. Then I dozed off and knew no more.
Until I awoke, startled.
At first I thought it was another dream. But as I rubbed my face, I heard a series of thuds upstairs. Throwing off the covers, I went into the living room, above which I placed the noise.
Half a minute passed in silence. Then there was another series of dull knockings, followed by loud thud that made the glassware tinkle.
More thuds followed. Something swished along the floor. It sounded almost… almost like a struggle.
My hand hovered above the handle of the door as I heard his voice. Like the cop said, the walls are thin. I could make out the words, and the pleading tone.
“No! No, please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll do—“
The words broke off in a blood-curdling scream that send frozen branches through my body. My hands snapped back from the handle, clamped into a tight fist.
The edge of the scream dulled, became a loud, muffled cry that faded… faded—
Until there was only silence.
I stood in my living room, heart slamming against my ribcage, for god knows how long, straining to hear another sound. An eternity seemed to pass and all stayed quiet. I’d about given up when I heard it.
It was a soft sound, almost undetectable at first. But as it moved across the ceiling, it picked up, became a whispering, skittering rush— like sand blowing across a thin roof.
I didn’t sleep another wink.
When morning rolled around, I went upstairs again, tried to return the book. Unsurprising, there was no answer. I tried much longer than before, wanting to know the man is okay.
But something tells me he isn’t.
Twenty missed calls from Toni. I won’t call her back.
I haven’t left the apartment in days.
June 1,
Fhai
pounding at the door today. I too k me a while to figure out it was the landylord, looking for a rent. Doesn’t know the man is syha'h bug gone. It makes me laugh, thinking about.
Toni called again. Want me to come to come to to come right away. She sounds afraid. I was afraid to, but now I can’t remember why. She said it’s beautitifful. Don’t know. haven’t seen the pciturers because I knew if i did I’d want to go and i had the writing. seems alls illy now, the words keep floatin g like dust like skin like away so i think yes I’ll go i think i’ll like it at the beach. Somthing tells me i’ve been there before (illegible)
i’ll take the book it’s a fine read
maybe toni and thekids will like it too
I’ll get going now.
Cthulu fhtagn
—END OF PART 1—
Ken, Ken Ken! I don't really like Lovecraft either. I like your work though. Thank you for sticking with this.
I read these out of order (not sure how I managed that) and i’m so amazed how they work by themselves or in a series. it’s a testament to your storytelling.