Thread: The Ritual Feast of Dunston Harbor: A Horror Story

Tweet

Merely being a story partly inspired by a certain type of old British horror film and the New England stories of H.P. Lovecraft. Tried to inject my own personality into this and give it a spin on the usual proceedings...hope folks will enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Janet peered out the scratched and dingy bus window at the boring scenery beyond, one thought came to mind: I should have rented a car

Driving herself would have been the better choice, really. She might be saving a little on gas and fees, but it had taken only about fifteen minutes of riding in the cramped bus to regret the decision. Sighing, Janet shifted again and tried to stretch her legs (nearly impossible in the small space between the seats in front of her). With a groan, she cricked her neck softly and settled down further against the hard material of the narrow chair. Making it worse, her backpack was wedged between her legs, taking up more space. It had sounded decent on paper: by taking the national bus line between New York and Boston she could cut costs and have more money for the convention. Guess I got my priorities wrong there, way to go, she thought to herself.

At the time of purchasing it had seemed logical. She wanted to have cash at hand after all and the bus couldn’t be that bad. So she thought, anyway, before experiencing the bus first hand. When first getting on and handing her ticket to the driver, her initial impressions were not promising: the effect of being openly leered at by a old guy with hideously oversized mutton chop sideburns, followed by the unpleasant aroma of stale air freshener mixed with lingering cigarette smoke coming from some of the seats.

The aged vehicle hit a slight pothole in the road and bounced unpleasantly, shifting her again. Her mind idly scanned the items in her backpack as it dug into her thin legs: digital camera, twenty 8 x 10 prints of her drawings, 3 thick sketchbooks she hoped to sell, iPod, pens and pencils, a blank drawing pad, energy drinks and candy bars, a few paperbacks. The comic convention was the first national level one she was attending, and she wanted to be ready for either foreseeable circumstance she might encounter. It could end up with her selling some work and being a little busy and recognized, or being totally overlooked and having to entertain herself for the two days it was open. Her irregularly issued comic, Taxidermy Kate, had made her some meager profit and garnered attention among the small press and indie crowd. Janet hoped at least one person came up and knew the book: less than that would be rather pathetic.

Her small suitcase was jammed into an overhead rack, containing the sort of clothes she supposed readers of her comic would expect she’d wear. Her short cropped hair was black for most of its’ length, but dyed fire engine red at the front and pinned back in a wave with a cockroach shaped barrette. Her earlobes were extended with small hollow gauge rings, septum and eyebrow pierced, and a small spider was curled inside a glass block on a necklace she constantly wore. For day to day attire, as she was wearing now, she tended to favor comfortable jeans or shorts and whatever band t-shirt she grabbed from her closet. She had a slightly curvy figure and larger stomach than she would have liked, so the more casually loose clothes were her first choice. She had figured she may as well grunge it up for the convention crowd, though: accordingly, she had packed both a flat grey gas station style work shirt with short sleeves that showed her tattoos to maximum effect, and a 1940’s pin-up looking dress of black and white plus knee-high combat boots for the second. May as well flaunt her style a bit for the occasion. Wouldn’t want to let down the theoretical fan base, she thought to herself.

She had finally managed to settle in and had put her head back on what seemed like the one comfortable spot between the back of the seat and window, when the bus lurched to a sudden stop. Damn it, what now. It’s one thing after the other today, went through her brain as she rose halfway from the seated position. There was a commotion from the front of the bus, but not clear exactly what was the problem: looking out the window revealed they were at least in some sort of town and not the middle of the highway. Aged looking buildings rose on either side, most with weathered grey wood and peaked roofs. A minute passed (with the few other passengers chattering annoyingly) and the elderly bus driver re-entered the vehicle and announced they had gotten a flat tire and couldn’t go any further. The bus company would be sending along another vehicle the next afternoon, so unfortunately, passengers were stuck in the small town (Dunston Harbor, Massachusetts) until then.

With a groan, Janet rose and stretched her back before grabbing her things and tromping off the bus. Just what I needed…a stop over in a lame fishing village on a Sunday afternoon. A few glances up and down the street revealed not much promise: it was an overcast day, and the smell of the ocean was in the murky air. After arranging for her suitcase to be stowed in the bus with the luggage from the few other passengers, she put on her backpack and gazed around the desolate looking street. With a shrug, Janet dug out her camera and set off walking up a slight hill. May as well make the most of it, and maybe she would find some interesting antique stores and could scout out a place to stay the night. Good thing the convention doesn’t start for two days, just gotta kill the time while I am here. At least the air was fresh and cool, a relief after the rather nasty and flat atmosphere inside the aging vehicle.

Janet set off from the main street at a slow pace, and peered up at the old buildings lining either side of the narrow road. Without really thinking about it she set a gradual downward path towards the shore. More tall, wooden structures loomed up as she walked past them. Most seemed to be residences from the outside: small, candle-like lights were visible in a few upstairs windows and ornate metal mailboxes graced the fences separating the homes from the narrow road. Slowly they thinned out, until Janet was standing in a small cluster of low-set shacks facing the water. One was labeled “Gilman Fishery”, and stacks of weathered and brittle looking wooden lobster crates were haphazardly piled here and there in front of several. A creaking set of uneven stairs led down to the narrow stretch of sand, and so down the girl walked to explore a bit.

Once on the deserted beach, Janet cracked a small smile. This wasn’t so bad, actually. The fog was dense and thick, sure, but it gave the place some atmosphere. Some poking around located a set of tide pools among smoothed down rocks and washed up strands of seaweed. The goth lass slowly crouched down and focused her camera, taking some photos: the rough and mottled texture of the greenish black seaweed, a shot of a brilliantly purple sea urchin under the water. As she rose, something caught her attention: a dark, solid figure down at other end of the beach. Impossible to tell from the distance if it was male or female, and she had the strange impression whoever it was had to be clad in some sort of loose robe. She had the distinct and unsettling idea the person had been watching her.

With a shrug, she casually turned away. Just overreacting, that was all: the fog and the silence of the town coupled with the slow, tidal crash of the waves had gotten her worked up or something. This wasn’t one of those British horror movies after all, where the outsider discovers some horrible hidden secret usually involving a ancient murder or roving specter of an unhappy resident. She proceeded back up the warped stairs and picked a street she thought must lead to the town center: maybe some shops would be open, and more people about there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2 is in the next post

Part 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The going was rough underfoot, with different-sized and uneven cobblestones placed almost randomly. As the fog slightly withdrew, she saw a few people going about their business as well. Most steadfastly seemed to be avoiding looking at her: however, she could have sworn a few were openly staring when she looked away. When she glanced back though they were just moving onwards and not gazing in her direction at all. Getting paranoid, girl. You are tattooed and pierced up, after all, and this place looks like the most modern fashion they’d know about is circa 1960.

The shop windows were largely boarded up and those that were open were hardly more cheerful. Dusty piles of canned goods were stacked in one, and the next held a slightly slumped over mannequin in a faded dress. Cobwebs were strung from the too-cheery smiling face to a corner of the window, and the panes were cracked in several spots. One of the shuttered storefronts bore the title ‘Beadle and Crump’s Taxidermy‘. Clearly, the town wasn’t exactly well-to-do or a noted vacation spot for tourists coming to the coast.

It would be hard to say when she began to feel more uneasy, precisely. She just was starting to have a gradually building sense of discomfort. To make it worse, she was uncertain why she was starting to feel creeped out. Janet had grown up in the south and had been in a fair few small towns worse off than this in terms of obvious poverty. It was more than just the aura of slight neglect and the gloomy fog: the gulls cawing from the shore sounded odd somehow, and the salt-tinged air was damp and strange. She came gradually to an open circular plaza attached to the cramped street she had been following. There were more people here, talking and looking slightly more animated than the taciturn folks she had passed by so far. A large churchlike building faced onto the small patch of sickly looking grass. As she walked into the street, the bell in its’ crooked tower began slowly ringing. A statue stood in the center of what Janet thought was a park: a man in some sort of military uniform. His face was obscured and looked almost chipped away by age, and both fresh and ancient seagull droppings were splattered over the carved figure.

At the sound of the ringing bell, small groups of people began to move towards the towering structure. There was some sort of battered sign in front, the kind of thing one might see announcing AA meetings or book club dates. Hard to read from the distance, but Janet thought the small letter tiles spelled out something about a community social dinner. A elderly man locked up his store and pocketed the key, then joined a group of younger women who happened to be passing by. As she watched, it clicked for Janet at last the source of her unease. All the people she had seen so far were kind of…odd looking. They made her think of photos she had seen once in a medical textbook a friend had owned: eyes set slightly farther apart than usual and rough, almost warty skin along with slightly distorted looking faces.

As well, all seemed to have slight lesions on the skin or open sores on their faces and almost imperceptibly strangely shaped features. Maybe it was something in the local water or air, or some sort of genetic disorder peculiar to the area. Either way, it unnerved her. Janet shifted her heavy backpack and started walking slightly faster, heading for the opening of a street that should take her back to the area by the bus stop. She had seen a more modern looking hotel there and right about now it seemed like an increasingly good idea to go back that way and get checked in and off the streets. No big deal, just get back to the hotel and the bus and read some Gaiman, Everything’s cool, she thought.

The street she had chosen was even more narrow than others she had explored. Doors on either side were of dark wood and looked ancient indeed. Oddly, a lot were nailed in place from the outside with stout boards. Janet tried to control the pounding of her heart and slow her breathing, before she started to truly panic. The sound she was hearing couldn’t be steady footfalls, as if someone was following her down the small street. It was just her own steps being echoed in the dense air, that was all. She bit her lip a little, nervously, and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder to see if someone was in fact following her.

Calm down, Janet, you‘re freaking yourself out over nothing. Her imagination really was getting away from her: this was ridiculous, just because the town had kind of a weird ambiance didn’t mean it was like Silent Hill in the video game or the town in that Wicker Man movie. She had to get a hold of herself, plain and simple. With a deep breath, she paused for a second and collected her wits. Never mind that the place looked like a movie set from some Stuart Gordon picture or Lovecraft novel.

She started moving forward again, glancing in a shop window to her left. Not much to see there except a thick coating of dust and a few disorderly stacks of books. She barely registered the movement out of the corner of her eye as she looked away, and by then it was too late. A glimpse was all she caught of the dark-robed figure behind her, reflected in the shop window, before they were upon her. Strong fingers twined in her hair and she scarcely had time to register the insistent sting of the needle as it slid into her neck. Janet fell as her legs gave out from under her. Her thoughts spiraled away into darkness, eyes rolling back into her head as she hit the street, backpack dragging her down.

As she was moved (Am I being carried? What is going on here?) strange flickering fragments of images passed before Janet’s view. It was like watching a movie while nodding off now and again, catching only glimpses of the action. Three people loomed above her, outlined against the grey sky overhead. An elderly woman was helped along as she moved by, peering outwards with cataract clouded eyes. Next, she seemed to float past a filthy looking meat market: an enormous man with walrus moustache was busy hacking the heads off still-gasping fish.

She felt like she was slowly floating past clear spots in a thick fog. Finally, it seemed she had a uninterrupted view of the battered sign she had glimpsed earlier standing outside the church. Her vision swam and shuttered in on itself, trying to make sense of the stark white letters unevenly spaced against the black background. Finally, they came into view for a scant few seconds: ‘Dunston Harbor Annual town Gathering and feast Day Ritual. 6 PM - 8 PM all welcome.’ Her barely functioning brain could not make heads or tails of the words in a logical manner, but something about the odd phrasing set a alarm bell clanging in a corner of her mind. Feast day ritual. Ritual. That implied something more than just potato salad and poorly assembled ham sandwiches with watered down lemonade. I must have hit my head, I need to find a hospital, she thought. I think I might be hallucinating here.

Some semblance of reality came back to her slowly. Her arms were slightly aching and her mouth felt dry and arid. Janet tried to shake her head, clear away the uncertainty and regain control of her senses. There was noise all around her: talking. It was impossible to pinpoint one conversational thread however, and her head slightly throbbed. Her eyes were of no more use: she was reduced to gazing through barely open eyelids and trying to make sense of her surroundings. Everything felt awkward: too bright and loud, and her body felt strangely alien and detached. The dreamlike and wavering images from earlier clashed for attention and still made no sense. What is happening to me?

Shifting her weight, Janet tried to rise. She found herself unable to do so: it felt like her legs were asleep and she was vaguely aware of pressure on her wrists and ankles. At this slow realization, panic began to set in and her mind raced. Am I tied up? What the hell is going on? She tried slowly to open her eyes once more, preparing for the painful press of light that had resulted earlier. It was marginally more successful this time, and what she saw was almost disappointingly banal. She was inside a good-sized room with an arched ceiling. Rows of worn chairs with metal backings were pushed aside on a weary and drab-gray colored carpet. It reminded her rather forcibly of a small church she had attended a few times as a kid: weddings and funerals.

Standing around the room and socializing was a crowd of maybe seventy of the townspeople. Styrofoam cups were clutched in unpleasantly veiny and webbed-looking hands. Up close to them, the locals were even more unpleasant and warped looking: fishlike faces gaped at each other and at their surroundings. The odd skin lesions were scabbed over nastily with cracking red and yellow clots of tissue, and some were open and weeping a horrid looking mixture of pus and blood. No way this could actually be happening: she must be passed out on the cramped and smelly bus and having a nightmare. She’d wake up soon, when the vehicle hit a pothole or arrived in Boston, she thought. Wake up, wake up, wake up. Janet bit the inside of her cheek futilely, trying to goad herself into rising out of this bad dream.

As she watched, her vision cleared a little even as her muscles and head still ached. Looking around, she saw she was level with a couple folding tables covered in cheap white tablecloths. They were groaning with food: steamed mussels and clams piled high and carelessly jammed in with wedges of lemon, baskets of crusty looking bread, homemade pies and cakes. Punch bowls sat at intervals along the way, competing for space with casserole dishes piled high with cheesy and gloopy concoctions. She could smell the mingled aromas of the food and feel the hard surface underneath her. This was really happening. No way around it. Janet strained and wriggled her arms, trying to managed to free her wrists of whatever bound them. Once more her heart was beating hard and fast, blood pulsing in her ears. I might be in deep trouble, here.

There was no way to avoid it, anymore. The sore and frightened girl shifted her gaze downwards and saw what she had been halfway expecting, though dreading: she was on a silver platter. Worse than that: she was surrounded by damned vegetables. She could picture herself all too well, as if she was outside her body: a pale frightened looking girl, tied like a thanksgiving turkey on a platter. A centerpiece, like the pig at a luau waiting to go on the firepit. The goth girl let out a low and frightened moan then. Upon hearing it, a few of the horrid looking townspeople turned towards her, grinning maliciously. Crap. Crapcrapcrap. I have to get out of here. The refrain echoed in her skull, and Janet struggled vainly, dreading what else might happen. She was seemingly to be the entrée at some insane town social for deformed fish people. How did this happen?

As she struggled weakly, footfalls approached the table. Only when the owner was right in front of her did Janet look up. She dreaded what she might see, and the reality was even worse than she had imagined. The hideous woman standing there grinned, her cracked and blackened lips contrasting with rotted and greenish teeth set at odd angles. The stench was horrible, and her clouded eyes lit on the human girl’s face with malign glee. As Janet opened her mouth to beg, or plead to be let go, strong hands gripped her thin shoulders and the woman twined fingers into her hair. Janet felt her head being lifted and a few hot, helpless tears leaked from her eyes of their own accord.

The dignitary woman (for she was dressed in a rather expensive looking dress that even now was being stained by various nasty fluids) merely adopted a look of hideous false pity, and then jammed a red apple firmly into Janet’s mouth. The woman-creature turned to the townspeople, and began to speak in platitudes and politico speak even as the writhing, bound human girl was lifted. She couldn’t see who was carrying her, but she was clearly being taken away to begin the final stage of her evening: cooking. Dinner was highly anticipated, after all, and visitors to that insular little town must be unique, let alone ones they chose to dine on like Janet. She struggled back and forth as the platter was brought into the kitchen, and her last conscious thought was: I hope these stupid fish people choke on a human bone.