alistairmather

well, this may have been the worst week of my life. is there anything better then having the girl you adore call you on her birthday to point out that no one cares (despite the fact that you left her a message at midnight the night before congratulating her on the day of her birth), complain about how much the new boyfriend sucks (while also maintaining that you still suck more), and then being told that while it was sweet of you to offer to take her out she will refuse because she wouldn't want to hurt her current jerk boyfriend(while casually ignoring the four seperate occassions she ditched you to go off with her previous ex when she was dating you). the worst part is not that this happened, but that i will happily go through this again thanks to rules i set for myself long before i realized how much people can really suck.

damn five year old optimism.

okay, so i have just decided to skip the seventh installment untill i can take the time to overhaul the entire thing. fortunately, it does not in anyway affect the over all story (at least not yet) so that for those of you who have been dilligently reading this bizarre little tale of mine no important iformation has been lost. for those of you who haven't read the first six installments: why the hell not? they're all in past journal entries, go back and read them.

without further ado, i present to you the eighth installment in the stunning Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.


Eight

Numb. (nonononotamannotaman) Soft tingling. (nonononotananimalnotananimal) Stronger. (notamannotananimal) Light stinging. (dontlookdontlookdontlook) Faint scent of decay. (nonononono) Painful prickling. (badbadbadbadbad) Smell of corruption. (runrunrunrunrun) Pins and needles crashing along nerves. (NOW)
And then I am turning, no longer in shock, turning to run, knowing it is too late. I have just gotten my first foot off the ground when I feel those obscenely long fingers grip my shoulder. I keep turning, praying for the second time tonight, praying without faith (dontlookdontlookdontlook) without hope. I saw something (nonononono)...
His other hand clamps onto my side, long fingers easily fitting around my paunch, and suddenly I am spinning, flipping, flying through the air. I come down heavily on my backside, air rushing from me like a bellows, pain spiking in my back and my head.
The world swims around me. I am so tired of being afraid. Still too terrified to stop.
There is a noise. An awful, horrid noise. The dry crack of bone breaking mixed with something wet and slurping. I turn my head in time to watch a severed, badly decayed arm drop to the floor. Something out of sight (dontlookdontlookdontlook) picks it back up off the floor, and then there is more noise. Crunching, slurping noise.
Darkness.
Wet sounds. Writhing white limbs. Impossible curves and angles. Eyes. Yellow and black eyes. Too many. Ghost image outlines, barely perceived. Claws. Talons. Tentacles. Hands. Grasping, reaching, squirming hands.
Sir?
Darkness.
The vague impression of something alien, terrifying. And then it is gone.
Are you all right? Sir?
The voice is unfamiliar. It is low and raspy and grating. Almost as if the words were being formed by organs only approximating vocal chords. Organs that were never really meant to utter human speech.
I open my eyes.
Standing over me, a rather blank look in those hideous yellow eyes, is the emaciated giant I had been so terrified of. His soiled suit looks even more rumpled then I recall, and there is a smell about him. A sort of sour goatish scent.
My apologies for the rough treatment. Sir. It seems are recent guests are functional even when mostly dismembered. If I hadnt acted as quickly as I did it would have been sure to get you. Sir.
There is no tone, no inflection in his voice, no sign of any emotion, let alone regret. Oddly though, through the strange raspy tones, I detect a strong New England accent. The kind one only finds in the most rural and backwoods parts of the area anymore.
I am sure Master Cartwright will be quite pleased at acquiring one of the masks intact. Sir.
He gestures with his right hand, while using his left to help me to a sitting position. I look dizzily at the place he indicated and see one of those awful grinning porcelain masks lying on the thick carpet of the hall. Around it there is a dark stain, but no other sign of the corpse thing that once bore it.
Wha..., a wave of nausea moves through me, and I can feel the painful throbbing of a lump forming on the back of my head. What happened to it?
Those glinting animal eyes regard me emptily, It was dealt with. Sir.
I open my mouth to ask how exactly it was dealt with, but another wave of nausea courses through me, and I find myself occupied battling with my gorge for the next few moments. I manage to maintain my dignity, but decide it is perhaps wiser not to continue my inquiry.
Ah, Mr. Derleth, we were wondering what had become of you. Feared you might have gotten lost in the old..., he pauses, as if just noticing the state of affairs, Why, whatever has happened here?
I turn my head, causing my vision to spin and tilt wildly. When I can focus again, it is to the image of Hunter walking rapidly across the room from a door in the far wall I had not noticed. I also finally register the state of the room I am seated in.
Every piece of furniture is shattered, and seems to be coated in some type of strange ichor. The carpet on the floor is torn and gouged, as well as bearing spatters of the strange substance, along with other, darker stains. The walls bear the same decorations as the carpet, thick trails of the slimy substance tracing along the lattice of cracks and holes in the plaster. It looks as if some giant slug had run rampant in the place.
Before I know it, Hunter is beside me again, hands moving rapidly and competently over the back of my head, pulling wide my eyes. He examines me for but a moment, pronounces, Mild Concussion., and then turns to the albino beside me.
It seems I was not as thorough as I should have been in routing our unexpected visitors. Sir. I take full responsibility for Mr. Derleths present condition. However, it should be noted that he has managed to gain one of the masks you so desired. Sir.
At this, Hunters eyes light up, and he eagerly takes hold of the object on the hallway carpet. He spins the mask about, holding it in both hands by its edges, and brings it up to his face as if he means to place it there. His eyes dart back and forth as he studies whatever is on the inside surface of the porcelain mask, a small smile playing about his lips.
Ah yes, he murmurs to himself, Much as I had suspected. However, this level of craftsmanship was far beyond the talents of Professor Mortum last I knew. It seems he has either had himself an epiphany in the study of electronic control systems, or he has taken on a partner.
The smile is still playing about his lips as he lowers the mask from his gaze, a vacant, far away look in his vibrant eyes. He says nothing for a minute, and I realize that I am witnessing the greatest mind of our time at work. Finally, his eyes refocus, and he returns from the airy plains of deep thought to the world about him.
Victor, when you are finished taking care of the recent unpleasantness, could you bring my files on that German inventor to me. The one who made quite a showing with his mechanical man last year at the Paris convention. We shall be in the salon, in the meanwhile.
He says this casually, as if it were a matter of no real import, that strange humor still playing about his voice.
Of course. Sir. Will you be taking your tea at that time also?
The ease with which these two seem to be accepting all the recent events lends an air of unreality to everything about me. For a moment, I am almost certain that I am merely suffering from some fevered dream. A dream that I am bound to wake from any moment.
Yes, I should think tea would be perfect at that time.
And then Hunter is helping me to my feet, and leading me back through the doorway into the waiting hall. There are strange sounds coming from the room we had just left, the room which now contains no one but the exceedingly tall, albino Victor. I try to turn back to investigate the sounds, some part of my mind seeming to recognize them, while another screams for me to flee, but Hunter has his arm around my shoulder and the two of us move steadily away from the already fading noises.