The Heart of the Black Forest

Lovecraft-inspired short story about a woman who goes trekking across Wales and Ireland in the summer of 1932, and what she discovers in the green hillocks.

     I can bear it no longer. If unimaginable horrors bring night terrors, perhaps eternal sleep brings only what fate expected of me. I have taken to these leather-bound pages to transcribe that which I dared not speak of for so many years. My sister has made her peace with my troubled mind, thinking me to be a lost cause while I was still in the institution. And undoubtedly I appear mental. If, in some bizarre parallel world I had a dear friend over for an afternoon of tea and cards, would they not run at first sight of the forestry journals manically scattered across my floors? Would they not gasp and whimper upon seeing the gruesome drawings of my attempts at recreating that which has been forever etched into my mind? They believe me to be insane, but they do not understand that which lurks just beyond the thin veil of human comprehension. No, I am no longer graced with companionship, and it is in desperation that I write this account so that I may feel less of a burden on my fragmented mind as I steal into eternal night. And so, seven years after the fact, here are the details of my journey and the events of July 23rd, 1932.

     On July 2nd of 1932 I embarked on a personal trip, trekking north-westwardly across my homeland of Wales to Holyhead and taking a ferry to Dublin, where I would walk to the south of Ireland and visit my sister, who was at the time living in Kinsale. Afterwards I would return, nearly a month after my departure. With me I brought a tent (I would sleep only under the heavens, whether they be pouring rain or shining with stars), a machete and pistol for safety (perhaps a bit much, but a woman can never be too careful), one change of clothes and the walking stick left to me by my father, a knobby and hideous overgrown twig that I had admired dearly since youth. A canteen of water, money for food and, if things should prove too strenuous, for shelter. I set off in the early morning, just as the sun began to illuminate my way across the Clifton, I felt reassured in my impulse decision to walk for across the world for a month with no one but myself. The idea had come to me in the previous year, after the death of my father. A very poor man, he had very little to give my sister and I. He had no home at the time of his death, living in a group home in Bristol. It took much persuasion on the part of my sister and I to convince him to live either in Bristol with me or in Kinsale with Elizabeth, and he finally yielded on the condition he not have to be a burden and could take up in a group home. My sister and I were so grateful for his choice when he began to become ill and I was only a few blocks away while Elizabeth was only a day's trip from us. Thus we were able to be by his side at his passing, and he imparted unto me his trusted and hand-carved walking stick (though, my father being quite the trekker, any craftsmanship had long since disappeared under such strenuous use), and for Elizabeth he left the most expensive product he'd bought in recent memory: his typewriter. He had left it with his brother in Dublin, but it was hers for the taking. Elizabeth took after our father more so than I in her love of writing (look at me now, writing only when my sanity depended on it), and was breathless at his bequest. Weeks later, arriving home from his funeral with Elizabeth and other family, I noticed the walking stick leaning against the doorframe and the notion of returning to my days of trekking took root in my brain. I decided not to simply go for a few hikes around Bristol, but do something substantial with such a gorgeous walking stick, something that would make my father proud. So there on the Clifton Bridge I did not regret or worry about my choices to sleep in a tent rather than under a roof; to avoid civilisation and be one with the earth that was now cradling my father the way my sister and I had done so few days before.

     Knowing the topography of Bristol well, I began my journey without hitch. I was able to navigate the trails and backroads well, while knowing which routes would steer clear of the general populace so that I could embrace my serenity. Being an avid lover of national parks, I used these as markers of my progress. Walking through nature so taken care of and untainted my man's touch felt like rest, although through these I did not slow my pace one single step. I was doing well, averaging about 35 kilometers per day, and reached Brecon Beacons National Park in just three days. Five days later I was pitching my tent in Snowdonia, counting correct change for the ferry before going to sleep. Asides from a few drunk and unruly men getting a bit too friendly on the streets of Dublin, and being narrowly torn to bits by a wild dog on the outskirts of Kilkenny, my trip continued in this peaceful manner up till the twenty-first day: July 23rd. My destination for the day was Mitchelstown, and I set off at dawn from my campsite a few kilometers outside of Cahir. Walking through the land of the Irish, I had passed more than a few castles, monastic ruins, and great stone sculptures. And as I approached the famous Cahir Castle, I was once again amazed at the ancient masonry. The intimidating walls, set squarely against one another like a group of great impenetrable cubes, looked still strong enough to hold back an attack from Polyphemus himself. Leaving the beautiful stone monument to man's power behind me, I addressed my map. The route I had chosen to be the fastest called for me to walk alongside the road from Cahir to Mitchelstown. The Galty Mountains stood over the road, and I decided to head towards Bansha, rounding the Galtees, hugging the range's base and eventually coming to the northern end of Mitchelstown. This way I would be closer to the smaller road that connects Cahir to Ballylanders, with a gorgeous vista along the way. I would add one day to my journey, but this did not trouble me due to the quick pace I had been maintaining. As I turned west in the mountain range, I was immediately grateful for my decision. The rolling green hills of Ireland, like waves under a gentle breeze, were no place better exemplified than in the Galtees. The incline I found myself on was much more gradual than the route I had originally chosen, and found it relatively easy to make my way to the peak of the range. The hills dipped and rose and were here and there pitted with small lakes or ponds of the clearest water that reflected the sky back up at me. A few clouds drifted lazily overhead, but the sky was for the most part brilliantly blue by midday. As I started up one particular hill, I looked down at my walking stick and felt my father there with me.

     It was during these thoughts that I came to the precipice of a hill and beheld a sight that tore the breath from my lungs and forced my mouth agape. The hill I found myself on dipped sharply downward all around, as if I was standing on the rim of an extremely shallow crater. Ahead, spreading out for seemingly endless miles in either direction, was a collection of densely clustered and monumental trees. A forest without compare, vast as an ocean and ominous as it's depths. What sent chills down my spine, however, was not only the sheer size of the thing, but how unearthly dark it was as well. Although the sun beat down on my face, unhindered by clouds, the trees seemed to absorb every iota of light and promptly squash it. The leaves blended together in the wind and seemed to form a singular mass of lethargic, viscous liquid that wanted nothing more than to suck me into its chilling depths. I had the sensation that if I was a few hundred feet taller and were to stand over the mesh of treetops, my own face would be reflected back to me, distorted into an atrocious amalgamation beyond recognition. I pulled out the map and checked it thrice, ensuring I was where I thought I was. I was not lost, but no forest was marked on this thatch of the land. I could not explain it, but the notion of entering this tapestry of warped and weathered wood shook me to my core. After walking for so long among grassy hills and sun-kissed plains this amorphous, shifting presence seemed not to belong on this earth. Not quite otherworldly, but rather a perverted mistake of Nature that had grown spiteful in its solitude and no longer belonged. That was the other aspect of the thing that unnerved me. As I weighed my options, it seemed to exude a loathsome air that both dared me to come forth and warned me to stay away. In vain, of course, I walked for approximately half an hour to my left, hoping to see a diminishing of the trees. Backtracking was not an option, and after checking the map for the fifth time I entered the forest begrudgingly, seeing no alternate route that avoided the endless boscage.

     Approaching the edge of the forest, I was able to fully appreciate the size of the trees. Though they were so dark it was hard to distinguish one trunk from another (they were nearly black), I saw they rose hundreds of meters into the air, undoubtedly a great deal larger than the Redwoods of Northern California, which I knew to be around a hundred meters. The trees before me were double, and it seemed further in they became triple the size of those already massive Sequoia. Looking up and squinting to find the treetops I grew dizzy, and chalked it up to an illusion, due to the contrast of the bright sunlight with the eerily dark trees. I looked back at the golden-green hills and quietly cursed myself for being so childishly superstitious of what was no more than an ugly collection of shrubbery. I plunged headlong into the latticework and all rationality once again escaped me as darkness preyed upon me instantly. It was as though midnight could no longer wait, and had violently overtaken it's counterpart just as I entered the forest. Looking up, I could see points of light scattered among the thickly cluttered leaves, like a reverse nighttime; sunlight straining to enter the stubborn woods. I kept my compass out, maintaining my slightly southwestern direction. The more I walked, the more sensibility returned and I knew that this forest had no more inherent threat than a dark alleyway or an empty hallway with flickering lights overhead. I even afforded myself a slight chuckle, which was the first noise I had made all day. As if in answer to my levity, something seemed to reply. For an instant I was aware of a loud reverberation through the trees, like a thousand voices mid-chant; all shouting one word. However it lasted less than a second and I instantly doubted the sound, but felt it ringing in my ears nonetheless. I dismissed it as wind or perhaps thunder in the distance, but could not shake the terror it gave me.

     Continuing my walk, I checked my map as I weaved through the trees and approximated how far I had come. I seemed to be in the heart of the Galtees, and would soon come to the end of the ridge I had been traversing. With the decline would come a thinning of any and all trees, and I was about a kilometer and a half away. Having been criss-crossing through the trees for half an hour I figured I'd walked the same distance since entering the forest. Just as I became aware of a faintly sour smell, I came across it. I stopped short, almost falling into the pit. Looking up, I was briefly nauseous, for nothing in front of my eyes seemed possible. There was also a putrid and rotting smell that hung loosely in the air which added to my nausea. Though the more I strained, the more I understood. I said pit, but do not take that to mean a large hole in the ground. The trees did not give way, which was why I noticed nothing unusual as I switched between the map and my steps. Yes, there was an area in front of my that was sunken into the ground, about fifty meters in diameter and twenty deep. However there were objects protruding from the cavity; objects that did not seem natural. I was reminded of monastic ruins of Glendalough. There were three major protrusions, all evidently stretching far below the ground: one, the top of a spire, incredibly smooth with no ornamentation; the second was a cube, only a meter or so bursting from the dirt but spreading across most of the pit and disappearing into the walls of the hole; the last and tallest projection was cylindrical, erupting from the ground and stopping to meet me at eye level. What I found hardest to wrap my head around was the trees that sprouted from the objects themselves. One particular trunk wound its way around the spire and seemed to melt into the stone. The trees that stood atop the cube blended from black trunk to stone and I could not tell where Nature ended and craftsmanship began. The cylinder grasped my attention, for it seemed impossible to me. If these were monastic ruins, how had they been crafted with sixth century tools? And why had I never heard of them, or of this monstrous forest? I scanned the walls of the crater, and realized that there was a fourth object that I was standing on. I had the urge to move; to leap off the thing lest it lurch and send me hurtling into a trunk. I knelt down, and moving away the fallen, rotten leaves and dirt beneath my feet I realized the ground I was walking on was really stone. How far had I been walking on this paved surface, only barely and unintentionally covered with debris? How deep these objects went and how many more there were intrigued me, but what I wondered at most was who had built them and how they had remained hidden from the world. As I studied the trunks that morphed into the stone the idea floated past me that perhaps these rocks were natural. That they had been whittled into their simple shapes to give the appearance of a blend with the natural world. 

     I was desperate to see the intricacies of such craftsmanship, and decided to descend into the pit. I had seen a fair share of monastic ruins, and thought perhaps I could determine their origin. I sat down on the edge of the cavity and stretched my legs onto the incline. Leaning forward, I put weight on my feet and immediately fell. I had underestimated the slipperiness of the stone, and slid down into the sunken ground, feeling the smooth, slimy stone run underneath me. I dropped my father's walking stick and it crashed into my head as I came to a stop. Rising, I gagged several times at the foul-smelling and viscous clear liquid that seemed to ooze from the stone itself, though the rock had no blemishes or crevices. I walked among the objects, holding my hand over my mouth and nose as the stench nearer the objects was horrendous. Each object was flawless, and though I am no geologist it was clearly made from a different stone than that of the mountain. I had mistaken them for grey from a distance, but the rock was an off-white, with hints of green swirling about it. It was beautiful, and I would have run my hands across it had it not been for the slime that covered it. I approached the cylinder and discovered an opening around the back of it. There was a series of openings running up the length of the thing, and I took them to be windows. Looking inside, I was mildly disappointed. The structure was hollow, and with such limited light I could not see anything downward, save for more blackness. I did not want to waste the batteries of my torch in case I should need it on the rest of my journey, so I settled to be on my way. Still holding my map I made a quick mark of the location for later study with Elizabeth. I vaguely noticed the rotting smell had grown quite stronger. Putting away the map I turned and looked into it's face. I wanted nothing more than to shriek and cry and pull out my pistol. I wanted to hack at it with my machete, or bring the blade down into my own face for I feared it would not die and would kill me slowly. It's red eyes did not blink simultaneously, and there were perhaps a dozen of them. I was vaguely aware that it had a fat body and no limbs, though I still anticipated it to reach out for me. I even believe that it spoke, though not in the physical manner. I saw no mouth, but felt the words penetrate my mind. It was the same shout that I had mistaken for a trick of the brain earlier, as if a thousand voices were chanting. The word was horrifying, and I can not relate it to any language of this earth. This all happened in an instant, for what I actually did was silently leap backward, bumping my shoulder into the edge of the cylinder's window and tumble into the blackness. As I fell, the voice echoed in my head: Fhtagn!

     I was immediately aware of the splitting headache that the smell gave me. I had never been so repulsed by a smell, and vomited as I lay still on my side. I had survived the fall by landing on dirt that was covered in several centimeters of the slime that coated the stone up above, but there was a pain in my side slowly grew. I looked up and could only barely see a darkness that was a shade lighter. My eyes streamed tears from the stench and I wretched twice more. I had no clue as to how far I had fallen, only grateful that I landed on dirt and not more stone. Suddenly fearful that the disgusting entity that had snuck up on me above might follow my descent, I moved to rise. Instantly I screamed out in pain; I undoubtedly had broken my ribs, and they poked at my lungs as I moved. Acclimating to the pain, I forced myself to stand and clutched the slime-covered wall as best as I could. My pack had landed near me, and I swung it across my back. I took out and switched on my torch, pointing it upwards and still unable to see a thing. Scanning the wall I was leaning on I saw it had the same smooth, unblemished finish as on the outside. To my left there was a tunnel, and I prayed it would lead upwards. My nose had evidently become somewhat accustomed to the smell, for though my head still ached from the perverse odor, my eyes ceased to water. Swinging the beam of light directly ahead of me I gasped at what I beheld. For a few moments I stood still in searing terror, unsure of what exactly lay in the middle of the chamber. After a few moments study, and repeatedly reminding myself that my howl of pain did not awaken it, I surmised that the thing must be unconscious or dead. I moved closer and got a better look at it. My feet made a sickening squelch each time I lifted a foot, and I almost fell backwards into my own sick. The thing ahead was not at all what I had laid eyes on up above; it was in fact almost resembling of a familiar quadruped. The attentive ears, fiery eyes, and delicate snout were unmistakably of a red fox, but that is where the resemblance ended. From the neck down the rusty red fur coat turned to coarse, leathery skin. Further down the body grew grotesquely fat, similar to that of a full-grown pig. Further along still the body had grotesque boils and sporadic patches of what appeared to be some sort of cilia. It was as if sea anemones had sprouted across the lower half of the body, and they appeared to be covered in the same slime that surrounded me. It seemed the cilia secreted the slime when active, and it was perhaps the means for locomotion. The skin grew smooth, like that of a dolphin. If the creature had remained a red fox from start to finish, where the tail would have been there was instead a familiar sight that nearly caused me to drop my torch. About a dozen red eyes, all bulging out from the midnight-black skin. Lying in front of me was a dual-headed creature that was at one end a red fox and at the other some formless horror the size of an icebox, as if a child had smashed together two vastly different dolls. Suddenly, I remembered my father's walking stick, and began to scan the ground, keeping one eye on the wretch which lay just off-center in the chamber. With each step my side ached and I winced in pain. 

     I could find the stick nowhere, and was trying to recall if I had dropped it before my all when all of the sudden I heard something like the moaning of a ship and whipped my beam overhead towards the noise. A dozen red reflections flashed back at me, and I sprinted towards the tunnel. Slipping once on the slime I dropped my torch. Leaving it, and crying out at the pain of my ribs, I regained my footing just as I heard the thing crashing down behind me. It did not roar, but rather screamed, as if someone were having the flesh torn from their body as they were lit aflame and the sound was amplified into a malicious, violent shriek that pounded throughout my skull and shook my bones. The tunnel had an immediate upward grade and I could even sense a lighter shade of blackness. I looked back and promptly regretted it; my torch, still lit in the ectoplasm, cast a wide arc of light onto the beast. It had anemone-like patches across its skin and a loose collection of eyes on a jet-black, oblong body. It partly slithered, partly lumbered towards me at an astonishing speed considering it's weight. The sludge beneath me began to thin, and soon I was focusing less on my footing and more on the blood I felt dampening the side of my shirt. I brought my hand down and nearly fainted as I felt bone protruding slightly from my side. It had just barely broken the skin, but with each step the pain shot through my body. The light ahead grew, and soon my feet were hitting stone and I began to make out the end of the tunnel, which rounded towards the exit where I recognized the dim light of the forest that seemed shining now. My backpack weighed heavy on my injured body but I didn't dare stop to shed it. I rounded the bend and saw the opening of the tunnel. The black trunks and twisted roots seemed so harmless then. The beast screamed once more. This yell however sounded much different, and almost recognizable. With the light growing, I afforded another look back at the beast to see if it had given up or become somehow hindered. At the sight of it my feet became tangled and I fell to the ground just as I came crashing into the forest.. I landed on my left, opposite my broken ribs, but the blood seemed to accelerate on my right. I felt hot and faint as the figure approached me, howling like an animal. The screams turned guttural, and then intelligible. They morphed into grunts and screams, complete with personality and connotation. First of anger and rage, then pain and torment. Finally, they were wailing cries of sorrow as the figure stepped out of the tunnel and into the pale afternoon light.

     

     He did not look as he did on his deathbed, but rather as he did in his best years. He even wore the overalls of the factory job he had in Sheffield when I was a child. My father looked down on me with the same eyes that beamed up at me when he would throw me into the air and catch me as a faux punishment for a small misdeed. Tears streamed out of those eyes, though, and he wailed loudly. In fact he cried too loudly much louder than any human could bring their voice. It was a dramatic show of emotion that unnerved me to my core. Seeing my dad made me cry, but hearing the wretch made me scream. I shrieked for help, clutched my side, and tried desperately to crawl backwards as the thing walked towards me: arms outstretched and mouth agape, bawling. I ripped off my backpack and frantically searched for what I needed. The creature was upon me. Just as the face of my father was screaming in my face, just as I could see the hint of red in his eyes, and just as I could smell the putrid odor emanating from his body, My hand found the grip of the pistol and I squeezed the trigger, firing through the canvas of my bag into the thing's gut. Cilia instantly sprung from its face and the two eyes split into more, losing their detail and spreading across the darkening skin. The hair fell off and some of the clothes were sucked into the pores of its body as some tore and fell to the ground. It made a thundering moan and lurched towards me. I fired again and it fell backwards. I removed the gun from my pack and fired directly into its eyes until I was out of bullets. Still it made sounds like an old metallic vessel. And it slowly lumbered towards the tunnel, which I then noticed took the shape of a small opening in a tree's root system. I thought of my machete, but did not know what good it would do if a bullet to the gut and five to the face did not kill it. I sat still, panting, as the last of it disappeared among the roots, and when I could hear it no more I fought unconsciousness and rose.

     I was able to make it to Mitchelstown, and passed out on the doorstep of an inn. A doctor was called and I was mended. Everyone asked what had occurred in the Galtees to cause my injury and trauma. To the doctor I explained the events exactly as I experienced them. He then brought in a psychiatrist, to whom I relayed the same happenings. The psychiatrist prescribed me morphine, and as I slipped into euphoria I overheard him tell the doctor that I'd gone mad from blood loss and the trauma of a great fall from a cliff. I begged them to believe me, to go out into the mountains to see the forest for themselves, but they would not listen. I showed the innkeeper, an avid hunter, the spot I had marked on my map and told him of my tale. He and several other men trekked into the Galtees one weekend, but returned with naught. They had seen no forest where I had marked it, and assured them they had misread the coordinates. This of course was only more evidence to everyone that I had gone mad, and by the time Elizabeth had arrived I ceased to make my claims. I had frequent night terrors of the events. I saw my father, howling, bearing down on me with arms outstretched. I heard my gunshot as I emptied my revolver into the creature. I saw its ghastly red eyes, asynchronously blinking and vindictively watching. Soon, though, the dreams stopped. I began to wonder about the reality of the events, and began to go outside once more. I was well enough to travel to Elizabeth's house in Kinsale, and there I fully regained my strength. I fooled myself into believing there could be a return to normalcy when I woke up one morning to find my father's walking stick leaning on the frame of my sister's front door.

     Hesitantly, I asked her where the thing had come from, and she only looked at me, concerned. My fear mounting, I gripped the stick tighter and asked her more gravely. She told me she'd put the stick there after I'd come from Mitchelstown, and I asked her where she had gotten it from. Elizabeth paused, worried for her sister, and told me the innkeep had given it to her along with her pack; that I'd come into Mitchelstown with it. I looked down and noticed something on the stick that I had not at first glance. Seeing it I dropped the stick and dashed out of the house. I ran until my sister caught up to me and dragged me screaming back into her house. I screamed until my voice grew hoarse and I could only thrash. I thrashed until men came to my sister's house and tied me to a gurney. Time in the institution flew by, and I soon learned that silence is the simplest pretense of serenity.

     I am home now, and I do not know what to do next. I cannot fathom waking another day in this frightful and numbing existence. Sleep does not find me unless aided by drugs. The relaxants prescribed to me will send me to bed with the night terrors that have returned in full force, but I see no alternative route. I am too cowardly to tie the noose, and have long since thrown away my revolver. If I brought myself to the edge of a cliff I would spend so much time checking behind me for those red eyes that I would forget to jump. In the heart of that forest there lies a beast; slain but still breathing. It moans in the night, a sound like a decrepit ship, and I hear it. And now it permeates my restless nights with the lingering touch of that which is on my father's returned walking stick. I go now to bed, comforted to leave the horrors that live beyond our understanding behind. Content slumber and never see the word crudely etched into the wood of that bequest: Fhtagn!