Do you like old cartoons? If your first reaction is to talk about Gummi Bears or Ducktales, you’re about 70 years off the mark.
I’m talking before television, before color. Back when just moving images on a screen was novel enough to draw a crowd.
You’ve felt this, you know this, there’s something different about those old cartoons. A sense of depth, a sense of real momentum and weight. It felt strange, didn’t it? Beyond the dated references and comedy.
The official story is lithograph backgrounds, shadowboxes and a bunch of other film geek horse shit that 90% of people believe because they don’t understand. And the other 10% don’t care because we are long past any of those techniques being useful.
But ask yourself this. Why did animation turn to shit sometime in the 50s? How does it make sense that we went from Popeye to Clutch Cargo? From images you could feel the depth of, to flat static, almost puppet like cartoons.
I’m Ethan Benson, I’ve proudly served in 2 world wars and begrudgingly stomped through a few more scuffles before my retirement from Uncle Sam’s family business.
I’m probably a contender for the oldest man alive, you’ll never see me on the second last page of a newspaper though. Once I got away from the service, I did everything I could to live a life as small, and out of the way as possible.
I came to the conclusion last year that being able to get my own mail and wipe my own ass, doesn’t mean I still have a couple of decades left. This old war machine is falling apart, but before I do I want to share some things with you.
At this point I have nothing to lose. Most people will think I’m just a crazy old bastard, and the rest, well, what are the G-men gonna do if they catch wind, kill me? If they manage to find enough functioning nerves to torture, they’ve done a better job than my last 2 doctors, so good on them.
What I’m saying is, I’ve got nothing to lose. But maybe, I’ve got something to give.
It was 1922, a few years after my life meant something, and a decade and a half before it would again.
No wife, no kids, I wasn’t a drifter, but not for lack of trying. Something kept bringing me back to a small town in Michigan, year after year though.
Didn’t take to being a soldier during peace time, not as a young man anyway. I preferred to make my money here and there, see what my country had to offer.
I sat eating my lunch on a park bench, watching folks without heads full of things they shouldn’t have seen walk along blissfully unaware of the cruelty of their fellow man.
I recognized the man that sat down beside me, but that didn’t make me any less suspicious.
“There a war broke out I haven’t heard of? “ I say, lighting up a cigarette.
The man that sits beside me isn’t a soldier, he’s the kind of guy who goes by a last name he was assigned after training. Debriefed me a few times after some of the thickest shit I’ve had to wade through, asked me questions I didn’t understand, and expected answers I didn’t have.
“No corporal, just an opportunity. “ The man I know as Mr. Thompson, says, “What do you know of animation? “
“Cartoons? Kids stuff. “ I say still looking forward, not making eye contact.
“Maybe, maybe. But, it’s big business Hiram. “ Thompson says.
“Ethan. “ I correct.
“My mistake.
Ethan, there is a man looking to make a legacy selling cartoons. This man has a friend powerful enough to make this happen. Someone who eats at the same tables my bosses do.
He’s looking to be the Henry Ford of what he does, he isn’t the first, but he aims to be the biggest and best.
He has his artists, he has his inventors, and now he needs a few men like yourself to make sure those guys can do their jobs. “ I don’t like the way Thompson talks, he’s taking up a lot of my time to say very little.
“Let’s get to brass tacks here.
Why in the lord’s name, would a bunch of civilian doodlers need me? “ I say, standing up to throw away the remains of my lunch.
“Well, that’s not something I can say to someone who hasn’t signed on.
But every man has a price, even for an unknown task. And I think I know what yours is . “ Thompson doesn’t sound smug, just, sure.
He was right, and I figured that if I ended up in some kind of sex crime or aiming at folks that didn’t deserve it, I could simply turn and walk away.
Thompson was right, I wasn’t.
“What in the hell is that thing? “ I say pointing to a contraption worn by one of the crew I assume it has to be a weapon of some form.
It has a backpack, full of humming electronics, connected to what looks a little like the business end of a flamethrower, but instead of a nozzle, it’s a massive square camera lens. Leroy, a black man in his early 30’s wears the thing like he’s used to it, testing out the range of motion of the rig as he answers me.
“The most advanced Rotoscope money can buy. This little darling has hours of recording time, and lets us edit the raw footage within a couple hours. “
“If the place is interesting enough. “ Pierre, the director, says. He’s a rat like, cruel looking little man. Without a hint of French accent, despite his claims to have lived there most of his life.
Among the half dozen crew there are a couple of chuckles. But most silently go about checking film gear that I can’t even guess to the function of.
We are kitting ourselves up in a dark warehouse, getting ready to be driven in the back of what looks like a paddy wagon.
Thompson watches us all, I hate his eyes, always scrutinizing but not showing a damn hint of what the man was thinking.
“Ezekiel Greenberg, biologist. “ a man with thick glasses and greased down, parted hair says, offering his hand.
“The hell is that? “ I say, shaking his hand. He has a grip like wet bread.
“ Someone who studies living things. A man of science. “ Ezekiel clarifies.
“Shalom Zeke, why do we need someone like that for making a cartoon?” I ask.
“Everyone. “ Thompson says, loud enough to catch our attention, he motions us over.
“Other than going to some shit hole close 4 hours away, do we get to know what we’re doing now? “ a tall, olive skinned woman says, Sylvia was her name . A few trinkets hang from her wrist. An eclectic combination of various religious symbols.
“I’d assume that was clear.
Pierre and Leroy will be collecting footage. Ezekiel, will be taking notes, and the rest of you will be ensuring this happens in a safe fashion.
You need to understand, everything from the wildlife, to the environment itself is going to be hostile toward you. This place isn’t somewhere you get by accident, and it’s not a place man was meant to be.
You will be encountering threats of a physical, mental and even possibly spiritual nature. “ Thompson starts.
The last member of the squad was a tall, square jawed man named Chauncey . Looks like a fighter, but more likely someone that got his scars in a back alley, not a battlefield.
He wears a white shirt, black suspenders, and a one of those pork pie hats the Brits seem to like.
“Spiritual “ The tall man scoffs. A smirk cracking his pale, scarred face.
Thompson shrugs, “ If you believe in that kind of thing anyway.
Our client is looking for a great reward, you all are being compensated for the great risk.
Anything else, well, you’ll understand when you arrive. Speed and discretion are the order of the day people. “
We barely fit ourselves in the cramped van, and after what I’d put at somewhere around 6 hours of ass destroying potholes and rough terrain we arrive.
We exit the paddy wagon and enter what seems to be a large cave, it’s dim, but not dark, about a half click ahead of us is daylight.
Thompson has me running light. Some kind of Dane submachine gun, a Thompson pistol, and a couple of smoke grenades. Chauncey now wears a cargo vest, hiking boots, and sports nothing more warlike than a large, curved handled knife.
As we approached the exit of the cave, my mind conjured up all kinds of things. Some mundane, some paranormal, all horrifying.
But what I saw when we left the safety of the damp rock made all of those look like pleasant daydreams.
The reek hit me first, a low, deep, smell of industrial waste and rot. Chemical tang and fetid miasma trying to outdo each other for the title of world’s most offensive odor.
Then, my brain struggled to make sense of the sheer amount of motion I was seeing.
I’m going to call where we found ourselves, a forest. But God Damn that’s only because there is no other word I can think of that would fit the bill. Like calling a porcupine a thumbtack really.
All around us were tall, whip-like, dirty, grey, not-quite-wooden things. Each bounced and swayed as if dancing to the beat of some song we couldn’t hear. It seemed impossible, the sheer weight of the things should be tearing apart the hard packed, red tinted soil.
Ezekiel, despite looking like a poindexter, runs fearlessly over to one of the ‘Trees ‘, he scratches at it with a small pocket knife, and pushes it with his hand.
“It’s rock solid! “ he says, having to duck to avoid an especially low sway.
“That’s great Zeke, but get the hell away from it! “ I say, doing my best drill sergeant impression.
He actually takes a couple seconds to mull it over before getting back with the group.
“Leroy! Get about 15 minutes of this for B-roll. “ Pierre demands,.
Leroy sighs and the machine he’s lugging starts to hum as he aims it around us.
Chauncey pulls out a map, I see the mountain, a body of water, and the forest.
“We have about a two kilometer hike before we get to the river, I suggest making as little noise as possible as we do so. “ The scarred man says, glowering at Pierre.
“You been here before? “ I ask.
“I’ve been to every jungle on earth, this being the only exception.
Wiggly trees or not, It’s no more dangerous than any of them. “ Chauncey answers.
The forest is full of things, if I described them all, we’d be here all night. But each and every one of them seems like an attempt, or a mockery of something natural.
Fleshy rocks that seem to be grinning or scowling at the right angle.
Four legged deer like things, with massive human eyes, and bobbing, tiny heads.
Or even, small flitting insects that seem to whisper as they buzz by.
The place feels, Weird, menacing, and in a way I can’t describe, purpose built.
My heart pounds and I grip the smg. I don’t like the look of the wildlife, beyond the obvious they seem, smart. There’s a hint of understanding behind every twisted, manic creature’s eyes.
I notice Sylvia taking something from a small, brass container and dropping it on the ground every so often.
“Breadcrumbs?
I think the big guy is here to find our way back. “ I say, trying to start a conversation to keep my mind off of this nightmare.
“ The ashes of a holy man. “ She says.
“Roma, I’m guessing? “ I say, trying to place her accent.
“Gypsy, and proud of it. “ she says, spitting on the ground, “ That’s for the Roma. “
I chuckle.
“Think that stuff is going to keep us safe? “ I ask as something in the treeline catches my eye.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out. “ I like her answer, but not the implication.
I start to wonder why I’m feeling seasick, but Leroy brings the topic up first.
“There’s no horizon. “ He says, fearfully.
And the man isn’t wrong.
As the forest begins to thin, there is no end in sight, no curve at which you just can’t see. I can make out structures, water and islands for what must be hundreds of kilometers away.
Ezekiel seems enraptured.
“This place, it can’t exist. “ He says, taking notes as we walk, “ This is just… an impossibility. Even if there were a place, flat enough, where could it be? We are seeing sun, so we can’t be underground.
Completely fascinating “
I hate the bookworm’s glee, but he isn’t wrong.
It takes us almost until the ‘treeline’ to notice the bodies.
They are entwined with the roots of the dancing, swaying, tree-like things. Looking half eaten, faces frozen for eternity, or slightly twitching in their last moments of life.
“Obviously we are going to need to edit… those out. “ Pierre says.
His callousness makes me want to break his jaw.
“People live here? “ I say, half to myself.
“These people were either brought here or came here. “ Chauncey says, matter of factly, “ Wherever we are, it’s far away from The States, I doubt if there were folks who called this place home, they’d be wearing dungarees and skirts we’ve all seen at Woolworths. “
My head is on a swivel as we hit the ‘treeline’ finally getting a clear view of the massive body of murky, green water.
And the floating carnival of horror it held.
The ships had no sense of conformity, each a unique, impossible barge of rotten wood, rusted steel, and what appeared to be worked human remains.
We could have chose any number of the hundreds floating by, each was it’s own impossibly buoyant war crime.
But Pierre pointed out one that bore a slight resemblance to an old fashioned steam boat, if you squinted real hard. Horse toothed pipes belched thick, almost inky smoke from its roof. They snap and fight with each other like stray dogs.
At it’s helm was a squat, pug faced, almost goblinoid thing. It’s skin was shadow black, with weeping grey sores. It wore gore stained overalls cut into short pants.
In front of it is a breaking wheel, some poor soul bound to it, screaming as the maniac creature twists the torture implement, sending the barge on a crazy, zig zagging journey.
Pierre looks rapt, swatting Leroy in the arm and pointing. Say what you will about my reasons for signing up, watching this bastard get his jollies watching someone be slowly torn apart makes my trigger finger itch.
Behind the first creature comes a second, a massive, flesh Mountain of a thing, clad in a robe of sorts, stitched together from what must be the outfits of a dozen people.
The interaction is brutal, half fight half conversation, but as the massive one takes the wheel, we notice none of the horrific blows caused any kind of lasting harm.
“Think your pistols and knives will keep us safe? “ Sylvia says with a smirk. She pats a black velvet bag at her side.
“If we just get the footage and get out we won’t need to be kept safe. “ Chauncey says.
We slowly creep along the treeline following the barge, it’s destination seems to be a long, dock, it’s wood is pale, and warped, it’s timber sways slightly.
The ship pulls up, and a strange device, some kind of harness on an almost gallows like structure swings toward the barge of it’s own accord.
The two fiends open a hatch in the deck and drag forth something no horror of war before or since could match.
Two people, torn apart and crudely stitched together into four legged, almost bovine abomination.
This wasn’t some Frankenstein’s monster .Some marvel of a mad mind. No, as it was dragged and slammed into the harness, it became crystal clear, that this was just two poor folks, ripped apart and jammed together living their final moments, wracked in pain, confused and crippled.
Both things stand covered in gore, grinning, inflicting damage upon each other in celebration of, whatever the hell they just did. The two corpses twist and scream as the harness slides down the dock with a wooden grating noise.
Chauncey is trying to look unfazed, Ezekiel looks about two seconds away from a heart attack.
I close my eyes, trying to find some sense of calm, some sense of reality in this mess.
“We need to go, now. “ Sylvia says.
I open my eyes and see why.
Both of the things, 2, maybe 3 kilometers away, seem to be staring directly at us.
“Stay calm, they could be looking at anything. “ Chauncey says.
The small almost rodent like one waves.
Pierre tries to protest, but before he can get started I slam the butt of the smg into the bridge of his nose. His demands turn to a scream, as I grab him, and shove the insufferable little prick back the way we came.
We sprint, the forest around us begins to go mad with motion, behind us a deafening roar of water and rage.
I can’t help but look.
The ship raises itself on tubular, pulsing legs, hundreds of meters long. . It bears a giant, idiot grin, it’s Maw square toothed and flanked by massive doll like eyes.
The creatures aboard plant instruments constructed of flesh and bone, the racket still audible over the displaced water and supernatural rage.
As we sprint toward the mouth of the cave, we hear other, smaller noises all around us, I see the rat like, evil little prick turn around and the look on his face tells me he hasn’t learned his lesson.
I grab a fistful of shirt and intend to put him out and sling the half-a-man over my shoulder. When I do, he shoves something in my face.
I know what it is and let go of the evil little manlet.
“There is charge in the rotoscope capable of destroying everything within 200 feet.
Leroy! Get me footage of that thing! We did not come here to fail. “ Pierre grins as he talks.
Leroy listens, the sounds around us get closer.
“Why? Just answer me that. “ I say.
“Because I believe in Mr. D. I believe in his vision, and if that costs me my life, so be it. “ Is his reply.
The little prick looks like a cult member.
Chauncey takes off his vest, drawing a massive kukri. Sylvia begins to take items out of her bag, and begins to recite something in a language I’ve never heard.
A dozen or so things come out of the forest, no bigger than a dog, all almost perfect clones of the small, rodent like thing on the ship.
They are dressed in motley, each seeming to be a different profession. One looks like a doctor, another a dock worker, a third might be a waiter or usher.
They swarm the massive man, but in an instant I can tell the guy is used to dealing with dangerous creatures.
He moves and stabs with his knife, never getting too close. After a few seconds we see that the small creatures are no where near as resilient as the one on the barge.
I try to get an angle for a shot, but I don’t feel confidant I could do it without hitting Chauncey.
But he doesn’t seem to need the help.
Tiny, onyx, pock filled limbs fly, screaming goblin-like creatures hit the dirt.
Sylvia’s chant reaches a crescendo, I feel pressure, objects she’s placed around her begin to rattle.
The ship is close now, maybe a half kilometer away and closing fast.
Faster than Chauncy’s dodge.
The big man stumbles, a piece missing from the back of his thigh. Before he can regain his stance, two, then three of the things are on him.
They make short work of him once he hits the ground. The man is gutted like a trout in seconds.
“Stay close. “ Sylvia says, she stands with her eyes closed, sweat starting to bead on her brow.
“More footage! “ Pierre screams, Leroy says something to him in French, all I made out was Merde.
We stand next to Sylvia, as the things start to close in, the boat looms like the face of God himself, but something is keeping this unholy horde about twenty feet from us.
I fire a burst at the boat, I might as well have spit at it. Another at the crowd of cloned Rats, but the move long before the rounds hit.
Sylvia begins to slowly walk backward, the monsters advancing with her pace.
“How long can you keep this up?” I ask
“I don’t know, less if I have to keep talking. “ She says curtly.
The pace is slow, but we can’t be more than a hundred meters from the mouth of the cave.
Sylvia stumbles for a moment, the pressure around us begins to lighten, she sweeps one arm out, trying to regain balance.
I saw nothing but a blur, then in an instant Sylvia’s arm was pierced by the tip of one of the tree-like things branches.
She’s dragged into the air, screaming, blood from her arm falling like rain.
I try shooting the branch, sparks, noise and nothing more.
The horde takes it’s time, closing in like nightfall.
I change magazines.
“What are we going to do! “ Ezekiel screams.
I take in a deep breath, line up my target and hope my sharpshooting skills aren’t too rusty.
The burst severs her arm, I drop the weapon, doing my best to cushion her fall. Two ribs crack, I scream as we hit the ground.
Zeke, to his credit begins to dress the wound immediately. Judging by the small medical kit he had on him, he probably has enough skill to do the job well enough till we can find a hospital.
“This is no monster Hiram. “ Sylvia says, pain making her words clipped.
“So we’re fucked? “ I say, assuming the obvious.
“ I have no ward, or command that will sway them.
They may accept a sacrifice. “ She says.
I hesitate, some people need killing, that’s not what bothers me. But looking at these things, these impossible, powerful things, I understand what I’m doing.
I’m not just killing a man, I’m making a sacrifice to things that are either demons, or close enough to it, it doesn’t matter.
But if I don’t…
“Pierre, I’m going to make you an offer. We duke it out. Whichever one of us is left standing gets to walk away. “ I say, standing.
“I’ll end us all before I let you lay a hand on me. “ The smug little shit says brandishing the detonator.
My knife isn’t as big as Chauncy’s, but it’s sharp, and small enough to conceal up a sleeve.
The detonator falls as the blade severs the tendons in Pierre’s wrist.
He Tries to come at me, I let him, for a few seconds, I take his blows, my lip splits, a cracked rib pulses with pain.
Then I aim the pistol downward, it turns his kneecap into a dripping rose of bone and flesh.
I turn to face the horde, the barge itself lowers its body, staring at us from two feet away. Rank seawater breath hits us like a mortar.
As I talk Sylvia repeats what I say in that same landless language.
“ He’s yours, I, Hiram Benson, give you this man. In exchange, we leave. “ I say, trying to make eye contact with the demonic construct.
I felt something then. Like a bloom of sadness deep inside of my brain. A cold, dim spot that never really went away.
“Turn around, slowly. “ Sylvia says, putting one arm around my shoulders.
We make it back to the cave, and to that same warehouse. Leaving parts of our bodies and likely, souls, behind.
You looking for a happy ending? Well, we all got paid, and for what it’s worth Sylvia made it through real surgery.
But, the thing is, that ain’t the end.
No, here is where you need to worry.
Those things we so ignorantly recorded, those things that have a part of my soul. They were more than we knew. Their danger wasn’t limited to claws and teeth.
See, some of them, they can live in images. A piece of themselves stays in every copy. And kids, there are a lot of copies, Mr. D, and others sent plenty of teams just like mine into those places. Layered a happy face over the frantic evil, and put them in homes, theatres and schools across the world.
In fact, I’d bet a lot of you have one or two sitting around right now. A DVD bought in a bargain bin, maybe a video you watched on YouTube.
You’ve felt it, you’ve seen it, now you understand it. My advice, just let these things die, let these macabre melodies get lost in time. Don’t go searching old cartoons to see if you can catch a glimpse, an untouched frame of pure evil.
Now, I’ve never been one to turn down a paycheck, and if you folks need any more lessons from an old man who might not see summer, let me know down in the comments.
Otherwise, I hope you are the first generation to actually listen to your elders.
Link to Part 2
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/NpLJFLytbM