Link to part 1.
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/13m6lv7/the_big_rock_candy_mountain_book_2_finding_art/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
The night crawls by, every noise from beyond the reinforced door sets me on edge. Every scrape, and foot step full of grim possibility.
I don’t know if it was a dream or a vision, but the grotesque beauty of that half wooden thing is burned into my mind’s eye. I fear for my sanity, my autonomy, and my safety.
As I stare at the grim industrial cement of the walls, a little voice whispers to me from the back of my mind. This voice has nothing to do with living plant matter, or mysterious old burn outs. No, this evil, insidious fucking voice I’ve known long before my life started defying reason.
I hate myself, but for the first time, in a long time, I want, no, I fucking need a hit of something terrible.
I check my phone, our jailers didn’t seem too thorough in their search, seeing as we are kilometers deep into a space distorted wood mill from hell, they probably didn’t feel much need to.
It’s 7:00 am, and Mike rises, using the chemical toilet with a convict’s lack of shame.
“You know something I don’t? “ I say, miserably.
Mike stretches, and sits on the bed leaning back against the grimy wall.
“Probably, but I want to change that.
Some point soon, they’re going to take one of us, and start removing pieces to see if they can get a reaction out of Jim and the boys. “ Mike starts fiddling with the cuff of his suit jacket as he talks.
“Did you hear them talking or something? “ I say, confused, knowing the man had been out cold.
“No.
Kidnappings, are cookie cutter things. They go one of a handful of ways, trust me.
Neither of us are kids, and we know the Copy Clan are doing this for a reason. So we can take most of the options off the table.
They haven’t killed one of us, so logic dictates they intend to either let us go, or tear us up a bit. “ As Mike finishes he tears a two inch or so hole in the cuff of his jacket.
“But We’ve still got about four hours to go. “ I say, continuing Mike’s thought.
“Very good, Kev.
These guys are on edge, and judging by the human sacrifice, and ritual bullshit, I don’t think they are versed in the art of torture so much as the love of it. We won’t last an hour, let alone four. “ Mike is serious, but still possessed of that mercenary calm of his.
The only thing that’d get me feeling like that at the moment comes from low rent apartments and low character people.
Mike shakes his sleeve and out falls a dozen or so pistol rounds. They look old, and tarnished.
He pulls out what at first, I think is a cell phone, but immediately I notice it’s a bit too thick. My suspicions are confirmed as Mike twists and reassembles it into a small, but dangerous looking pistol. He loads and tucks it in an inside pocket of his jacket.
“But you think you have these guys figured out? “ I say, challenging Mike’s bravado.
He looks at me for a minute, silent, I begin to feel nervous.
“I did, until you said that.
What do you know Kev? “ Mike’s question is bordering on threat, the look he gives me brings back memories of missing teeth.
My gut instinct is to lie, I know there’s no way I’m going to convince this maniac that there is something here worth saving.
I shake my head, I feel a small smirk start to form.
“Something was in my head.
There’s something else here, it tried to convince me that it was some kind of victim, that I needed to help it. “ My words don’t dispel my fear, but I as I speak them I start to get a grip on the situation.
“But you felt it didn’t you? You caught a whiff of paranormal bullshit.
Wonder why I wanted you along? I was useless as hell when I got here, the Path and the Mountain? They were a crash course in what this corner of reality is all about. And there’s only one other person I know of who’s passed. “ Mike grins, the man can wash off the makeup, and wear a discount rack suit, but that fang like smile is the same as always.
“You don’t think they’re taking you, do you? “ The chuckle at the end of my sentence is mirthless, the soundtrack to grim acceptance.
“No, and in order for me to be able to do my thing, you are going to have to think on your feet.
I don’t know what you should be expecting, but you need to drag it out. “ Mike is searching his jacket, and finds a small lump, he moves it to the tear in his cuff and produces a book of matches.
As he takes the worn, faded pack out of the jacket, I feel a sense of foreboding. Like most important things in my life, something is clearly off about these matches.
Mike puts them back in a suit pocket and that sense of dread subsides.
“So, that’s it, pack of spooky matches, sneaky pistol, and banking on me?
Gotta say Mike, my faith in these Watcher assholes is pretty low. First we get caught, and it doesn’t exactly seem like Plan B had too much effort put into it. “ I Bitch for the sake of it, knowing we have to play the hand we’re dealt.
But something, it doesn’t seem quite right. Like there is a piece of the plan neither Mike nor myself are privy to.
“Yeah, something isn’t clicking into place here. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it. We can’t miss the forest for the trees here.
For now, we both have a job to do. “ Mike knows, or thinks he knows more than he’s saying. I’m honestly thankful he isn’t choosing to share, I’ve had just about as much shitty news as I can take at the moment.
Around an hour later the door to the cell is opened by a pair of men.
Larger than the rest, at first glance, they don’t seem as deformed and twisted as many of their counterparts deep within the mill.
They wear loose overalls, hung with nasty looking tools that look like they would be just as efficient at shaping flesh as wood.
Muffled is the best way I can describe their movements, like the outside of their bodies are simply layers and layers of dead tissue, being moved from deep within.
As I see Their sunken eyes, and teeth set in deep recessed mouths, I realize how inhuman these particular golems are.
One points to me, and with one stiff, browning, leather like finger beckons me forward.
I feel like I’m being marched toward an electric chair. Every cell in my body screaming at me to fight or run, but that yoke of civilization pushing me forward, dignity trumping survival instinct.
Once upon a time I would have closed my eyes, or looked away from the horrors unfolding around me. But I force myself to watch the dark work , to try and understand, to try and sift some clue or meaning behind the ritual.
The victims are in various states of life, from screaming and mutilated beyond belief, to pristine and shackled, waiting their first attentions from Spaceshapers.
If this is what they do in the open, I shudder to think what they have in store for me in whatever dark corner of this place they are taking me.
I wish I could help, I wish I could do something to stop the casual, almost, mechanical violence around me.
But I promise myself that I won’t let this be in vain. I won’t let the people around me be treated like building materials and cheap cuts of meat for nothing.
I notice the repetition, each of the flesh puppets moving almost as if on tracks, taking exact amounts of steps, moving their limbs to exact degrees. From time to time, something stops this, some break in the rhythm, some stumble or misstep, and it causes short lived brutal fights.
Their chanting isn’t gibberish, the overlapping chatter is hard to sort with the din of the machines and the scrape of handtools, but I pick up bits and pieces. They talk of making space, of crafting bulwarks against time, space, and Gods.
I try to burn every horrific sight into my mind. To get any edge I can.
I’m taken into a room, wide and empty, the back wall is deep in shadows, and in the center is an old tall workbench. The top is covered in decades of glue, stain and blood.
I’m cuffed through a steel eye bolt in the table. I chuckle to myself, wondering how many other people have been handcuffed on two separate occasions without police involvement.
The air is dry, sawdust sits in layers on the floor and stuck to the walls. There is a rotten, spoiled sap like reek.
The shadowy room is full of dark Promises and evil potential. I can’t control the racing of my heart, but I try and stay coherent.
There are a few stools in the room, waist high. Ceiling is a mess of support struts and rusted lighting. Cuffs are new, but the eye bolt…
“Well how the fuck’s it going Kev? “ Ed says from behind me, I hear his footsteps, but also something else, a dull, meaty thump.
“Been better. “ I say, trying to channel a little bit of Mike, Ed laughs, I assume I failed.
“Don’t be like that Kevin, all of this is just a big business deal really. You are taking things too personal. “ I hear Ed take a wide path, keeping himself out of my line of sight for as long as possible. His work boots making muffled thuds on the cement floor, that other noise, getting more frequent and aggressive.
“I’ve been told the same thing by shit like yourself for a couple of years now.
Not getting any more comforting. “ I’m doing my best to keep the conversation going, I don’t know how long Mike needs, but once Ed starts in on me, I don’t think I have, long.
“Shit like myself?
Oh you think I’m… no Kev, all I am is white, getting on in years and Christian. I’m not a void touched, thanks for the ego stroke though. “ Ed finally steps in front of me, and I see the source of the noise.
It’s old and red oak handled. It has a bright steel head, with a claw end, cleaned to a surgical shine. I can’t take my eyes off of the hammer.
“No, I married in Kev. And me and the old lady have been keeping folks happy for a long time.
Wasn’t easy finding her old man, even harder finding what he wanted for his daughter’s hand. But I did it, wound up a little farther away from the light of God, but a lot closer to things with more… earthly power.
And hey, the G-man has to forgive me, doesn’t he? “ Ed laughs like a lunatic, ending his insane chortle by slamming the hammer into the layered surface of the table.
The sound is dull, but it sends shards of ancient glue, varnish and blood into my face.
“So what does that have to do with us? “ I say, a drop of sweat and blood falls into my eye, I try to blink it away, but my vision stays red and blurry in one eye.
“Ever heard of a Wood Spirit? Dryad, nymph, things like that? ” Ed says, I assume the question is rhetorical, a quick tap with the hammer makes my vision swim and tells me my assumption was wrong.
“I get the gist. “ I say, forcing myself to make eye contact with the man.
Those eyes are yellowed, bloodshot, and on the verge of horrible things.
“Well, the Old Lady, she’s within spitting distance of all that Dungeons and Dragons, hippie pagan bullshit.
Only, she’s more like, fatwood, you know what fatwood is Kev?
When a tree gets sick and parts of it start to die, sometimes the resin and nutrients get pulled to the living parts of the tree. As it rots, it creates fatwood. Real useful stuff, can start a fire soaking wet, burns for hours, but it’s the death knell of the tree.
The old lady is why I can keep making little pocket dimensions for people like your buddy Art, she’s the reason why I’ve been alive since the states were young.
She pulls those nutrients from the other branches of her family tree, but those branches are getting harder and harder to find.
Your bosses, they want to try and buy me off with some trinkets and cash. They don’t want to get their hands really dirty, dragging forest spirits, wood nymphs and whatever the hell else back here for Ma to process.
So, I’m going to give them a little choice, their folks, or Ma’s family. “ His voice gets calm and quiet as he talks, as he finishes he brings the hammer down on my in tact hand. Not hard enough to break anything, but the pain makes me cling to wakefulness and fight back a wave of nausea.
Ed opens a drawer in the workbench, and draws out a 90’s era camera. The red recording light turns on, and it’s analogue internals grind to life.
My mind scrambles to find some purchase, to do something besides focus on the blinding pain, and mounting horror.
“What was with the dream? If you were just planning on torturing me, why the head games last night? “ my intent is to keep him in monologue mode, but a cloud flashes over Ed’s face.
“The fuck are you talking about? “ he says, sauntering his way toward me.
He begins to tap the hammer lightly against my skull, as if picking a spot to strike.
“I thought I was talking about you screwing with my head. “ I say, giving away as little as possible.
Ed cocks the hammer backward in a flash, my heart stops, but I force myself to talk, “ I wouldn’t do that, if my eggs get all scrambled, you never get to find out if I am full of shit or not. “, my voice is shaking, but my point is solid.
Ed puts on a grin that is made for being a last sight.
“You think I keep that Bitch on a long enough leash to cause me trouble? “ the Spaceshaper says, kneeling, he digs the claw end of the hammer into my kneecap.
The shadows behind ed seem to shift slightly, the small, rustling noises from within getting more frequent.
“I think if this didn’t matter I’d be at minute ten of a snuff film by now. “, Ed digs the claw deeper as I speak, daring me to push my luck, “ I’m not trying to pull some power move, I think I’m sitting on some information that can buy me, another couple of hours of you haggling with James before you resort to… this.
You agree? Or am I going to be walking in strange circles the rest of my life. “
Ed’s face lights up at the morbid dad-joke and he laughs, almost warmly, clapping his hand on my shoulder. Its calloused and has a grip like iron.
“ I’ll give you an hour, that’s if you have anything to tell. “ Ed drives the claw end of the hammer into the table, burying it like an axe.
I have his attention, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep it.
Believe it or not, before this I’ve never been much of a writer. Hell even now, let’s face it, I’m, okay at best. But I’ve always been a top notch liar.
I swing for the fences.
I take every shred of knowledge I’ve picked up, and put my own spin on it. If this was Art standing in front of me, whatever the fuck he is, I probably couldn’t have gotten away with the fabrication.
But this guy, this paranormal tourist, how much does he really know?
I talk without saying much, but I pepper in enough of the truth to keep him interested.
I’ve never been so nervous in a conversation. It was the verbal equivalent of a Parkour routine, every sentence has to be interesting, but every twist of the truth is more dangerous than the last.
After about twenty minutes I’ve spun a story of being some kind of cryptozoologist, found the path chasing Junior, and know all about “The Old Lady” and her family.
He’s buying a lot of it, but not the whole package. The guy is greedy, wanting to squeeze a little bit extra blood out of the rock that is me, but he knows how desperate I am too.
He paces, facing away from me, the mumbling he’s doing is for my benefit, the words I can pick out are low and menacing.
Fun fact about the year I spent between escaping the mountain and now, there was a decent amount of reconstructive surgery on my hand. Believe it or not, bronze age caliber battlefield amputations do not tend to heal very well.
What I’m saying is, I’m missing a couple of bones next to my thumb. And as the smell of smoke starts to creep into the festering warehouse like room, I hope that’s enough to get out of one of the cuffs.
Ed notices the smell too, and turns his attention toward the industrial door closing us in. He walks over, as the dull hum of old overhead speakers kicks on.
I put my bodyweight on my thumb, muscles strain, tear and fold, the cuffs clatter slightly, but between the white noise of the speakers and the smoke, Ed doesn’t notice.
There is a mechanical sounding screech of feedback that I’m sure is purposeful, I know who is going to speak, long before I hear his voice. It’s a perfect impression of a 60’s radio announcer.
Don’t ask me to explain Mike, I just appreciate him.
“Hey cool cats and hep kids, this is Jimmy Bonamo spinning the hits and cutting more than records on W-FUKT.
Today’s weather is combustible with a chance of random violence. “
Ed is enraged, heaving on the sliding industrial door, something is blocking it’s progress.
The surgically fused bones in my hand protest, but just as they feel like they are going to shatter, the cuff slides off of my hand.
When Mike speaks again, it’s not the man I talked with in my kitchen, but that clown garbled killer from the path.
“But in all seriousness Ed, these flesh robots of yours, they don’t pass the Turing test. “ There is a wet, meaty noise over the speakers, “ And this wood of your’s , takes a bit to get going, but with the right firestarter…. “
There is an small explosion from within the woodshop, I use the rising din to cover the noise of tearing the hammer free.
Mike cackles over the speakers, I can see bright yellow flame through the crack in the door.
I’m feet behind Ed now, hammer ready to bury itself in the back of the man’s skull.
I know the chaos outside isn’t as bad as it seems, that despite the way it sounds Mike is likely in just as desperate of a situation as I am. But Ed doesn’t know this.
No, to Ed, and the half brained things manning the woodmill, this must seem like retribution, Devine or infernal.
Instinct makes me put a hand on Ed’s shoulder before I strike. Not a good instinct, or a useful one, but years of television have trained me.
He spins as I swing the hammer, the steel head slamming into his shoulder.
At first I’m wary, thinking this man has some last trick up his sleeve. Some hidden weapon or, third arm, or whatever random bullshit the universe wants to throw at me.
But as we grapple and struggle for the hammer, the only weapon in this rapidly smoke filling room, I realize, we are both just people.
After all of the things I’ve been through, all of the literal monsters, my story might end at the hands of a man that has been middle aged for a hundred years.
Neither of us are fighters, but we both know the stakes. From the outside the gradeschool level of fighting skill may have seemed funny under different circumstances.
We’re rolling through discarded nails and debris, our blood adding to the ageless collection already soaked into cement and sawdust.
My elbow hits the workbench, my good hand goes numb, the hammer is wrenched from my grip, and I throw myself to the ground.
Ed buries the tool into the wood of the desk, where my head was a quarter second before.
I get to my feet, dodging another swing of the hammer, it comes close enough to tear a gash in my cheek.
Ed is on the attack, his feet are stable, and the look in his eyes tells me he is looking for someone to take his frustrations out on.
If Ed was a technology loving man, I’d have hit him with a cell phone. He’d have buried the hammer in my skull, and had no problem torturing me to death.
But either being a luddite, or trying to keep with some kind of analogue horror aesthetic, what I grabbed from the table, was that massive, nearly suitcase sized 90’s camera.
It breaks, but not before snapping his head back like a car wreck, and shattering his nose and teeth.
The hammer sitters into the depths of the room, but I’ve grabbed one of the stools, it’s awkward, but Ed is dazed, struggling to get to his feet.
I don’t know if you can kill someone with a stool, but I intend to find out.
“Ma! “ Ed screams, blood from his broken face spraying the ground.
The organic, breaking, tearing noise shakes the room, pieces of the structure give way in an instant, the sliding door falling off it’s tracks.
The mill proper has a half dozen open fires, the mimic like creatures try their best to douse the grey tinged flames, but nothing seems to properly put them out.
Behind me, is a creature that is a mockery of the unearthly beauty from my dream. It tears trailing roots from the walls and ceiling around it, causing power surges and outages through the Mill.
It’s nearly fifteen feet tall, a giant, and it’s twisted, almost human face looks at me with rage and betrayal.
I’ve made it out the door before the stool stops rolling. The thing behind me isn’t some limping abomination I could bludgeon or outwit.
The mill is a vision of hell, cursed sawdust turns to screaming embers, torture victims scramble for freedom, hobbled or simply to tired and mutilated to run.
I don’t bother looking for Mike, I see the most human of Ed’s children armed with Wal mart rifles or handguns, taking wild shots where they think he might be.
He’s either dead, or on his way to me. Either way, I run.
In the chaos, I’m just another body, anything with a brain is trying to stop anything without one from burning to death, or destroying the creatures around it with a violent tantrum.
The screeching, rage filled plant thing behind me is slowed, but I push myself faster, desperate to get out of this hell hole. Any sense of confidence or power I had was dashed once fifteen feet of nightmare tore itself from the wall.
Mike’s waiting at the lobby doors, purposely looking casual, but matches my stride, we sprint through the blacktop parking lot. Twenty or so of Ed’s children closing in, and the forest thing gaining more speed than seems possible now that it is out in the open.
Gunfire begins to close in around us, a lucky round puts a deep gouge in Mike’s arm. Almost instinctively he draws the pistol, turns, and fires a round into the crowd.
I don’t understand why Mike would waste his time, with the novelty looking thing, until the round makes contact.
Six of the human shaped things turn into piles of gore and wood pieces. My faith in the watchers increases marginally.
My faith in Mike drops, as he turns for a second shot and the recoil takes the awkwardly shaped pistol from his hand. Another four of Ed’s children down, but they are within twenty feet and closing fast.
The end of the forest lined roadway is in sight, at the very last, I can’t see them taking their army of horrors in the middle of the highway.
But fear and determination can only take a person so far. Mike starts to outpace me, and it dawns on me that I’m not going to make the exit before being swarmed.
Mike turns to the left the second he leaves the forest, I don’t blame him, but it doesn’t exactly give me comfort.
The forest creature blocks out the last of the light from behind me and I feel a six fingered hand grab me by the wrist.
Four police officers step onto the path in unison, their eyes are white and shifting, like thick smoke, not that it hampers their aim any.
Whatever is behind me sprays me with gore, and it’s grip goes slack.
I break through the cordon, as armed creatures behind me take cover and begin focusing on the actual danger.
The half wood thing seems to dissolve into the forest, despite it’s size.
Albert stands slightly off to the side of the police, covered from the gunfire and the horror by the foliage.
He smokes a cigar sized joint, and with every exhale the smoke cloud wafts to the officers in defiance of the building wind.
Mike is talking to James, who stands casually taking cover behind a car door. I join them half way through a conversation.
Mike is exhausted, and hurt, leaning against the police car.
“I’d say it’s time we ask our friend for some help. “ James says, his tone seems to be chastising Mike, “ Do you agree? “
“Just open the fucking doors old man. “Mike says pointing toward the horse trailer we had been towing behind the minibus.
As if in response, the doors spring open, a padlock shatters, and a twisted, feline head, easily the size of an engine block cranes out at an impossible angle.
“Hello Kev. “ The creature says, as it pulls it’s massive, lopsided form from the trailer.
I know it’s junior, but my fucking lord.
He could step on a tiger, hundreds upon hundreds of pounds of Path born flesh, no two limbs the same length, with teeth following suit. But somehow, Junior moved with an insectile grace. His fur was patchy and mottled, but he looked strong, and full of violence.
One of the officers falls, neck spraying blood, the flesh creatures close in, and I see dark shadows near the edge of the treeline.
Junior charges into the homonculai, gunfire having no effect on the displaced monster, he makes short work of the last of Ed’s children.
I’m sweating, panicked, overwhelmed by the chaos of the forest.
I see the toad faced woman, giggling to herself, and point to cars as they come within eyeshot. Each one makes a dangerous u turn before they get too close.
I see James, calmly watching the events assured out the outcome.
I see junior, moving through the trees like a bladed wind, dragging the Forest creature out of it’s illusion. The fight is one sided, neither gunfire, nor the flames of Mike’s cursed matches harmed the half-wood thing, but Juniors claws, and twisted, randomly angled teeth tear through her oaken skin like paper.
And finally, I see Mike, the look we share is a conversation.
This isn’t a cluster fuck that the watchers just pulled us out of. No, this was all to carefully planned out, this required way too many moving pieces.
Whatever deal they struck with Ed, it was pretense, it was the foot in the door they needed to set up this situation, to get the tree-thing.
James makes Mike call junior off before it can decapitate the creature, confirming my suspicions. Albert makes the remaining three police officers load it’s limbless, mangled form into a U-Haul truck.
It truly sinks in that this group of elderly psychonaughts, they have power, reach and motives neither Mike nor Myself actually understand.
I’ve never needed a line so bad in my life.
Link to Part 3
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/145thkq/finding_art_part_3_infinite_oldsmobile/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button