Corridors

CORRIDORS

Edited by Robert  Poyton

THIS IS AN INNSMOUTH GOLD BOOK

978-1-7399855-4-7  E-book

Copyright@ 2022 R Poyton.

Originally published 2022

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

electronic or mechanical means including information storage and

retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts

in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

www.innsmouthgold.com

Cover and interior art by Graveheart Designs

www.facebook.com/graveheartdesigns

"This world is a veil, and the face you

wear is not your own."

- Joel Theriot, True Detective

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

TROGLODYTES - B Harlan Crawford

THE PHANTOM BLUES -  Tim Mendees

IMMUNE  - Ron Fein

CORRIDORS  - Robert Poyton

ACROSS THE SUNLESS SEA  - Lee Clark Zumpe

MYSTERY MEAT - Andy Joynes

COULOIR-ONZE - EL Giles

AND THEY WALKED IN THE MORNING LIGHT - Ian Delacroix

FARM - John Houlihan

THE TALE OF INQUISITOR SHAN - Tony Bradbury

CHAMBER 359X    -John DeLaughter

THE NOVEL OF THE YELLOW HARVEST  - Miguel Fliguer  & Mike Slater

THE WRITING ON THE WALL - Russell Smeaton

BIOGRAPHIES

FOREWORD

HP Lovecraft had many influences as a writer, and he was never reticent about recognising them. One of these was Robert W. Chambers (1865-1933), a painter turned author who published his greatest horror work when Lovecraft still a child.  However, The King in Yellow was reprinted many times and HPL spoke of it fondly.

Chambers was born in Brooklyn on May 26, 1865, to a wealthy family.  At a young age he discovered his love of nature and outdoor sportsmanship, and a talent for drawing. In 1886, he moved to Paris for seven years to study at the École des Beaux Arts and, later, the Julien Academy. He first exhibited in the Paris salon in 1889. On his return to New York in 1893, he began selling illustrations and writing, publishing his first novel the next year.  At that time, horror and ghost tales were very  fashionable. Perhaps inspired by the success of Ambrose Bierce, Henry James, F. Marion Crawford, E.E. Nesbit, and others, in 1895, Chambers published a remarkable collection of ten eerie short stories, The King in Yellow.

The title refers to a fictional play which forms a common thread in a collection of otherwise unrelated  stories. The play is said to drive all who read insane. The first four stories in particular, The Repairer of Reputations, The Mask, In the Court of the Dragon, and  The Yellow Sign, recount the horrific experiences of  people who come across copies of the rare and banned play.  Despite the success of The King in Yellow, Chambers rarely returned to the macabre, becoming very famous instead as a writer of historical novels and contemporary fiction. However, following his death, he virtually disappeared to the point of being almost totally forgotten.  Not until the resurgence of interest in HPL, and corresponding interest in his influences, did Chamber's star rise again, though this time for that uniquely disquieting collection, The King in Yellow. Its influence has expanded from Lovecraft scholarship circles to its own a fully-formed branch of the Cthulhu mythos.  Its tentacles have even reached into popular culture with the HBO series True Detective, whose first season drew heavily of KIY imagery and myth.

And now, that mythos has prompted this very volume you hold in your hands. Well, that is not totally true. The actual setting came to me, HPL-like, in a very vivid dream! Yes, I walked those corridors and actually found that small courtyard, with its quaint shops and cobblestones. So vivid was the dream, I wrote it out immediately on waking. Thus was born the idea of mankind dwelling in subterranean complexes, post an apocalyptic event above ground. By no means a new idea - indeed, Beneath the Planet of the Apes also formed part of the inspiration.

But those yellow tiles stuck with me - and so developed the idea of an underground society ruled over by the Priesthood of the Yellow King. How we got here and what is going on is not totally clear - but nothing concerning Carcosa and its tattered regent ever is!  I put the idea to the good folk of the Innsmouth Writing Circle, and they came up trumps with a dozen other stories in this new setting - a new playground for us all to enjoy!  I hope you enjoy it too, and that we can look forward to future volumes exploring other aspects of this brave, new world.

I'd especially like to welcome some new writers to the fold this time, such as Ron Fein, E.L. Giles and Tim Mendees, alongside our regulars. All bring their own enthusiasm,  and unique vision to this new setting. I'd also like to thank all our Kickstart backers and followers for their support in what have been some challenging times.

Indeed, a society ruled over  by a small, powerful  elite, where the population are glued to screens and kept ever fearful of outsiders and disease... hard to imagine, eh?

Robert Poyton

Jan 2022

TROGLODYTES

B. Harlan Crawford

Nelson brought his motorbike to a halt beside the concrete tower jutting up from the fungi-covered ground. He scrambled off the bike to escape the cloud of spores kicked up by his arrival. Such spores were usually harmless, and his respirator shielded him from the bulk of the noxious cloud, but he still thought it unwise to linger.

He had spotted the structure from the crest of a hill a few miles away, and seeing no humans near it, decided to investigate. He was low on fuel and supplies as usual, and he hoped the structure might hold something of use. Likely it was empty, but it was worth a look. He had nowhere else to be.

A weather-beaten ladder was built into the side of the structure, leading to a round metal hatch on its roof.  There was a wheel one turned to open the hatch, secured by a rusty, padlocked chain. Calling on his not inconsiderable strength, Nelson tore away the chain and set to turning the wheel.

The wheel was slow to turn, and the effort set his jaw to throbbing. A week ago, he had removed an abscessed tooth with a pair of pliers. He would manage. Nelson had developed a high tolerance for pain.

The latch released with a screech and Nelson heaved the hatch open, revealing a second ladder leading down. Grunting, he returned to his bike and collected a flashlight and his rifle, slinging the latter across his back. He laid the bike down on its side and covered it with a dun coloured tarp, kicking some fungi and spores over it to conceal the vehicle from observation. Nelson had not seen a living human for some time, but it seemed prudent to take precautions.

Returning to the top of the tower he clambered down. Nelson would have preferred to use his flashlight for the descent, but he needed all his limbs free for the climb, further, batteries were hard to come by. When he felt concrete under his feet, he turned on the flashlight and took stock of his surroundings.

The ladder ended at one end of a downward sloping square shaft, thickly covered with dust. The ceiling was quite low, and Nelson resisted the urge to proceed on all fours. His teachers at the Facility had stressed to him the need to walk upright, and he would need his hands free to use his flashlight or rifle. Not that the rifle would be of much use, Nelson had spent his last three cartridges fending off a pack of wild dogs. The creatures were barely recognizable as dogs, they were altered. Not as Nelson was altered, they were twisted, warped, obscene. Nelson suppressed a wave of despair at the recollection. He had always liked dogs.

He trundled down the long shaft, his flashlight revealing only dust shrouded concrete and metal. Presently, Nelson perceived the ambient light was increasing. He shut off his flashlight, stowing it in a pocket in his fatigue pants, and proceeded.

The lighting grew brighter until Nelson arrived at a point where a pale amber glow seeped through a grate at the end of the shaft. Nelson hastened to  the grate and peered through.

Beyond lay a corridor, its worn concrete walkway lit by harsh fluorescence. There was less dust here, but it was soiled as if from years of subterranean neglect. Seeing no one beyond the grate, Nelson wrenched it loose from the wall and stepped out of the shaft.

Setting off to the left for no reason, he walked for some time, encountering no one, nor finding any doors or branches. He did come across a working water fountain and removed his respirator long enough to drink. The water was cool, but tasteless. Nelson filled his canteen and continued.

A sound came to Nelson’s ears, growing louder as he walked. It was familiar, but he had difficulty placing where he had heard it before. The corridor ended and opened onto a raised walkway set at a right angle to the corridor. There was a safety rail before him, it was from the other side of this that the sound emanated. He crept to the railing and peered over.

Below was a vast cylindrical atrium, brightly lit by yellow orbs suspended from the vaulted ceiling some hundred feet above. Here and there were groves of plastic trees and gardens of plastic flowers. Mechanical vendors hawked food and drink from translucent cubicles. The aromas from these were not pleasant. The ancient can of cat food Nelson had forced down that morning now seemed less repulsive.

Dominating the centre of this space was a statue. Carved from some chalky yellowish material, it portrayed a humanoid shape shrouded in a hooded cloak with a clawed right hand outstretched imperiously. Through ineptitude or genius, the sculptor had created something one could not long observe. Nelson found his head spinning from looking at it. He turned his gaze instead to the people

thronged about the statue’s base.

At the Facility, Nelson had known humans of wildly varying appearance. The variations of colour, sex, body type, facial features had been myriad. But here there was a sameness to the people. All had the same sickly, sallow-toned flesh stretched tightly over bone and sinew. The same dull eyes peered dully from under heavy brows surmounted by hairless crania. All were clad in shapeless yellow coveralls crudely emblazoned with a black hieroglyph that Nelson did not recognize.

They all stood swaying in time to a monotonous litany. Nelson could not make out what was being said, save for some reference to a King''. This was eerily familiar to Nelson. In those last mad days before Nelson fled the Facility, many of the staff had begun muttering of a King, along with strange words like Hali and Carcosa".

As the people swayed and gesticulated, Nelson caught fleeting glimpses of a pathetic heap quivering redly at the feet of the statue. He turned away lest he see it too closely.

Nelson struggled not to despair. Here seemed a place that might have been a last bastion of the old civilization -  yet the strange degradation of the people and their disturbing behaviour made him think this place might be fouler even than the hellish surface.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of scuffling footfalls behind him. He turned, raising his rifle. Two jaundiced figures approached along the walkway. Physically, they were duplicates of those below; pallid, bald, and sexless. Each wore a black vest with multiple pockets over their baggy yellow coveralls, a smooth black helmet protected their heads. Gripping ugly black handguns, they stared at Nelson dumbly. Nelson tore off his respirator and spoke. He had not had occasion to speak for some time, so his voice was harsh and guttural.

Do not be afraid! I am a friend! I -

One of the guards raised their gun. Nelson hurled his rifle butt first into their face and sent them reeling. Near simultaneously he leapt upon the other, dragging them to the ground. He snaked his long arms about the guard’s neck to choke them into unconsciousness, but there was the sickening snap of a breaking neck and the guard went limp. Nelson cursed. He had not intended to kill the guard, but these people were strangely fragile.

The human that had been felled with the rifle now clambered upright, taking aim at Nelson who seized the gun from the corpse beneath him and fired. The gun flashed with a muffled hiss and the guard dropped smouldering to the floor. Nelson rose to examine the smoking body, finding it was still breathing. It was a man with features that the humans called African, but his flesh was stained a pallid, fungoid yellow, peeling, blistered and diseased.

I am sorry. croaked Nelson. I did not want to shoot you, but I could not allow you to shoot me.

The man turned his yellowed eyes toward Nelson, muttering.

You - you are Jullah, The Moon-Ape?

No. I am Nelson, Project number 622-A13. My project manager is Dr. David Salkind, Director of Special Projects Division, Oak Ridge National Laboratories.

Nelson winced at his rote recitation of the litany they had taught him at the Facility.

Jullah, the Moon-Ape. repeated the man, Sent across the ether from Lost Carcosa to test the faithful. Your appearance heralds the Yellow King’s return. Ahh! The black stars rise-

Smiling, the man expired.

Nelson quickly searched the bodies. He thrust the handguns into his belt. The spare ammunition he found in their vests he placed in his jacket pockets. The vials of yellowish fluid he abandoned, not caring to test their properties. He hastened back the way he came.

Nelson hauled himself through the hatch atop the tower into the open. He perched there for a time, catching his       breath, an act that took him longer than it once had, accompanied by much coughing and wheezing. No respirator       could fully shield one from the noxious atmosphere of the new Earth.

He looked into the sickly yellow sky. Something massive floated there, a bloated fungoid orb that propelled itself along with mottled flippers, emitting streams of orange gas accompanied by a low rumbling drone.

Nelson reflected on what he had seen below. Had those humans taken shelter under the earth to escape the madness on the surface? Had enough time passed that they could fall into such a degraded state? Nelson no longer recalled how long it had been since that hellish night he fled the Facility as the humans set upon one another in an orgy of blood-letting.

He shuddered, recalling Dr. Salkind’s screams as his colleagues tore out his entrails. Salkind’s last act had been to unlock Nelson’s enclosure and thrust a rifle into his hands, telling him to flee. And flee he did, wandering across a ruined earth. Each dawn revealing a new abomination birthed from the phantasms of a lunatic god.

Nelson drew one of the pistols from his belt and studied the menacing black weapon. It would be a simple matter to end his own life and put an end to the horror. One last act of will followed by the peace of oblivion. Grunting, he replaced the weapon and climbed down the ladder back to the fungal ground.

He uncovered his bike and stowed the tarp. Setting the machine upright he shook it, listening to the gasoline slosh about in the tank. Mounting the bike, he kick-started the engine into sputtering life and set off. He rode as fast as he dared through the fungi-covered plain, heading east for no reason.

It would be dark soon; things came out after dark. He needed to find shelter. The bike was almost out of fuel.

The Phantom Blues

Tim Mendees

'Some of these mornings going to wake up crazy. Gonna grab me a gun, kill my baby. Nobody's business but mine.'

Franklin exhaled a sticky plume of bluish smoke that twisted in the stale air above his bed. The shellac record on the turntable crackled and hissed as it sped inexorably towards its sudden conclusion at 78 RPM. It had taken him months to scavenge the parts to cobble together a halfway decent setup. The speakers and cable he'd torn out of a disused tannoy system in a half-flooded tunnel, but it was the amplifier that had been the issue. After all, it wasn't like he could have simply popped down the High Street and bought one.

After weeks of back-and-forth, he'd eventually managed to cut a deal with the unsavoury character that operated the black market out of an adjacent tunnel. One working amp in exchange for running some drugs to the more salubrious end of Complex One over towards The Hill, right under the nose of the V-men. It was a miracle he hadn't been caught. Still, it had all been worth it in the end. Franklin didn't have much in this harsh new world, save for a battered old turntable and a stack of vintage blues records, so it was nice to finally be able to listen to them again. Aside from a dented harmonica, they were all he had left of his late father.

The rusted springs on his metal-framed bed screeched as Franklin shifted his weight and sat up to lift the arm off the record. The speakers hissed as the needle skirted the faded red label in the centre of the disc. Rising and crushing the dog-end of his sad-looking roll-up under his boot, he approached the turntable. There was a dull pop as the needle disconnected, followed by an oppressive silence. Franklin stood and stretched the kink out of his spine before reaching out to flip the disc.

As his fingers touched the record, a nauseating plop dragged his attention over to the corner of his tiny room. A bloated grave worm had fallen from the air-vent and was now squirming across the cracked tiles. Franklin shuddered. It was a repulsive creature, pus yellow, bulbous and ripe with disease. Snatching up the remnants of an old sock he used for cleaning, Franklin approached gingerly and stooped to pick it up.

Bugger me! He yelped as a huge mottled rat shot from under his bed and sank its twisted teeth into the worm’s soft yielding flesh. Where the hell did you come from?

Discarding the sock and grabbing his broom, he swatted at the rodent with the wiry bristles. Go on, get the fuck out of here!

The rat cocked its misshapen head, foul ichor dripping off its two front teeth, and regarded him with a baleful look. One eye was completely black, the other a milky white. It gave no indication that it was going to move, so Franklin swatted at it again. "Go on, bugger

off!"

The rat screeched as a howl like the bowels of the earth moving burst forth from the air-vent. Franklin dropped the broom and leapt backwards, his rump connecting with the worm-eaten desk in the corner. His heart was pounding, and his skin puckered. The dreadful yowl lasted a couple of seconds before stopping abruptly, leaving only the gnawing of the rat.

What the bloody hell was that? He whispered, shuffling slowly towards the vent and completely forgetting about his guest. It wasn't the fact that the noise came from the vent. That was a regular occurrence - the wind howled through the tunnels with alarming regularity. No, it was the cadence of the noise that had done it. It sounded less like a freak effect and more like it had a purpose behind it. An intelligence. Raising on tip-toes, Franklin peered through the bent wire grate. He could only see stifling darkness.

Tap, tap, tap, tap... Tap, tap, tap, tap...

As Franklin peered into the gloom, a rhythmic tapping started to emanate from the thick rusty pipes that stretched the length of his back wall. Again, taps and clunks from the ancient drainage system were commonplace... but this was different. In addition to its regularity and perfect 4/4 time signature, it didn't sound like anything he had ever heard in his bolt-hole before. The beats sounded hollow and cavernous, almost like a drum.

Before he could wrap his bald head around that, the roar started again. Only, this time it was softer and infinitely more measured. After a long drone, the pitch changed, and it began to form into a haunting melody. Franklin found himself drifting as he stared through the grate. It was mournful, yet somehow soothing. Discordant, yet beautiful. Something about it resonated inside of him all the way down to his bowels.

Crack!

The sound of the rat's back twisting into an unnatural shape shook Franklin from his reverie. Looking down, he watched in horror as the rodent started to convulse. Clearly, its meal hadn't agreed with it. Its back was arched almost to a right-angle as it heaved and retched. Thick yellow pus shot from every orifice as its fur rippled and undulated. With a grimace of disgust, Franklin leapt out of the way as its sides ruptured with a sickening splat!

Watching in horror, the young musician clamped a hand over trembling lips as thousands upon thousands of tiny grave worms spilt out of the rat's torn flesh and began to devour it. Even worse, the maggots started to grow and bloat at an alarming rate. Within seconds, they were as long as Franklin’s index finger.

The music from the blackest depths of the Complex continued to swell and gather momentum, to  dizzying effect. The grime-encrusted strip-light began flickering in time to the rhythm, strobing on every fourth beat. Franklin staggered away from the spreading horde of maggots, grabbing hold of the desk to steady himself. The door, in reality, a few steps, seemed like it was a world away.

By now, the insistent melody had burrowed into Franklin's brain. He wanted to sing along. To join the cacophony with ululations from his own larynx.

No! Get out of my head. He clamped his hands over his ears and stumbled for the door. Breathing heavily, he gripped the handle and twisted... the door was locked from the outside!

What the fuck? Let me out! Panic was gripping his heart in a cold iron claw. "Stop fucking around. Let me out... Hey? Anyone out there?

No answer.

Franklin slammed his fist against the rusted metal, again and

again, screaming bloody murder. The tune was reaching its climax, building to a teeth-rattling crescendo. Realising that escape was unlikely, Franklin turned. He wanted to dive onto his grubby mattress and bury his head under the pillow to drown out the din. Before he could move, the maggots started to scream. The piercing, unnatural shriek burrowed right into his skull, rising in pitch as each one began to balloon, growing and throbbing, fit to burst.

Splat!

One by one, the maggots popped in a shower of putrid yellow pus. The filth mingled with the black blood and strips of flesh that were the only remnants of the rat. The mixture started to congeal, creating thick tendrils that began to wriggle, squirm, and stretch towards Franklin.

As the tip of the fattest growth brushed the scuffed tip of his boot, he let out a bellow of despair... then woke up…

Gasping for breath and soaked in sweat, Franklin sat bolt upright on his bed. His scratchy wool blanket was coiled around his legs, restricting his movement. Untangling himself, he swung his feet off the bed and planted them on the cold tiles. Massaging his temples, he tried to shake the nightmare from his brain.

Every bloody night. He sighed after taking a sip of water from the chipped mug next to his bed. They're getting worse. For the past two months, he had been tormented with nightmares. They were always different but had one unifying theme... maggots. They had been with him since just before Janine had disappeared and been getting steadily worse ever since.

His watch told him that it was almost nightfall. Living underground meant that the distinction between day and night had been lost. People had abandoned traditional cycles and operated on whatever suited them best. The Overs and Execs in the main parts of the Complex stuck to the nine-to-five routine. Franklin, and those like him who had been forced to make a home in the abandoned underground railway tunnels that skirted the Wildlands, did what they pleased. Franklin had always been a night owl, so starting the day when the regular drudgers were turning in suited him down to the ground. Even before The Glory, Franklin had preferred the hours of darkness.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone rapping his door with a knuckle jolted Franklin fully back to reality. He knew that knock, so he didn't bother getting dressed or grabbing the cricket bat he kept next to the bed. Standing unsteadily, he slid back the bolts and opened the door.

Morning. A small pudgy man grinned, revealing two rows of crooked yellow teeth. "Woah, you look like hell, bro. Heck, you're almost as pale as