THE DREAD THEY LEFT BEHIND -- chapter one
"Gary Fry engages the legacy of H.P. Lovecraft to tell the story of a family’s descent from middle-class comfort to a state utterly horrifying. In the process, Fry evokes such stories as “The Colour Out of Space” and The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. This is no pastiche, however, as Fry employs Lovecraftian tropes and conceits in order to dramatize his characters’ slide into confusion physical, temporal, linguistic, and ultimately moral. What results is a Lovecraftian narrative whose political implications are trenchant and timely. Fry paints with a full palette of emotions: there is horror of the most ghastly sort, but there is also regret, and even guilt. Like Ramsey Campbell before him, Gary Fry demonstrates the continuing strength of the Lovecraftian lineage, to which “The Dread They Left Behind” is a fine addition.”
– John Langan
1
The
landscape this autumn afternoon, all greens and browns and the twinkling blue
of rivers, swept by my stylish Jaguar. The car had been a gift to myself after securing
a contract for my own TV show; almost ten years old, its throaty engine ate up the
miles between my present location in Northumberland National Park and my
destination near the Scottish town of Jedburgh. The rural environment bore only
occasional property alongside winding lanes. Trees grew in countless clusters
and wildlife flitted between them – rabbits, birds, plodding cattle, and sluggish
sheep.
It
was easy to forget such splendour when caught up in city life. This was the
kind of area in which I’d grown up, an only child living with contented parents
(father a factory engineer, mother an unapologetic housewife) and enjoying a pleasant
if solitary upbringing. Books had been my chief companion, particularly historical
material, and high achievement at school and then university (Newcastle,
reading political science) had been predictable. A first job with a regional newspaper
was followed by a rookie position with a Fleet Street redtop and then many jaunts
around the world, reporting on UK foreign policy initiatives. Appearing regularly
on national news as a journalist had enhanced my profile, and I was now a
household name among those who followed world affairs.
But
it was other aspects of my past I was keen to explore during this trip. No single
person can offer a definitive version of all the events that constitute a life,
but the one to whom they occurred has at least the advantage of having been there. And so, in the phenomenon we
call celebrity culture, it was wise to establish your own version first, before
– if you’ll forgive the clichés – some unofficial biographer with an axe to
grind performed a hatchet job on you.
While
descending into a valley, I tried to avoid deluding myself. I wasn’t subject to
that much media attention. In fact, it
was usually me doing the scrutinising, haranguing evasive politicians, or calling
to account negligent chief executives. If my centrist politics antagonised both
left- and right-leaning peers, I could live with that, as well as friction from
the Oxbridge crowd who, I was convinced, believed my success was due to a fashionable
regional accent. But this was hardly front-page material, no bitchy bust-up
between pop stars or film artistes. I was just a well-known TV pundit with a
gift for engaging the public in challenging issues without partisan motivations.
The
lane ahead grew narrower, hedges on either side looking overgrown, as if few
people ventured here either in transport or on foot. Surely the local authority
had a responsibility to ensure that such routes were navigable, but it didn’t
look as if a chainsaw had been taken to the thicket in years. Way beyond, fields
divided by drystone walls resembled squares on a chessboard, though none
boasted anything other than grass. Did no trees occupy the area, let alone animals?
As
the hedges thinned out, I spotted a house at a distance and suddenly began to
feel uneasy. This was more than a psychological reaction, though unpleasant mental
sensations escalated as my car cruised towards the property. Physical effects
were also involved, including a prompt blurring of vision and distorted
hearing. One moment I was surrounded by countryside, my Jaguar purring like some
slinky cat; the next I detected a species of buzzing in my skull, resembling static
from an untuned radio.
When
a sharp righthand bend appeared up ahead, I felt unable to handle my vehicle. Moments
later, my head was crammed with childhood memories, of enjoyable days out but
also of grievous occasions, including the deaths of grandparents and that of a
well-loved dog. All these recollections seemed frustratingly jumbled, as if
revisiting in nonchronological order. Nevertheless, I tried to focus on my driving.
I
now concentrated on only one task: manoeuvring the car around the fast-approaching
corner. After reaching it, I marshalled all my mental energy and steered
deliberately to the right. But that was when my front wheels dropped into a
ditch on the left, in exactly the opposite
direction from where I’d tried moving. The Jag hit the drop with a thud that
stalled its engine. I’d been wearing my seatbelt, and although my head was whipped
forwards, I was held in my chair, the strap locking against one shoulder.
The silence that
followed felt peculiar, as if more of the interference preceding the incident might
steal in, occupying my mind the way rebels took some autocrat’s palace. For a long
minute, my brain churned with activity, as if other events from the past were about
to be summoned for scrutiny. But eventually, as my shock diminished, this mental
chaos settled down, like a conflagration dowsed in thick foam.
After
snapping off my seatbelt, I climbed outside, wondering how much damage the
Jaguar had sustained. The engine had refused to restart when I’d tried it; there
must be serious issues. Despite my rich understandings of politics and history,
I knew nothing about cars; as far as I could ascertain, the problem involved the
ignition failing to catch, each turn of the key sending the rev needle soaring,
only to fall again, like a brief candle extinguished. I wondered how easily the
vehicle might be revived by an able mechanic, even if it could be extracted
from its shallow grave.
I
was prudent enough to be a member of a breakdown recovery organisation. When
I’d owned much worse cars than the Jag, I’d made regular use of such services, which
commonly involved some guy in a pickup truck towing the vehicle away, carrying
me in the cab beside him. It was another thirty miles north to Jedburgh; if the
car couldn’t be fixed on the spot, I’d have it taken to a garage in the town to
be repaired while I stayed in a hotel.
Still
feeling agitated, I made the call on my mobile, offering up the postcode I’d
fished from my smartphone. The telephonist told me that I’d be sent a text as
soon as the nearest recovery agent was located. I thanked her and hung up. Then
I stooped in front of my car, trying to assess how bad things looked down
there.
In the ditch beneath
my wheels, withered grass grew in rich profusion; the soil was hard and stony, looking
unlikely to support other vegetation. But then my attention was drawn to a
surprising sight. Were there mushrooms
here? Various bulbous growths in front of my vehicle resembled a species of
fungi, though I was astonished by their size. In contrast to other growths in the
area, these stood rather tall, their bloated heads a queer off-white colour
which must surely be an effect of shadows from the hedge falling upon them.
Ten minutes had
passed since I’d made my call; previous episodes had rarely involved such a lengthy
wait for recovery. A little more of my frustration returned – bordering on
anger, in fact – and I felt like kicking the car. With my head still reeling from
what I’d just experienced, I struggled to control myself. It was true that the breakdown
company was one of the UK’s largest and had representatives across the country.
But I was in a remote area, and it might have proved difficult to locate someone
at short notice.
Most of these
thoughts were an attempt to prevent myself from dwelling on quite another
problem: why, when I’d tried turning right
around the corner, had I gone left?
It was as if my body had refused to respond to consciousness, acting in direct opposition
to its wish. There’d also been that rapid mental retreat into my past. Perhaps this
was unsurprising given my current undertaking (preparing my autobiography), but
it had nonetheless felt unsettling, especially as my recollections of events had
seemed chaotically nonlinear.
Glancing up, I again saw
that house at a distance, just a shadowy shape slumped amid a chessboard of featureless
fields. It felt foolish to assume that I’d seen this place before, possibly
during a childhood trip, prior to the formation of stable memories. All the
same, that was suddenly what I did believe. Worse still, I’d just realised
in which direction the property lay in relation to my car trapped in that righthand
corner.
Over to the left.
My phone pinged, announcing
an incoming text. I clicked on an automated message to learn that a mechanic
would arrive in half-an-hour. And so it had taken the company ten minutes to
locate someone situated only a short distance away. The procedure was usually very
different, with a communication arriving inside of a minute to reveal that the
wait for help would be at least an hour.
Just then, more of
that uncharacteristic anger arose in me, especially when I glanced again at all
the nearby land, an area seemingly occupied only by that silent property and leeched
upon by peculiar mushrooms …
Getting back inside my car to ensure safety, I felt bewildered and unsettled, wondering what, if anything, my observations might mean.
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