Authors: Pete Rawlik
1030
The villagers of Allyn Hill seem to be suffering some sort of reaction either to a toxin or an infection. They are strewn about the room in chairs or on the floor, unconscious and unresponsive. They are feverish, with clammy grey skin from which an odor, a sweetness, exudes. Thankfully the fire in the great central hearth was still burning, providing a modicum of warmth. It bothers me that amidst the ashes and embers there are what appear to be fresh logs, but I have no time for such things. I need to get warm and attended to the afflicted.
1200
It took me more than an hour to arrange the bodies in an orderly manner on the floor around the hearth. I am sorry to say that two have died, not from their strange affliction, but rather from associated circumstances. One man seems to have fallen backwards out of his chair and broken his neck against the stone floor. The other was a woman who apparently went face first into a large bowl of chowder and asphyxiated. That no one had attempted any sort of aid to either of these poor souls suggests that whatever happened occurred quickly. There were more than twenty men, women and children laid out about the room, including my colleague Atkins. However, oddly absent is my friend Larsen.
I am in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating some bread leftover from the night before. I have tried the wireless set that is down the hall. My efforts were wasted; whatever has affected the station’s set is also interfering with this one. I need to rest, am exhausted both physically and mentally. The wall calendar reminds me that today is Good Friday, and I can’t help but chuckle morbidly over the irony.
1545
I was awoken by a chorus of screaming and I started from the chair in a panic and dashed out of the kitchen. My charges were awake and from the sound of their moans and anguished cries they were in agonizing pain. I found Atkins who had curled up into a tight little misshapen ball and tried to comfort him. His breathing was shallow and fast, between gasps he told me that he was cold, and that he couldn’t feel his arms or legs. To the touch his forehead was hot, and he was sweating profusely. I took his right arm and tried to exercise it and then dropped it in revulsion. The flesh had a strange color and consistency and as I moved it back and forth, it did not bend at the joint. As a child I had watched my grandmother make sausage by filling long greasy tubes of intestines which would then flop and twist on the table like massive grey worms. Atkins’ arm was like that, it curled like a long thick sausage. As I looked I could see that the appendages of all those around me had suffered the same shocking metamorphosis.
As I pulled away something more caught my eye, and my curiosity overwhelmed my revulsion. The back of Atkins’ shirt was soaked not just with sweat, but also with streaks of crimson. Carefully I rolled the fabric up and by the light of the fire examined the source of the fluid. Three great wounds had opened up on his back, one vertical along the spine, and the other two parallel to the first but almost to either side. A watery and bloody discharge seeped slowly from these lesions and for the life of me I thought perhaps that someone had assaulted my friend. I know from my courses in folklore and comparative religions that some extreme sects re-enacted the more horrid events of Christ’s life, going so far as to flog and then crucify a volunteer. Looking at the wounds on Atkins’ back it seemed a plausible explanation, but as I scanned about the room I noted that many others were showing the same crimson stains. I quickly realized that this was not the result of a physical attack, but yet another symptom of whatever the villagers had been exposed to.
As I sit here, I am completely incapable of rendering any further sort of aid. I can hear the low distant sound of other victims who were not in the hall but rather are scattered about the village. Like their fellows they too are screaming and moaning in agony. At a loss for what to do I once more shall don my foul weather gear and brave the storm. It is better I think, that all those who are suffering be brought together in one place.
1630
I followed the screams, breaking down doors where I had to and gathered up what stricken villagers I could find. It was not an easy task. Two I found could walk or limp, and together we hobbled down the shell-strewn streets. Another, a large woman, suffered more severely from that strange softness of the limb bones, and I had to load her into a wheelbarrow. I found one woman in the street outside of her home, her legs and arms like rubber, but she had found a way to move about by crudely lashing out her limbs and then pulling herself forward. I gagged as I watched her do this, for her appearance reminded me of octopi that the crew of The Miskatonic had brought up in a net one afternoon off the coast of Cuba. The ship’s cook would cut off most of the creatures’ limbs for use in the kitchen, and then toss what was left of the wounded animals on to the deck where they would flail about in a desperate attempt to return to the sea.
Dusk, and the agony of the villagers seems to have subsided somewhat, or at least they have become accustomed to whatever pains wrack their bodies. The storm shows no sign of letting up and I am fearful of crossing the breakwater in the dark, I am resigned to staying in Allyn Hill for the night. Though I will admit I am uncomfortable with the thought of staying in the Great Hall.
1745
Have been watching from the second floor of the Great Hall. It took me a moment but I realized that something was amiss. Yesterday when Atkins and I had refilled the fuel tank, he informed me that the fuel would last for at least four days. Yet here it is little more than a day later, and the sweep of light has ceased. Something or someone has interfered with the operation of the lighthouse, and I have a suspicion that the condition of the villagers, the failure of the radios and now the failure of the lighthouse are all connected somehow. I even suspect that the source of all these problems may be anthropogenic, though I am still unclear on the why and how of it all. Against all better judgment, I am going to try and get back to the station and restart the light.
2000
Larsen is deliberately sabotaging the equipment. As I came into the station, he burst through the door, knocking me down and then dashed down the path to the breakwater. It took me a moment to regain my footing and in that brief span of time Larsen was moving across to the other island. I gave chase, but stopped at the breakwater. As I hesitated, Larsen whipped out a large fish knife and sliced the guide ropes before lopping up the stair toward Allyn Hill. I called after him, but he either didn’t hear me or, given his unusual behavior, is purposefully ignoring me.
I’ve got the lighthouse working again, but the wireless is a total loss. I think initially he just cut the antenna lead on the side of the tower, which explains why I can’t reach anyone at any distance; now the damage is much worse, while I was gone he took a hammer to the set. Chances are that he has done something similar to the set in Allyn Hill. I’ve found a shotgun and a box of ammunition, mostly birdshot but a few of the shells are loaded with buckshot. It’s not much but I would rather have this than go hand to hand against Larsen. I’ve pulled all the storm shutters down and I’ve barred all the doors. I’ve tied empty cans to all the door handles and climbed the tower halfway to a landing. There’s a window with a view of the breakwater and Allyn Hill beyond, and enough space for me to stretch out and sleep. There are three heavy doors between me and the rest of the world. I won’t try the breakwater unless the storm lessens.
Saturday April 4, 1931
0700
The storm has passed and the sun rising in the east is a welcome sight. I’ve slept a little and found something to fill the emptiness in my belly. I’m cold though, the storm must have dropped the temperature by at least ten degrees. The gun is little comfort. I need to find Larsen. I also need to get back to the Great Hall. As soon as the waves relent I’ll try to make it back over to Allyn Hill.
1230
Atkins’ condition has worsened. The strange transformation of the limbs has spread to the rest of his body. My medical training is limited, but from what I can tell all of the bones have suffered some sort of transformation, a decrease in rigidity that seems to have been transferred to the skin, which has become grey and rigid, at least on the chest and abdomen. Their backs however have become soft and pulpy, and the three vertical wounds no longer are oozing red fluid. Instead strange fibrous green tendrils have appeared. I’ve never seen anything like them before. I poked at one of the tendrils with a knife, and it recoiled back inside.
After I rest I am going to search the island for Larsen.
1700
No luck in finding Larsen, but I have found the priest; he’s dead, strangled. I think Larsen killed him so that he could take his place in the ceremony the other night. I’m still not sure why, and I really have nothing to support such an idea, but it is the only thing that makes sense.
In the same house where I found the priest I found a star stone sitting on a work bench. It has a collection tag that identifies it as the one missing from the crate. It’s been damaged. One of the arms is split open along one of the edges, the exposed interior is incredibly complex, with dozens upon dozens of tiny black crystals. These crystals are no bigger than a pinhead, all curiously pentagonal trapezohedrons. There are very few minerals that produce such a shape, which should make it readily identifiable, but right now I have neither the time nor the inclination to do so.
There are things nagging at me, things that I think I should be thinking about, but I am so tired. I am not thinking clearly. It’s still very cold out, and I think that is contributing to my exhaustion. I need to sleep.
1900
The villagers of Allyn Hill are all dead. I can write no more.
2145
I’ve made it back to the station. Another storm, or perhaps the same one coming back, is rolling over the island and the wind is picking up. It’s bitterly cold out. I would have thought that all that time at the pole would have made me more resistant. I’ve barricaded the doors again, still no sign of Larsen.
As I have written, the villagers are all dead. I don’t know why or how but somehow in the few hours I was exploring the island they all succumbed to whatever malady they were suffering from. Curiously, either through their own action or that of Larsen, they were all clustered together into small groups. They had been arranged in sets of five, with their backs to each other and their legs splayed out on the floor. Some of them seem to be clutching their neighbors with what used to be their arms.
As if that weren’t odd enough, the clusters themselves seem to be oddly grouped. All the young children are sitting together, as are all the adolescents. Even the adults seem to have been sorted by size, height I mean. If this was some last dying attempt at community, I would have thought they would have clustered into family groups.
Tomorrow, if I can I’ll take one of the small boats to the mainland.
Sunday April 5, 1931
0230
I’m back at the top of the lighthouse trying to make sense of what I am seeing and hearing. About twenty minutes ago I woke to a chorus of strange high-pitched keening noises. At first I thought it was the birds or seals, but it was coming from the village, so I came up here to get a look. I can’t see much, but I can see shadows moving about within the Great Hall, which means that somebody is alive and has turned on the lights.
The noise is definitely coming from Allyn Hill. It’s an eerie throaty sound, like air moving through an organ. It repeats every few minutes, but in different pitches, like its being repeated by different sources, but always the same tones and pattern.
Tek Tek Tek Tek E Li Li.
I’m going over to investigate.
0430
I made it across the breakwater and carefully crept up to the kitchen door of the hall. All the way I could hear that eerie inhuman sound, but as I crossed into the hall I could hear other things as well. I could hear the goats bleating incessantly and beyond that there was a man talking loudly, speaking as if to a large crowd. Just as I reached the doorway from the kitchen to the main hall I realized that it was the same voice that I had heard just a few nights ago offering Communion to the faithful. Larsen was preaching and even now I can remember his words.
I am the life and the resurrection
Those who believe in me even if they die, shall live forever
For I am the child of God and wield his power
I give you life, first on this Earth as mortals, and after the resurrection, life eternal
I come amongst you know, to remind you that this is the image of God
And that all men shall be as I, made in His image
As I watched him through the door, Larsen was standing on a table, a bound goat held in one hand, a knife in another. With ease he drew the blade across the animal’s throat and allowed the blood to pump out in a torrent onto the floor. Then, effortlessly he tossed the now still beast down to the floor.
God I wish I had not seen the greedy crowd that waited below.
The villagers which I had thought dead had undergone yet more of a transformation. The clusters of five had grown into each other, traces of their left arms were still visible but like a parasitic tree on its host, melted into the neighboring flesh. The right arms, all boneless now, had become thin and whip-like, the fingers and thumb elongated into a tentacular mass that constantly seemed to flex and grasp. Likewise, the adjoining lower limbs had wrapped around each other, no longer ten legs but five thick, grey tentacles that flailed about dragging the creatures clumsily along. The toes were gone, and in their place each were developing a fat triangular paddle. Like the fingers, the paddle curled and flexed in a seemingly useless exercise. But most horrid of all were the heads, or what once were heads. Though the features still remained, the once semi-spherical craniums of men were gone, crushed and remolded into a pyramidal structure, the mouth shoved down toward the base and pinched into a tube, while the eyes had been forced up to the apex. Ten eyes seemed unnecessary to whatever it was becoming, for without variation one of each pair of eyes was dangling limp from strands of necrotizing flesh, while the other was frantically whipping about on the end of a short fat stalk. It was as if some alien Prometheus had grown jealous of man’s bilateral morphology and had seized the flesh and molded it into a new pentaradial shape. A shape I was not wholly unfamiliar with. For the things that crawled about in that great hall resembled to a striking degree the ancient and enigmatic specimens that Lake had excavated out of the ice in Antarctica and had dare to call “Elder Things!”