Cthulhu Land of the Long White Cloud AU Read online

  North Head was hardly a security risk in the 1950s, but it was still under military control. I knew there’d most likely be a nightly picket, but still felt sure it would be easy to avoid anyone on duty and slip into the compound under the cover of darkness. Once inside, I was confident that I could follow the detailed descrip­tions and maps provided by McLeod.

  As I made my plans I worked hard to suppress my excitement. I decided to make an initial test run to see if I could gain entry on the next clear, moonless night. In the meantime, I gathered together a small kit of items that I felt would be useful: a torch, spare batteries, a brass compass, a length of hessian rope, and a hunting knife. Finally, I had everything I needed, and I’d read the relevant sections of McLeod’s text often enough to commit the pertinent details to memory. If the weather stayed settled, I would make my first attempt on the following Monday.

  Beneath the Hill

  I looked up at the brow of North Head, catching my breath. I clearly wasn’t as fit as I used to be. Earlier, I’d parked in Devonport, about a half mile from the entrance gates, and made my way along Takarunga Road with purpose, as if I had every right to be visiting. The gates were locked to cars, but the side gate was open. Once within the grounds, and out of sight of the nearest houses, I ducked off the road and onto the grass verge. The muted sounds of the city were soon left behind, and the soft crunch of my boots on the grass formed a rhythm that reminded me of the military drills of twenty-five years earlier.

  My route took me northwards initially, but after a hairpin turn to the right I was headed in a southerly direction. The wind was stronger on this side, but I welcomed the freshness of it. After about ten minutes I spied the shepherd’s cottage, tucked into the hillside. The dim glow of a light showed behind one of the curtained windows, and as I watched, the shadow of a figure moved from one side of the room to the other. It hadn’t occurred to me that the place would be occupied. However, I soon realised that it didn’t really matter, as the swirling wind rattled and tore at the scrubby vegetation, its whistling sounds muffling the sounds of my approach.

  The hill behind the cottage seemed to take on an ominous aspect and I thrust my right hand into the pocket of my jacket to feel the cool metal handle of my torch. Overhead, the last wintry clouds that had cast dampness on the city all day were scattering. Through them I could perceive the flicker of the first stars. They had a cold and spectral allure.

  There was no point in lingering out in the open, so I made my way closer to the dwelling, behind which I could just make out the tunnel entrance as a darker shape in the slope. A narrow concrete path wound around the left side, but the single window was dark. In the lee of the building I could clearly hear the sound of a radio. I pictured the occupant sitting in the warmth, glad to be indoors on such a night.

  Turning away from the cottage, I surveyed the entrance to the tunnel. The opening was barred with a pair of wrought iron gates hinged at floor and ceiling to sturdy metal plates set into the walls. A thick chain was looped through the centre of the gates, and to this a padlock had been attached, but the lock hadn’t been closed. I carefully slid off both padlock and chain and placed them on the ground at my feet, then tested the gates. They swung inwards with barely a sound. I shone the torch at the hinges. They were freshly oiled and gleamed a little. I was grateful for the excitement in my chest, considering it a positive attribute, one that would carry me forth despite the unwelcoming aspect of the dank tunnel that lay beyond. Even so, my heart was pounding madly, and I had to take a moment to catch my breath and to slow my breathing down, before stepping over the threshold and pulling the gates closed behind me.

  Gaining access to the first tunnel had almost been too easy. I decided to wait for a few moments to take stock of the situation, and to calm my breathing. A few drops of perspiration slithered down my back. The padlock and chain still lay on the ground at my feet and I considered re-attaching them, but I was hesitant. What if they somehow locked themselves? The thought of being locked in the tunnel and having to explain myself didn’t appeal to me. In the end I decided to move them further into the passage, out of sight of the immediate area. I deemed it highly unlikely that anyone would check the entrance after nightfall, especially when it was positioned directly behind an occupied cottage. And if someone did, perhaps he’d just think someone had been slack about security.

  Turning back towards the tunnel, the beam from my torch revealed a dry corridor, wide enough for three men to walk comfortably, side by side. The floor and walls were of white-washed concrete and there was a dusty, dry smell about the place. I could see the faint outlines of side exits and ceiling vents at the furthest point of the beam. The area appeared tidy, with only a few dried leaves underfoot, just inside the gates. According to McLeod I’d need to follow this first tunnel almost to the end, while counting the exits on the right-hand wall. The hidden entrance to the secret section was in a room accessed from the sixth exit on that side, which led directly into a storage room. He’d written that even at the time the tunnels were in regular use, the entrance was well-hidden within the room, and my primary aim that night was merely to locate this entrance. I had no plans of what I might do after this, as I had no idea of how long this exercise might take, or even if it would be successful.

  The tunnel was in good shape and seemed to travel in a straight line, without deviation in either direction or slope. But even so, I walked with trepidation, shining my torch ahead and at the roof and walls as I walked. I was surprised to see that the smooth concrete floors remained surprisingly bereft of debris. Perhaps even now, this tunnel was being used for a military purpose of some kind. While I was only concerned with the exits to the right, there were also a number that branched off to the left. Some were open doorways, while others had metal doors, and the familiar metal grills that could be looked through. Shining my torch into one revealed a single room, with boxes stacked up in one corner.

  It was cool in the tunnels and draughty—chilly air funnelled down through the ceiling vents and despite my warm clothing I began to notice the reduction in temperature. However, after a relatively short time, I came upon the sixth exit. This egress had an actual door, although it had been broken half off its hinges and one edge was now wedged into the floor. I pushed my way through, shining the torch tentatively in all directions. Inside the room, the concrete floor was broken in several places, which made the surface somewhat difficult to walk on. I shone my torch on the cracks. The ground underneath (what I could see of it) looked soft and boggy.

  The room was rectangular, about four yards by three, with no other obvious exits. Directly to my left was a grey metal desk. I laid the torch on its surface so that the beam illuminated the room as best as possible and looked around carefully. This had originally been a storage room but had clearly fallen into disrepair; not just the wrecked floor but also the furnishings looked as if they’d been knocked around. There may even have been a fire in the room at some point, if the black ashen mass under the metal desk was anything to go by.

  Something about the room made me uncertain. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on the cause, but I decided to proceed with caution. I stood completely still and quietened my breathing but could hear nothing. All but one wall had stacks of shelves and these were empty of contents. In the far-left corner directly facing me, a panelled wooden storage unit was built into the wall. It ran from floor to ceiling and had a full-length door on one side, and rows of drawers on the other. I picked up my torch and walked carefully across to the cupboard. The sight of the cabinet reassured me that I was in the correct room; it matched McLeod’s description exactly. Hopefully it would provide access to the hidden section.

  There didn’t appear to be any obvious way of opening it, but I knew that this wasn’t the case. Stretching upwards I felt along the top of the unit until I came upon a small depression, which I pressed firmly. I heard a faint click from within the cabinet and the door swung open the
merest crack. Success! At that very moment my torch flickered and went out. I pressed the switch off and on a few times to no avail, and in my confusion, I dropped it at my feet. Reaching down, I managed to retrieve it, but for a moment I felt as if I was unable to breathe.

  The spare batteries were in my pocket and I fumbled in the pitch darkness to replace the spent ones with the new ones. The intense blackness seemed to have a presence of its own. I imagined an inky vapour oozing its way beneath my clothes, its shadowy fingers probing against my chest and moving past my breastbone towards my throat. I shook the feeling off, regained my composure and concentrated on finishing the task. I was glad when my torch shone brightly again and aimed it towards the inside of the cupboard. The back of the enclosure was also of dark panelled wood. There was a row of brass coat hooks, one of which had an ancient gas mask hanging from it.

  I couldn’t see any way of opening that back panel, even though I knew that it could move aside. I began to feel frustrated, thinking back to what McLeod had written. His notes had merely said, ‘the secret area is accessed through the cabinet’. I shone my torch around the rectangular space once again, and then noticed that the fourth brass hook looked subtly different from the others. As I reached up to touch it, I noticed my hand was shaking, and reminded myself of the benefits of breathing slowly and evenly. It only took the slightest of touches and the panel slid to the side with almost no sound. The dank smell I’d noticed on and off all evening surrounded me as if in a cloud, then dissipated. I coughed, and the sound seemed to echo a long way into the distance.

  I stepped back and took stock. I’d achieved the target I’d set myself for the night. Not only had I easily found the access room, I’d also successfully gained entrance to McLeod’s hidden area. I was already on to my spare set of batteries and I was tired and cold. The tension of the exploration had definitely taken its toll on my energy levels. And that moment of complete blackness a few minutes ago had disturbed me more than it should have. Perhaps it was time to head back home. Who knew what lay beyond this room? But, I was curious. To have come so far in so short a time, surely it wouldn’t hurt to investigate just a little further?

  The Caverns of the Unnamed One

  Beyond the secret entrance was another tunnel and I was surprised to find that after a few yards, it had a noticeable downhill gradient. It was also clearly curving to the left, bringing it closer to the heart of the headland. My nostrils twitched at the odour of mossy wetness, which almost covered the unpleasant smell I’d been noting on and off all evening. And there was the sensation of a deep and penetrating cold that seemed to rise up out of the darkness. Somewhere not too distant I could just make out the sound of water dripping; it had an almost melodic quality and I wondered how long it had been since other feet had trod the same path or heard the same sounds. My torch shone strongly, and its beam illuminated not only the path before me, but also the walls and ceiling. From time to time, rectangular air vents broke the roof. I stopped to shine the torch up into the first two or three I came upon, but could see nothing of interest. Even the metal rungs on the vents of the more recent tunnels were not in evidence here. But the air seemed fresh enough. And yet I could not dispel the feeling that I was being watched. Impossible, of course, but even so…

  According to McLeod’s account, the main tunnel, the one through which I was now walking, proceeded for fifty yards, at which point I should encounter a crossroads. Turning right would take me directly to a small bay on the southwestern side of the headland. A left-hand turn would take me to a chamber he referred to as the ‘preparation’ room. Preparation for what, I could not imagine.

  My plan had originally been to keep going straight ahead, as, according to McLeod, a few yards further in this direction would lead me directly to the ‘meeting room’—the chamber in which the group initially made contact with the ‘Unnamed One’. His account left out more than it explained, but there was no denying the underlying expectation he’d built up. However, when I reached this intersection I could see no reason not to turn left to have a quick look at the preparation room. The metal door to this room, while still intact, was hinged back against the passageway wall, bolted to an iron clasp. It was one of the types of doors that had a barred, glass-less window around head height. I peered through the doorway.

  The chamber was spacious; about ten yards square. My stomach lurched when I realised that the room had clearly once been used to confine living beings, for fixed into the concrete walls were sets of manacles, at both ankle and shoulder height. There were a couple of rude bunks, upon which could still be seen the remains of army-style mattresses, although these were clearly ancient, stuffed as they were with straw (I could see the stalks clearly through a mattress that had fallen foul to rodents). The floor of the chamber was of hard-packed earth, and around its perimeter ran a shallow trough that led to a drain in one corner. The place smelled rank, perhaps due to the damp patches on the floor upon which an unbecoming slime had accumulated. This led me to believe that the location was closer to sea level than I’d expected. I remained motionless for a moment, surveying the scene, and for the first time, I felt some misgivings about the purpose of the supposed coven McLeod had been involved with.

  A heavy weariness began to overcome me. It was as if the very task of lifting my feet had become inordinately difficult. The smell was also beginning to have an effect, causing me to feel quite nauseous. Perhaps I’d dwelt too long in the subterranean passages. The allure of fresh air and sparkling stars suddenly became overwhelmingly attractive. I decided to explore no further on that night. I’d successfully found the first chamber. It only followed that the main chamber would also be discoverable. I’d retrace my steps and head home.

  I leaned back against the inner wall of the chamber to gather my breath, switching off my torch to save the batteries; relieved that the visions of the living vapour weren’t intruding this time. The darkness was complete; not a glimmer of light could be seen. My thoughts were in disarray and I kept thinking back to the sight of the manacles. Could McLeod’s coven have had a darker purpose?

  My reveries were interrupted by a noise emanating from further along the passage, causing me to stand up straight, straining my ears. It was as if a heavy object was being dragged along the ground. After a few moments I realised that the sound was drawing closer. My mind raced. For what purpose would someone else be down this far below the hill, at such a time? Glancing towards the entrance, I fancied that the corridor outside was growing lighter, and yes, I could soon see the silhouette of the doorway. Beyond it was a strange luminosity, greenish and flickering. The hairs rose on the back of my neck and I stood there bathed in uncertainty. Should I keep still in the hope that the originator of the noise kept on going, or should I turn on my torch (thus exposing myself) in the hope that I could make a run for it? In my fear I had convinced myself that whoever or whatever was making its way towards the chamber was not a living man, and therefore I was unlikely to be able to explain myself out of the situation.

  The sound drew ever closer, until, to my horror it came to a halt directly outside. A malodorous stench began to fill the room. Then the muffled scraping started up again. The torch was still gripped in my right hand, and, drawing on all the courage I could muster, I stepped into the outside tunnel and raised it high above my shoulder. Simultaneously, I pressed the switch and shone the beam directly at the shuffling noise.

  At first, I could make no sense of what I was seeing. And yet my brain tried to find words for the vision before me. A corpulent whitish shape, far taller and wider than any creature I was familiar with, rippling with an oily slick of green slime, filled almost all the space available in the tunnel. At its head squirmed a mass of tentacles and these were twitching and wriggling predatorily. Behind these I glimpsed a spheroid pair of gleaming yellow eyes. These were fixed on me, revealing a glacial and malignant intelligence.

  The sight was so alien, and so fearsome tha
t the torch fell from my slack grip and I turned to run, panic rising in my throat. But I wasn’t quick enough. One of the thing’s tentacles shot out and gripped me by the waist. Another tightened around my throat. I lost consciousness.

  When I awoke that first time, it was as if I’d descended into hell. But there was no fire in those ghastly depths. To burn would have been a sweet death in comparison.

  My captor would visit me frequently in the first few days, which soon ran into weeks, then months. Long before then I had stopped considering time in units. I just was. The realisation that I was to be kept alive, in itself, was a kind of death.

  These are my memories. They come to me under cover of dark­ness, when I lie unconscious on my hospital bed. I relive these moments over and over, and yet I know that when I awaken, these dreams will be fleeting wisps of imagination, unable to be grasped or explained.

  Epilogue

  Dr Richardson looked up as the door to his office opened. He gestured towards the seat in front of his desk. His visitor sat down.

  “Thanks for taking the time to update me on our mystery man. I take it he still hasn’t communicated anything?”

  “Not yet, no,” said Richardson, drily. “Have you had any luck with working out where he came from?”

  “No. To be honest, we have no leads. I’m thinking he’ll remain a mystery. You said you had some additional information relating to his injuries?”

  “Yes. It seems this isn’t just a case of some old guy falling off a boat and being washed ashore. He has a range of long-term repetitive injuries that he’d clearly sustained long before he ended up in the water.”

  The police inspector’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing as Richardson continued.

  “Did you see him when he was first admitted to hospital?”

  “Yes, I was on duty that night. I arrived here a few minutes before they brought him in,” the Inspector replied.