Ruin of Souls (Chapter 1)

To:  [e-mail]

From:  [e-mail]



May 16, 2018

John,

Attached is a digital copy of a journal entry found in the burned out ruins of the Silverton, Michigan historical museum on May 15, 2018.  The rest of the journal is badly burned and unreadable, although some entries may be candidates for IR reflected photography and further analysis.  Although incomplete, said entry offers possible origins to current threat.  Treat as classified.

Rodger

#

October 8, 1871. . .aboard the S.S.Silverton

         

It is most imperative that I record the events as they happened, lest I forget (although I do not believe that would be possible, even if I live into my eighties).

This was to be my third passage from Chicago to Buffalo and was to be my last. I was on my way to Buffalo to begin my position of chief of police for that fine city’s newly established force. This was wonderful, of course, for that is where my beloved Elizabeth resides. We are to be married next spring.

The prior two crossings of Lake Michigan had been uneventful, if not mundane. This one was to follow suit. The only pleasant occurrence of the evening was being invited to dine at the captain’s table. I had met Captain Larson during my first passage. As it turned out, we had quite a bit in common and enjoyed each other’s company. We had both fought for the Union in the War of Rebellion (I was calvary, he was, obviously, a navy man) and we had both similar educations and theological beliefs. Needless to say, I was delighted to be seated at this table of honor. Unfortunately, a second serving of dinner and a third glass of wine prompted me to retire to my stateroom early and I rested well, at least until the mutton stew and the unrelenting rolling of Lake Michigan’s waters set my stomach into turmoil. I tried to lie in bed and let it pass but an unfortunately large swell caused the stew to rise in my gullet, making me swallow it a second time, this time bitter and sour. I knew it would not stay down, nor did I want to stink up my stateroom, so I threw on my coat, laced up my boots and made my way to the deck.

Clutching the starboard railing, I finally rid myself of the evenings meal and felt better. Wiping the spittle from my mouth, I drew in a deep breath to help clear my head. I smelled the smoke. It was not strong, not distinct, but it was definitely the odor of burning wood. Concerned, I strode the deck, looking for a flame, a glow, anything on board that would justify what I was smelling. I saw neither fire nor smoke. I made my way to the wheelhouse and looked inside. I could see Captain Larson peering starboard, spyglass to his eye. I jumped back down to the deck and looked in the direction whence we came. There was something against the black horizon, dim and distant, although I could not tell what. I went to the aft deck, hoping to get a better look. I strained my eyes but could see naught. I leaned over the railing, forcing my eyes to focus. Nothing. Yet there was something there. An occasional glimpse of orange, far distant, like spying a dying star in the sky. And the smell, once again, smoke.

“Here, try this,” said a voice behind me, giving me a dreadful scare and almost sending me over the railing. I turned around. It was Captain Larson and he was handing me his spyglass. “Never seen anything like them. They must be enormous.”

Bemused, I accepted the spyglass and again looked back where we had been a mere six hours ago.

“See that orange glow?” asked the captain. “Look hard. I think that’s Chicago.”

“I see it, but barely. That must be quite a fire. I mean, how far away are we?”

“Eighty-five, ninety miles.”

“Christ! What did you mean them? You said that you’ve never seen anything like them?”

“Follow me," Larson said.

I followed Larson to the port side of the deck where he stopped, mid-ship. He pointed towards Michigan.

“There, have a look.”

I lifted the spyglass to my eye and saw. . .nothing.

“Keep going,” the captain said. “More to the right.”

Scanning Michigan’s western shoreline, I finally saw what Larson was referring to. Again, glimpses of orange against the black sky.

“That’ll be Holland," he said. Walking aft-wards, he motioned for me to follow until finally, at the bow of the ship, he once again pointed north along the coast of Michigan.

Once again, orange against black.

“Manistee," he said. “Next one’s the worst. Come on.”

We were against the starboard railing. Larson did not need to point out the direction, it was obvious. I raised the spyglass and let out a gasp. Even from this distance, I could make out a wall of flame. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I realized I was seeing a firestorm that must have topped two, three hundred feet in height. I realized I was smelling a fire almost a hundred miles away. “Wisconsin," I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Is that area settled?” I asked, hoping the fire was nothing more than an enormous wildfire in an uninhabited area.

“Some of it is, but I pray not there. If it is, I pity the poor souls.”

I had seen my share of fires. Charleston in ‘61, Atlanta at the end of the war. Nothing like this, though. Four enormous fires, separated by hundreds of miles of land and lake, burning simultaneously with our ship in the center of it all. I continued scanning the horizon with the captain’s spyglass. The sky towards Wisconsin was unnaturally bright. I looked north but could see nothing but blackness. A shooting star caught my eye and I followed its trajectory as it shot across the sky. It was the brightest shooting star I had ever seen.

“What are you looking at?” asked Larson.  I gave no reply, my attention transfixed on what I was seeing. The shooting star had stopped, literally stopped. It hung there against the horizon. I handed the spyglass back to Larson. “Take a look, right over there, about twenty degrees above the horizon. Tell me what you see.”

Larson looked. “Seems to be a star, a rather bright star. Why?”

“A moment ago, it was traveling along the horizon.”

“Impossible, shooting stars don’t just stop shooting.”

“This one did. I swear”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Jack, but think about it. A shooting star is more than likely a meteor. . .occasionally a comet. Do you actually think that a shooting star, a meteor, can suddenly just stop and take a rest? Make a fueling stop? I remember once, back in ‘64 during the peak of the war. We were running along the Carolina coast when…”

Larson lowered the spyglass and looked at me, his mouth opening and closing, an involuntary action to finish speaking the words that his brain cut off mid sentence. Finally, after a lengthy pause, he handed me back the spyglass.

“Look," he said.

Impossibly, the star, shooting or not, was getting larger. No, that’s not right. It was getting closer. It had somehow, impossibly changed directions and was now coming directly at us. “Jack," he said, “that’s not a star, or a meteor, or a comet. I don’t know what that is but it is coming at us. It’s coming at us fast.” He reached out and grabbed my sleeve.

It was then that the phenomenon I find necessary to put to paper began. I felt it first. In my teeth, of all places. A sort of vibration of which I’ve never experienced. And the taste of copper and iodine. I looked at the captain and could see that his hair was standing on end, even his whiskers, parted at his chin and pointing towards his ears.

“Captain, what’s happening?” I asked. “Do you feel it? Do you taste it?”

“Aye, Jack, I do. What it is, I know naught but I don’t like it.”

The object in the sky streaked toward us. As it got closer, I could see it change. The brilliant white light emanating from the object suddenly turned blue. Not only could I feel something happening, I could hear it. A low rumbling, almost not audible but heard in my bones. Louder and brighter and bigger until I could no longer look directly at it. I glanced at the captain and realized that his skin had turned blue. It had a glow about it. Everything was blue, everything was glowing. I shielded my eyes from the light and realized the object had stopped. It was directly above us. Gazing towards the heavens, I saw it and for the first time in my life, I dropped to my knees and called out for Providence to protect us.

It was a ship, as best I could tell since I couldn’t look at it directly without squinting and putting my hand in front of my eyes. It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. It was above us, for God’s sake. In the air. In the sky. It was flying and it was huge. It was probably five, six city blocks wide and double that in length. It was hovering directly above us, the blue glow emanating from what I must guess was it’s power source. Then the light grew dimmer and I could swear that the sky ship contracted. The vibration in my teeth grew unbearable. I looked at the captain and his gums were bleeding. A droning noise accompanied the vibration and the flying ship began to undulate from fore to aft. The bow of the sky ship split open, revealing a cannon like protrusion. The noise became unbearable. I began to scream but I could not take my eyes off of the flying ship. Suddenly, silently, a ball of crimson light emitted from the cannon, a light so bright that I can still see it when I close my eyes. One moment it was there, the next, only a red streak across the black sky. It was headed in the direction of Michigan.

The silence did not last long. The air exploded around us, singeing our eyebrows and throwing the captain over the railing. I was thrown to the ground but regained my senses long enough to grasp the arm of the captain who was hanging on to the railing for dear life. I hauled him up and over the rail, both of us clutching each other, trembling, burned and battered but alive.

Again, the ship above us contracted, but this time it was the ships stern that was showing signs of activity. We raced to the wheelhouse, climbing the stairs two at a time. The blue glow grew brighter, the humming louder. I spied myself in a mirror on the wall. I was as red as a Maine lobster and blood was coming not only from my gums, but also from my nose and ears. The noise was, once again, becoming unbearable. It was becoming hard to breath. Suddenly, my ears ‘popped’ and I screamed from the pain. I was gulping for air but none was to be found. The blue light was getting dim. Everything was getting dim. I realized I was about to pass out. I opened the wheelhouse door and took in a great gulp of air, but there was none to breath. Finally, giving in to my inevitable demise, I closed my eyes and let the darkness envelope me.

I never saw what happened to the flying ship. I cannot tell you which direction it went. The next thing I knew, I was sipping water and someone was saying “slow down, just a little sip”. I opened my eyes and realized that I was in the infirmary. Captain Larson was on the cot next to me. His eyes were closed. No one was giving him water.

#

The ship was abuzz with speculation of the sky ship, the noise, the fire and, of course, the death of Captain Larson.  He and I had been the only ones out on the deck when the evenings aberrations began.  Most of the passengers had been asleep and came running out just as the air exploded.  I can only speculate as to the happenings upon my loss of consciousness and I must base what I know strictly from the tales told to me by both passengers and crew.  Had not I experienced the prior events first hand, I would have thought them mad.

The ships chaplain, still in his night clothes, exclaimed to me that the captain had still been alive when he reached him, only to have “the life sucked out of him” by a shaft of light (blue, of course) emanating from the sky ship.  He claimed to have seen “his soul rise up” and that it was “eaten by the blue demon”.  A woman from Lake Geneva described “tentacles stretching down from the blue fire” trying to grab purchase of the railing, whether to pull itself down or hoist our ship up, she knew not.  Children were screaming, their parents trying to comfort them.  More than a few had bloody noses and ears.  Surrounding all of this, adding to the pandemonium, was the ever increasing smoke and smell of the distant fires.

A man I recognized as the ships doctor knelt by my side.  He began poking and prodding my body, verifying for himself that ribs, arms and legs were all intact.  He leaned close to me, a look of trepidation on his face.

“We need to talk,” he whispered.  “I don’t know what happened, but a calamity obviously befell us.  Captain Larson is dead, indeed.  Worse than that, I have examined him and his demise is, to say the least, unusual.  Right now, however, our first item of importance is to protect the lives of the others on board.  The first mate is a buffoon, his position unduly obtained through nepotism. I fear that he does not have the proper disposition to take control of the situation.  I saw you at the captain’s table this evening.  He is, damn, was a man of great courage and fortitude.  He also chose his friends wisely and liked to surround himself with others in kind.  I can only assume that your character is above reproach and in doing so, I must request your assistance.”

“My assistance?” I asked.  “With what?”

“Look, Mr., I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Betcher, Jack Betcher.”

“I’m William Porter,” he said, holding out his hand.  “You can call me William, Bill, whatever.  Just don’t call me Doc.  I hate that.”

“Ok, Bill.  What do you need my help with?”

“Well, Jack, let’s see.  We are out at sea.  The air is filled with smoke.  The captain is dead and we were attacked by some otherworldly vessel.  It looks like Chicago is on fire, along with some place up in Wisconsin, not to mention almost the entire west coast of Michigan.  We have one hundred and seventy souls on board that I would like to see get home again.  Anything you can do will go a long way towards helping to make that happen.  What do you do for a living?”

“I just started working for the Buffalo police department.  They just started a force this year.”

“Fantastic.  Law and order.  Just what we need right now.  Let’s get these people cleaned up.  I’ll have the kitchen put on some coffee.  Perhaps you can gather some statements and we can begin to piece together just what happened tonight.”

That was all the prompting I needed.  Now I felt that I had a purpose.  I surveyed the situation and felt confident that I could help control the fracas that was beginning to get out of hand.  I climbed the steps of the wheelhouse and surveyed the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I called out.  “Ladies!  Gentlemen!  Hello!”  It was no use.  The clamor from the deck just got louder, totally ignoring my request for attention.  Glancing around, I spied what I needed in the wheelhouse; the captain’s speaker-trumpet hung on the wall.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” I called out, my voice amplified ten-fold.  After a few short screams, the crowd grew silent.  I had their attention.  “Let’s go back inside, out of this chilly night air.  Come on, everyone, follow me.  We are going to the ball room. Let’s try to figure out what happened and what we need to do to get you all safely ashore.”

#

I returned to my stateroom but an hour ago, exhausted and bruised.

I had gotten some conflicting reports from witnesses, but for the most part, there is a common thread running through every story.  Those who witnessed the demise of Captain Larson all describe a connection between him and the sky ship.  Some said it was a blue light, some said tentacles, one even said the “hand of God”.

Bill was correct concerning the first mate, a burley chap named Rensen.  We found him in the wheel room, his complexion ruddy, a half empty bottle of bourbon in his hand.  He was steering us towards Michigan and whatever precarious situations might exist there, given this night’s events.  Unable to convince Rensen that we were potentially safer away from the shore, at least for the time being, Bill literally pushed him out of the wheel house.  He adjusted the course himself to keep the ship away from land.

“Ideally,” Bill said, “it would be best to go ashore.  I think, however, we should at least wait until daybreak, reevaluate the situation and make our decision then.”

“Agreed,” I said.  “We do have a problem, though.  What do we do with the remains of Captain Larson?  I don’t think the traditional burial at sea is a good idea without knowing what happened to him.”

“Jack, I can barely stand, I’m so tired.  I want to wait until the morning before I evaluate Larson’s remains.”

“We can’t just leave him in the infirmary.  We need to keep him fresh.”

“There is a cold storage room in the kitchen.  We need to move the food out and put the captain there.”

We spent the next hour moving out the perishables and clearing the center of the cold storage room, moving the large blocks of ice against the back wall.  Bill and I laid Captain Larson’s corpse on the makeshift table we had made from a couple of large barrels and a door we took off the pantry.

“Fucking shame,” Bill said as he covered the captain with a sheet.  “Excuse my language, Jack, but this is one fucking shame.”

Bill had demanded I get some rest.  He had stated my assistance would be required during his examination of Captain Larson. Bill is a determined man of science and he will demand an answer built on logic, not one of metaphysical origin.

I need to keep my thoughts fresh, so I have begun to pen this account.  It has been a very strange, disturbing and frightening night.  I do need to get some sleep.  God only knows what tomorrow will bring.

#

“This is a terrible morning,” said Bill Porter.  He and Jack were in the cold storage room, Larson’s shroud covered body between them.  “Philip Larson didn’t deserve this.  Hell of a man. . .hell of a man.  I’ve been part of his crew since the war, but I’ve known him all of his life.  We grew up in the same neighborhood.  For God’s sake, I was in his wedding party.  Christ, poor Emma.  She’ll be heartbroken.”

“I’m sorry Bill,” Jack said, his voice coming out in plumes of frozen vapor.  “I didn’t know him very long, but I was impressed by his fine disposition.  He seemed like a good man.”

“Oh, he was.  One of the best  Let’s get on with this awful task, shall we?”  Bill lit a lantern and set it on a block of ice.  “Close the door, please.  I want to keep the cold in.”

Jack apprehensively closed the door.  The light from the kerosene flame enveloped them in a golden hue.  The room was small, intended for cans of milk, fresh fruit, eggs, meat and the like, not for laying out a body.  With Jack and Bill on either side of Larson, there was no more that a few feet between them and the surrounding ice.  If Jack leaned back, he could rest his shoulders against the cold blocks.  Jack felt like he was in a tomb.

“Interesting,” said Bill, his voice now of a man of science, the grief of his loss momentarily forgotten.  He held the lantern aloft and pointed to the end of the shroud, where Larson’s head lay.  “Those stains, see them?  They weren’t there last night.”  The stains, faint and scarlet in color, were round and vaguely defined Larson’s face under the covering.

“Look here,” said Jack.  Similar stains on either side of Larson gave the appearance of hands.  “What would cause those?”

“I guess we best find out.  Ready?”  Bill and Jack each took a corner of the sheet and lowered it, revealing Larson’s face.

“Oh my God,” Jack said, stepping back and hitting the wall of ice behind him.  He felt bile rise in his throat.

“Steady, Jack," Bill said, trying to stay calm himself.  He continued to talk to Jack, but his eyes were transfixed on Larson.  “Take out that notebook and the pencil I gave you and take notes.  Please, try to keep up, I have a tendency to prattle on.  Subject is Philip Larson, Captain of the S.S.Silverton.  Subject met his demise last night, October 8th, 1871 at approximately 2 o’clock in the morning under unusual and irregular circumstances yet to be explained.  Condition of the body seven hours later, kept under cold conditions, is as follows.  Left eye is completely removed from orbital socket, resting on upper cheek. Right eye is swollen shut and encrusted by an ochre colored substance of unknown origin.  Entire facial region is covered by inflamed pustules, each containing a yellow head, possibly pus filled.  Christ, there are so many of them, it is almost impossible to recognize the deceased.  It is easy to see them through the whiskers, which are pure white.  Last night they were black as coal.  The nose is gone, cartilage however still in place.  Mouth is open, unnaturally wide.  Teeth are black.  Tongue is. . .damn, he swallowed his tongue.  Jack, would you please open my bag.  I need my forceps.  They should towards the bottom of the bag.  Please bring the lantern closer, also.”

Jack handed Bill the forceps and placed the lantern on the makeshift table next to Larson’s head.  Hooking the forceps behind the tongue, Bill pulled on the forceps until the tongue dislodged from deep within Larson’s throat with a liquid, slapping sound.  He uncurled it until five or six inches of the muscle extended outside of the dead man’s mouth.  Jack wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

“Tongue is unnaturally long and black, like the teeth," Bill continued.

“Bill.”  Jack suddenly said laying his hand on the doctor’s sleeve, as much to steady himself as to garner Bill’s attention.  “Bill!  Look.  On his forehead, at the hairline.  Do you see what I’m seeing?” 

“Ears are gone.  Ear canals covered by the same pustules as the rest of the face.”

“Bill!  Stop!  Look!”  One of the larger pustules began to quiver until the yellow head of the carbuncle burst, splaying Larson’s face with viscid pus.  The room filled with the rancid odor of rotting flesh.

They both watched in horror as the ruptured abscess pulsated, pushing out the tip of a writhing, gray maggot.  It pushed and pushed, stretching the opening of the wound, exposing more and more.  The worm finally popped free, wriggling down Larson’s face.  Other boils erupted, giving birth.  Larson’s right eye, encrusted with God knows what, began to open and transfixed it’s dead gaze on Bill Porter.  Suddenly, Larson’s mouth snapped shut, biting off the tip of the blackened tongue that had been protruding from it.  Piceous fluid began to ooze from the tongue.

“Help me,” Philip Larson croaked.  “It hurts.  Help me, Doc.”

“Philip!  My God, Philip,”  How in God’s name can he still be alive, Bill thought.  He began to reach towards Larson.

Jack grabbed Bill’s arm and backed away towards the door, opening it.

“Bill, we have to leave.”

“Jack, he’s alive.  Dear Jesus, Larson is alive.”

“Bill!  Now," Jack yelled, pulling the doctor through the open doorway, thrusting him out of the cold storage room and into the kitchen.  Jack slammed the door behind him, looking for a way to lock it from the outside.

“What the hell are you doing,” Bill asked.  “Philip Larson is in there.  He’s alive, damn it.” Bill grasped the handle of the door and began to open it.

“Bill, don’t.  Larson is dead.”  Jack pushed the door shut, leaning his back into it, surveying the kitchen for a way to keep it behind the door.

“Help me,” said the voice behind the door.

Jack saw the hasp on the door and knew there had to be a padlock somewhere.  Frantically searching, throwing dishtowels and bowls off the counter, looking for anything to secure the door.  No padlock.  Bill was opening the door.  Jack grabbed the honing steel from the knife block, shoved Bill out of the way and slammed the door shut jamming the steel into the hasp, the taper of the instrument wedging in tight.

“Are you mad,” asked Bill.  “I need to help him.”

“Let me out, Doc,” called the Larson thing from behind the door, followed by a soft, wet thud.  “I’m so cold.”

“Bill, don’t listen.  It’s not Larson,” Jack said.  He grabbed Bill by the lapels of his jacket and brought his face close to his.  “Listen to me.  Look at me.  Now Listen.  What is the one thing you hate to be called?”

“Let go of me Jack.  I’m warning you.”

“Hey Doc, I need you,” it said again, followed by another thud.

“Bill, did you hear that?  Just now?”

“Yes,” said Bill.  “Larson needs me.”

“No, what did he say?”

“He said ‘Bill, I need you’”.

“No, Bill.  He called you Doc,” said Jack.  “In all the years you’ve known Philip Larson, did he ever call you Doc?  You told me you hated that name.  Did Larson ever call you doc?”

Confused, Bill stopped struggling.  Philip Larson never, ever called him Doc.  It was almost a joke between them.  Sometimes, Larson would call him Doctor, usually Bill, occasionally William but never, ever Doc.

“Philip?  Philip Larson, can you hear me?"  Bill had to be sure.

“Yes, let me out,” it said.  “Please.  I’m so cold, Doc.”

“Shit," said Bill, realization spreading through him.  “You think that steel will hold?”

“It’ll hold.”  Jack let go of Bill and went down on his haunches, leaning against the counter, breathing heavily.  Bill joined him.

“It’s like he knew what I was, but not who I was.  He knew I was a doctor, but he didn’t know I was Bill Porter.”

“It, not he.  It was trying to be familiar with you.  It knew something, some information about you, but not everything.  From you, it somehow knew the name Doc and assumed, if it can make assumptions, that it was your preferred name, not the opposite.”

“You think he could understand my thoughts?”

“It, Bill.  That thing in there is not Philip Larson.  I don’t know what it can understand.  All I know is that thing in there isn’t human.  Did you see his tongue?”  Jack shuddered, stood and offered Bill his hand.  “Sorry if I got a little rough with you.”

“Thank God you did.  Otherwise. . .”  Bill began shaking and placed his hands on the counter, head down, suddenly sobbing.  “I’m sorry.  This is too much.  Just too much.”

“That’s fine, my friend," Jack said.  He put his arm around the doctor’s shoulder and patiently waited for Bill to regain his composure.  “I think a good, stiff drink is in order.”

“I never drink in the morning.”

“This is no ordinary morning.  Come on, we need to talk this out and I sure don’t want to do it here.”

Bill walked over to the door of the cold storage room and reached for the honing steel.  Panicked, Jack rushed over, ready to stop him.  Bill pushed the steel further down, wedging it tighter.

“Sure it will hold?”

“Sure,” Jack said as they left the kitchen. “Unless someone is stupid enough to pull it out.  It’s secure for now.  Let’s get out of here.  I want to be as far away from that room as I can get right now.  God, the smell.  Did you smell that?”

The kitchen door swung shut, filling the room with silence. . .except for the occasional, wet thud.