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Lol the title makes me feel like a professional author who had his short stories published in an anthology! I'll be posting my horror/magical realism short stories in this thread the first of which is The Somewhere This first post is for the index or whatever it's called. Enjoy!

The Somewhere

Something on the Moon.

KO AHANU (I am)

That Was Before

I wrote this in my 1st year of my creative writing course. Was my first attempt...after many years of writing to write second person perspective and present tense (Dan Abnett's Gaunt's Ghosts influence can be blamed for that.
It's based on a very, very visceral and, quite frankly, terrifying nightmare I had in '07, I remember it well even today, so much so I wrote this. It's almost verbatim to my nightmare, but I have made a few changes.
Enjoy!


You let go with a yelp, your pale fingers scrambling for something to clutch in the cliff face.

You find one — a half-circle handhold, carved through to darkness on the other side. You gasp for breath, your lungs on fire as you look around. You see you are surrounded by a large cavern mostly endowed in darkness, but somehow you can still see the wall on the other side. It must be dozens of metres away. You look up and see more black; you're not sure if it's even a cavern or a bottomless canyon.

You glance down, despite vertigo roiling in your guts and see many, many more half circle handholds littering the cliff face below. You can't see where they lead if they even lead anywhere at all.

You can't help wonder: who had carved these perfectly symmetrical holes, and why?

Suddenly the screaming starts a high pitched chorus of hundreds of inhuman voices. It curdles your blood and sends panic painfully pile-driving through you, making you almost let go.

The screaming won't abate it keeps growing and growing and becomes higher and higher pitched into a thunderous crescendo which makes your ears ache in agony.

Your brain seems to pulse inside your skull; you clench your teeth as fear threatens to overwhelm your every sense as it contorts your insides like cold hands roughly twisting your insides.

But even through it, you manage to realise something.

The screaming is coming from behind the cliff face.

You hunch down and look through the hollow handhold, into the pitch blackness beyond. You wait and watch. You have no idea what you expect to see and all the while the screams somehow grow louder and louder. So loud it isn't just hurt your ears any more but your entire skull, it feels like something is repeatedly stabbing nine-inch nails into your brain and the back of your eyes. In time with your heart which hammers so hard and so fast you fear it might burst from your breast.

You look and you look and when the screaming seems to reach its apex the eyes materialise. Insanely wide, bloodshot eyes. Beneath a smile spreads, an inhumanly wide, brown crescent moon with too many teeth.

It freezes you in place; it's only a few inches away. The glint of the knife flashing forwards brings you into reality, and you let go a millisecond before it plunges into your fingers. You scream as you drop and you claw at the cliff. You find one, and you gasp in pain as your fingers almost dislocate with the effort.

Instinct makes you let go, dropping just before another knife saws into view.

You drop for only a second, but it feels like a lifetime before you find a handhold. Already, you are utterly drenched in sweat. Your hammering heart sinks as your hand slips, forcing you to scramble to keep from falling freely.

Somehow you manage to regain your hold, and you catch a glimpse of another pair of eyes and another stabbing knife before you let go.

For what feels an eternity you do that, over and over — every time you avoid another knife by a hair's breadth.

How the hell they know precisely which one you'll grab, you haven't a clue.

Somehow you manage to ignore the agony in your fingers and arms.

Somehow you weather the blisters.

Somehow you don't notice the blood pouring from your ears and the screaming stopping.

You have no idea how long it takes you to realise you lie on your back. Your hazy, white vision stares into darkness.

But you remember. You remember your name is Adrian Aldritch that you're from New Zealand but the how, why or where you are forever eluding you.

It's hard to think, hard to breathe.

The pain flares to life, although you have no idea, it's gone. It makes you gasp and writhe. Like every inch of you is dunked in acid.

You don't hear the footfalls, but you feel them, and it causes you to sit upright, making the agony worse.

You look to see six people approaching you through the darkness. They are called out, their mouths slamming open and shut with desperate abandon.

But you can't hear them.

All that you can hear is a horrid high pitched ringing and a strong, sharp stinging. You clutch at your ears, and you feel wet. The tips of your fingers come into view, revealing the blood.

Panic abruptly overtakes you; it causes you to scramble away. Your back hits the wall.

Despite this, you see the six strangers keep coming toward you. Hands reach out to you.

You scream you can't trust them. How can you trust them?

You cover your face with shaking arms, and that's all you can do. Being too weak, too agonised and too exhausted to fight despite your very being seeming to scream you need to.

And the ringing! Oh, the horrid ringing, how you wish for it to stop!

"Please! Please!" you cry. "Please don't hurt me!"

Strong hands suddenly wrap around your wrists and without any violence they take your arms away.

They tower over you, and you can tell they're yelling for you to calm down, but you won't, you can't. Terrified tears well in your eyes and your weary, achy limbs won't stop shaking.

One of them, a man with dark skin, perhaps African-American seems to yell down at you.

"Can you hear me?"

You manage to shake your head.

Then you are abruptly hauled to your feet. Your arms slipped onto two pairs of broad shoulders.

They begin to move, which causes the tips of your toes to drag on the rough, rocky surface.

Now you see you're on a large ledge. Which juts from the cliff face and slowly, slightly ascends but to where it is hidden in darkness.

The light tap on your shoulder almost causes you to jump out of your skin, and you look sharply to see a beautiful blonde girl warmly smiling at you. Her hands then change and flick into complex, strange shapes. It takes your weary, pain-wracked mind half a minute to realise she's using sign language.

"I don't understand!" you say.

She frowns and looks at you with blue, piteous eyes.

For what are surely hours your new companions drag you. It is a constant battle for you to cling to consciousness. You watch them as they talk amongst themselves. You try to read their lips, but it's harder than you imagined.

You do notice that all of them are exceedingly young and pretty. One is a tanned brunette who you regularly catch looking at you and each time it causes her to turn away.

One of the men carrying you is white, the other Asian and the last was another white guy.

All of them look like they spend countless hours at the gym and are beaten and bloody, but that doesn't seem to detract their beauty.

The black guy seems the funniest. He says things while smiling with perfect white teeth that makes the others laugh heartily with equally brilliant teeth.

The blonde girl laughs the least; mostly she watches with a vacant gaze.

You begin to warm to them, despite everything.

It's the black guy who noticed it first. He calls out and points, and you turn to see a slight light in the wall of darkness.

Expressions of joy cross their faces, but your instincts seem to scream that something isn't right. But can barely think let alone talk.

They pick up their pace, and their speed causes even worse pain to bloom through your already agonised toes and your head to bounce about.

Your vision, your mind soon regress into that white haze again.

So when you emerge into the light, it almost gives you whiplash.

Your vision clears, and your jaw drops at what you see.

You are upon a plateau which towers over a beautiful horizon of lush green.

A forest engulfs the plateau, and it's a shining, sparkling paradise made of greens of all the most lively shades. Flowers of all colours, shapes and sizes coat all in symmetrical perfection. A river of the brightest, lightest blue weaves and flows serenely from a small waterfall a rainbow seems to grow.

The smell of pollen assaults your nose and clogs your throat, but it doesn't begin to abate your wonder.

Gaping like you imagine you are, your companions begin to move. Further into the forest, spreading out.

A voice suddenly bursts from the depths of the forest. A voice of such inhuman depth and magnitude it shakes you to your very core, and everything else shudders as if in the clutch of the most powerful of earthquakes. Everyone staggers and one the white guys and the blonde fall off their feet.

At the same time, the smell of pollen is blown away, replaced by a wind which carries a stench that hits you like a punch in the face. It's the stench of aeons worth of putrid rot a stench as ancient as death itself. It makes you gag and wretch and writhe then spew violently all yourself.

You can't understand what the voice says, but you hear it.

You hear it.

Utter fear suddenly clutches your heart in its cold, clammy vice-like grip.

Then things begin to emerge from the forest. Mindless, jabbering things that slabber and shuffle as though in stop motion.

Things made from human parts, roughly stitched together by some insane, indelible mind.

One thing has six male torsos stacked upon each other and moves on legs lacking thighs. One has its head removed and stuffed into a hole in its chest. One has three heads.

You can see much to your horror: they are crying. All of them have tears pouring down their torn, brutalised faces.

But following them are more things and as you see them an even stronger terror grips you — a terror of such strength. You fear you'll drop dead there and then.

They are small and made up from bits of babies.

With a gasp, you force yourself awake even though you don't know you're dreaming. A second after, your alarm begins it's wailing beside your bed.

It's a dream, thank goodness! Only a dream!

No, a nightmare. A horrific, horrific nightmare. You aren't deaf; your ears aren't bleeding. You are safe and sound your bed. Away from those things.

But soon a new fear hits you as you think: what the hell is wrong with you? What the feth part of your psyche would conjure up such horrific gak?

Still struggling for breath and drenched in sweat, with strangely achy limbs you force yourself out of bed- desperately trying to forget the nightmare.

But you can't, you hope beyond hope that work will take your mind off it. Despite knowing you'll work in the same armoured van, driving the same damn route.

You have breakfast, you shower, shave and catch the bus to work. All the while you are struggling to contain the cold, feverish fear.

You are determined not to share the dream with anyone, not even your friend and co-worker a good African-American man named George Gray. But he senses something is wrong and bombards you constantly with "are you okay?" over and over.

To make him shut up, halfway through the day you turn on the radio, and you get the NEWS. The woman announces that there was a 6.5 earthquake fifty kilometres off the east coast of New Zealand. An earthquake which occurred just after 5:54 am.

Less than a minute before you woke up.

Dr Mason turned from the telescope, his eyes enlarged by his glasses were wide with watering fear.

The look filled Dr Jacobs with confusion.

'Run,' said Dr Mason.

'What?' said Dr Jacobs.

'Run, damn you.'

'W-why?'

'There was s-something on the moon, run.'

'I don't understand.'

A shriek ripped out of Dr Mason's lips and he bent forwards, clutching at his chest. It made Jacobs stumble away a few steps.

'What's wrong, Mason? I'll call an ambulance.'

'No, just go, it's too late...for...me.'

'I don't understand.'

'No and it's better that you...don't. Now go! Please.'

Dr Jacobs backed away, his thumping, shuddering heart seemed to be his whole world. He turned and ran.

It was then the claws clasped around his neck and yanked him off his feet.

'Too late!' said an inhuman, echoing voice.

I wrote this for my first year at my course, we had to write a story around The Treaty of Waitangi, so I made it a part of my horror continuity.


'You shouldn't go,' said chief Arapeta.

Edward Cullard raised an eyebrow, 'and why not?'

'They are not like us,' said Arapeta.

The lawyer turned to the chief, stopping at the entrance of the village of Tauranga.

'And what do you mean by that? I don't understand; they are Maori too, are they not? We must all be united under the Treaty. Surely you must agree, having just signed it?'

'They are not like us,' repeated Arapeta, his elaborately tattooed face darkening. 'They never communicate, they never trade, never make war, and for generations, my people have disappeared from the village-'

'How do you even know it's them?' interrupted Cullard.

'A few summers ago, my warriors caught them!' said Arapeta through clenched teeth. 'They tried to take one of my daughters! But we stopped them.'

'You didn't take any alive?' said Seamus, the Irish soldier leaned against their supply carriage. His thin arms folded.

Arapeta sighed. 'No, we did not, we killed them, but one escaped. We tried to track him but found no sign. They are like ghosts! My father and his father have sent many warriors to find their village, but we cannot find it, and we have searched all over the peninsula. But that is not just what makes them different.'

'How so?' said Seamus.

'I will show you,' said Arapeta, and he turned and walked back into the village.

Edward gave Seamus a look, and Seamus shrugged.

They didn't have to wait long before Arapeta returned. He was holding something he chucked into the dirt at Edward's feet.

'They wear these,' said Arapeta.

Edward picked it up, then froze. His eyes widened, jaw working. Seamus approached the lawyer, about to ask what was wrong, but he saw it too.

'What in god's name?' said Seamus.

It was a silver mask carved into a horrific, agonised screaming face.

Edward said nothing, then his horrified expression suddenly set into determination.

'Tell me, Arapeta,' said the lawyer. 'How long has this tribe been wearing these masks?'

'My grandfather said to my father that they wore them when he was young,' said Arapeta.

'That was before we came to New Zealand,' said Seamus. 'How did they get the silver before that?'

Edward threw the mask to the ground, turned and started on.

'What's happening?' asked Seamus. 'We're still going north?'

'Yes,' said the lawyer.

Seamus started to argue but stopped. There was something wrong with the lawyer's demeanour. Something that sent shivers up Seamus' spine.


For over a week, they searched. Their Maori guide: Haroa had never been so far up the peninsula before, so they got lost more than a few times. It didn't take long to run out of supplies, and so had to fish off the coast or kill the wild pigs.

They were cold, wet, miserable, and even Haroa was sullen.

The poncy English man, Edward, had never been so hard and determined before. He weathered the cold, harsh climate better than any of them.

It was nearing midnight when Seamus decided to try one last time.

'I don't think-'

'Yes, Seamus, and rather it stayed like that.'

Seamus jaw clenched. 'This is a waste of time!'

'We have spoken of this before, Seamus. This country must be united under the Treaty. So this is not, in fact, a waste of time. I will not brook this argument again.'

'I'll tell you whether you'll brook gak! Look! I've had enough of this! Haroa's had enough. Tell me, what's so fething important that we've had to fething wander for so long? I have a wife and kids to get back to!'

Seamus stopped, as silent as the night; Maori emerged from the forest and surrounding the group. Two dozen of them, their spears raised. Silver masks glinted in the starlight. They were all different; one mask was screaming in agony, another was cold, calm, another an agonised grimace like death. They were the faces of dead men.

Then Seamus saw something which terrified him beyond the spears at his throat or the masks.

Edward was smiling.

'Tell them, Haroa, ' said the lawyer. 'Tell them that we come in peace.'

The terrified young Maori translated hesitantly.

Their ambushers' reply was silence.

'Good, Haroa,' Edward cooed. 'Good, tell them that we have come to negotiate, to talk about the future of the Maori. An agreement that will benefit their tribe along with all of Aotearoa.

Haroa nodded vigorously and translated again.

This time there was a reply. Sudden barks from God only knew who.

'They say that they are not interested,' stammered Haroa. 'They say the only reason they have not killed us yet is that we interest them.'

Edward laughed; it was high-pitched, without humour and echoed through the trees. It stung Seamus' ears, and his fear intensified as their ambushers flinched.

'Well, they will find me more interesting soon,' said the lawyer as he reached into his pack and pulled out…

A mask, a silver mask identical to those of the tribesmen.

Then Edward said something in Maori. Something which made Haroa stiffen, and the ambushers to begin closing in.

'What did he say?' said Seamus.

'He said we are sacrifices,' said Haroa. 'We are sacrifices for the god-'

Haroa never finished his sentence.


Edward smiled behind his mask while watching the slaughter.

Once they finished, the leader approached. He wore the mask of smiling death.

'You are one of us?' he said.

'Ko ahanu,' said Edward. 'When that fool, Arapeta told me of you. I had to come.'

'You too worship the god that does not exist?'

'Of course. All we have done here is in His name. I did not know there were followers of his amongst the Maori.'

The Savage nodded, 'so, what do you do in His name?'

'The foundation of a new nation,' said Edward. 'One which one day will be sacrificed so that he may truly exist. A nation named New Zealand.'

I always dreaded Christmases with the Davids family, but it was never as bad as I always believed.

I didn't share their surname, neither did I share their fond disposition for tight-knit family values.

My mum and Dad were the only ones divorced, and I was the only, only child.

I was more of an Aldritch; they were very disparate, scattered far and wide across New Zealand. Family gatherings for them very were few and far between, which I'd always believed meant them much more meaningful.

The Davids, well, they would have meetings every few months, most of them lived in the same suburb the wealthy beautiful suburb named Seatoun. Two of whom even lived on the very same street!
That was before we received that suitcase.

Most of them loved their damn Cricket; I loved my martial arts.

We never shared their wealth; My mother was the black sheep, she'd struggled with severe mental illness for many years; now she resided in a tiny hovel in Kilburne. Constantly struggling to survive let alone live
on a meagre sickness benefit.

I didn't just differentiate in mentality but also appearance; where most of the Davids were brown or olive skinned, I was as pale as pale could be. Where most of the Davids boys had their hair short, I wore mine long. Where most were tall and lean, I was short and quite svelte.

In every family photo, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

That was the before the earthquakes.

I'd stayed that Christmas Eve with my mother, sleeping in the bed in her little lounge, on that worn, decades-old mattress.

The day before she'd lovingly, diligently wrapped the presents she'd bought for all the family from the 1,2,3 Dollar Shop. She and I had exchanged our gifts Christmas morning; I'd given her an old book about
Camelot I knew she'd love (which she did) She gave me Terry Pratchett's Wyrd Sisters (A book I enjoyed but struggled to read through) and a whole bunch of socks that I desperately needed.

We didn't have a car so had to catch a Taxi, the driver as a friendly man from Iraq and a devout Christian if the prayer beads and cross hanging from his rear view mirror were any indications.

I took pity on him, having to work Christmas day must've sucked, the fare to Seatoun was twenty dollars, but I gave him thirty. He was so grateful; it came off almost pathetic he repeatedly blessed us as he
helped us take our bags from the boot and I had to clench my teeth to keep myself from saying: 'I want your blessing as much I want a hole in the head.'

However, my mother returned his blessings enthusiastically.

Christmas this year was at my mother's older brother, Adam's house was more a mansion, in all honesty, being only a few years old and must've been worth millions. My aunty, his wife greeted us at the door with a wide smile. She asked me how my job at the security company was going, and in honesty, there wasn't much to tell, I did the same rounds, in the same armoured van with the same friend every day. She also asked how my writing was going, that too was nothing to tell there I'd hit a brick wall, writer's block yet again.

That was before we had to transport that damn suitcase.

My aunty led us into their big lounge with their large leather couches and the fifty inch LCD television.
In the far left corner was their well-decorated Christmas tree which already had a good dozen or so presents around it.

My mother's younger sister, aunty Selma, hadn't arrived yet, this despite only living a few houses up the street, but someone was already there that I was truly looking forward to seeing. Someone who I never saw enough of.

My Nana, my beautiful Nana.

As always she would accidentally call me 'Adam' which I was well used to and in all honesty I couldn't blame her, the names' Adrian' and 'Adam' was quite close.

I gave her a great big hug and listened to her reminisce on the old days, particularly of my Grandpa who'd died three years before. I loved her more than the world; she'd been a mother for me when my own could
not.

Then I tried to make small talk with my uncle's sons and failed quite spectacularly. All three were in their teens and very sporty, particularly their damned Cricket. I had nothing in common with them, and I wasn't
the greatest conversationalist to ever walk the earth.

Much to my relief my auntie Selma finally arrived and with her eldest son, Sam. He was like a little brother to me, and for much of the time, we'd talk about video games, the excellent new Iron Man movie and my latest ideas for my stories.

Then we opened our presents; I was the one who gave them out. We played Cricket in the big backyard, I did pretty damn well actually, hitting a few fours and twice into the next door neighbour's place. I was
eventually bowled out by aunty Selma, whose bowling was much slower than I was used to.

After that we had Christmas dinner, then for dessert, we ate my Nana's Pavlova with ice cream, Strawberries and chocolate cake.

The kids and I then decided to jump on the Trampoline, which wasn't exactly the wisest of decisions after such a large feast.

My Nana, she got tired easily, so we left at six, my uncle Adam giving us a ride home and we dropped off Nana at her home in Strathmore on the way.

I miss her.

I miss all of them.

Because that was before the earthquakes.

That was before the horrific nightmares.

That was before my mother, along with every other mental patient simultaneously, inexplicably lost their minds.

That was before the suicides, and that was before I opened that damned suitcase that damned, damned suitcase.

That was before everything went to hell.

There is no longer any night or day, only the green light that constantly emanates from the fog. The fog that surrounds the city and covers the sky. Inside the fog, there are things, giant scaly things that eat
anyone who tries to escape.

Other things mindlessly stalk the streets, things which were once human, but now were a horrifying hybrid between man and fish.

Then there's the cult they call themselves, 'The Unchosen,' they worship the 'who does not exist,' and wear metal masks made from the faces of the dead. They want me, but I'd managed to escape. I don't know what they want from me it could because I was the one who opened that damned suitcase.

There are only a few of us left now. But the others, their skin, is so green so so green. Just like the fish things. So very green.

Is it the light? Or their skin?

The light or their skin?

Wait! My skin is green too. Is it the light? Or is it my skin?

I don't know, but what if I didn't have any skin anymore? Would it still be green?

I want to see.

I need to see.

IMAGINE, A MAN LOST. ALL HE CAN SEE IS A YELLOW LEMON TREE. AND IT ISN'T JUST THE LEMONS THAT ARE YELLOW BUT THE TREE IN ITS ENTIRETY IT BULGES. IT WRITHES LIKE A BLOATED MORASS OF BLOOD AND INTESTINES, FLOWING, ALWAYS FLOWING LIKE SOME SICK PARODY OF A RIVER BUT NEVER IN ANY CONSISTENT DIRECTION, UP, DOWN, AROUND AND AROUND GRAVITY KEEPS THE MAN ON HIS FEET, BUT THE YELLOW LEMON TREES VERY MAKINGS DENY ALL OF REALITY AS EASILY AS A MAN TAKES A BREATH.

THE LOST MAN HAS BEEN LOST, FOR HE HAS NO IDEA HOW LONG, DAYS? WEEKS? MONTHS? MILLENNIA? HE SHRIEKS AT THE YELLOW LEMON TREE, BEGGING TO UNDERSTAND WHERE AND WHAT THIS IS, BUT THE YELLOW LEMON TREE ONLY REPLIES WITH ITS WRITHING BULK. THE MAN WOULD TRY TO TURN AWAY ONLY TO FIND THE YELLOW LEMON TREE IS THERE IN HIS WAY AGAIN.

ONCE EVER SO. OFTEN SPECTRES WOULD WALK BY, MERE AFTER IMAGES IN THE CORNER OF THE LOST MAN'S EYE. SOMETIMES THE SPECTRES ARE A PAIR; SOMETIMES, THEY ARE IN THE DOZENS. THE LIST. MAN WOULD CRY OUT AT THEM, BUT THEY WOULDN'T HEAR HIM ALL THE SPECTRES WOULD TALK ABOUT IS THE BLUE, BLUE SKY. BUT ALL THE LOST MAN CAN SEE IS JUST ANOTHER YELLOW LEMON TREE.

AND THE VOID.