The Tales of Gehiwian Circle

Monsters of Rock

5th May 1955

Slipping the wetsuit over his arms, Clarence Richards flexed his fingers inside the rubbery gloves. Zipping up his suit, he eyed the tall water tower at the foot of the Gehiwian Circle station platform. Standing tall on a central pillar was the cylindrical water tank, accessed by a ladder at the rear. A rotating pipe and black hose were mounted on the front. Peeling cream paint revealed flecks of dulled metal underneath, while rust streaked down the tank's sides. Cleaning the inside of the railway's water towers wasn't a pleasant job. Thick gunk, sediment and other deposits built up inside them, either clogging the pipe or contaminating the water going into boilers.

Stepping over the rails, Clarence walked towards the tower. He stepped over a puddle of water by the side of the line. Something flashed in the reflection.

Clarence stopped, hovering his gaze over the black water's surface. He frowned, his reflection frowning back. He could've sworn he'd seen the reflection of a skull in some kind of bowl.

Stupid eyes, what a stupid thing to see.

Grabbing the thick chain of the water pipe, Clarence hauled it round. With a disgruntled creak, the pipe moved, dragging the hose over the drain built into the ground next to the tower. Emptying the water down there in one go would flush out much of what'd gathered.

Gripping the ladder firmly in his hands, Clarence climbed up. Flipping open the hatch on top of the tank, he peered inside, inspecting the water. A soft layer of dark ripples met his eyes. A faint waft of decay tickled his nostrils.

Climbing down the ladder, Clarence returned to the chain and yanked it hard. Brown water flushed out the end of the hose, torrenting down through the grated drain cover. Droplets lashed the stone and ballast nearby. After two minutes, the flow ceased. The tank was empty.

Releasing the chain, Clarence scaled the ladder again to inspect the tank.

The water level was unchanged.

"What?"

Shimmering through the surface, something rose from the depths, displacing Clarence's reflection in the water's surface. The shape morphed into a shattered dive helmet, inside which was a charred skull.

Clarence narrowed his eyes at the hallucination. His hands clasped tighter on the sides of the ladder. There was no way-

The burnt undead arm burst from the black water and snatched his throat. Hard, wet bones pinched his skin as the arm pulled Clarence in. He gasped, tipping head first into the top of the water tank, his body quickly sinking below the surface. He had no time to try and kick free.

Sensations of wetness and darkness flashed by in an instant.

Clarence fell, weightless, air rushing by him. Blurs of purple rushed past.

He hit the soft ground shoulder first, tumbling over himself before he came to a stop.

Spluttering and wheezing, Clarence pushed himself up. The ground beneath him was smooth and pink, covered in translucent brown grass with a hair-like thickness. Palms pressed to the ground, Clarence stared at his gloved hand. His pulse thundered through his blood vessels to the tips of his fingers.

The second pulse he felt petrified him.

He rubbed the ground. The grass reacted, twitching and flexing. The pink surface beneath him moved, remoulding its texture from smooth to bumped.

Clarence recoiled his hands and leapt to his feet. The second pulse reverberated through the soles of his shoes. Whatever he was standing on was living, breathing, human tissue.

Head snapping round, Clarence gagged as he took in the landscape around him. Rolling hills of flesh stretched up, the horizon a collage of pink mottled by brown. The sky above him was tinged with watery red, a black rainbow arcing beneath thick clots of dark crimson cloud.

Nausea trickled up Clarence's throat. He squeezed his windpipe shut, fighting the urge to vomit.

Chink, chink.

That sound. Clarence recognised it.

He sprinted across to the edge of the skin land, finding the edge of a hill. Below was a quarry, actively being mined.

The horrors he saw were worse than anything a sane imagination could conjure.

Tall humanoid figures of black rock toiled away at ragged flesh cliffs, hacking away at the lacerations in the landscape. Chunks of juicy, plump meat tumbled away from the cliff face onto the floor. Machines of gleaming white shovelled the meat into piles, while ivory coloured excavators scooped it up and loaded the tissue into white railway wagons. A grotesque engine sat at the front of the siding, made of materials Clarence couldn't fathom or describe.

He keeled over, the shock sending his head into a spin.

Something shook the ground, approaching him. Walking.

One of the tall black figures stood over him. Seven feet tall, it was made of jagged black lumps of rock, reminiscent of the coal in the engine yard. Clarence shivered, tucking his limbs in as he stared, pale-faced.

This is it, his mind strung his presumed final thought together, This is the realm of the Coal Man.

Daylight glinted off something held in the Coal Man's hand. Clarence eyed the pickaxe in the large, gravelly fingers. The pickaxe head was white.

Carved out of human bones.

Clarence's face melted down into a sob. It was sick, some sick reality where roles were reversed. Life was mined, used to build industry and civilisation, by monsters of rock and mineral, their empire built on the blood and bodies of their own world.

Curling up tighter, Clarence squeezed his eyes shut as he saw the Coal Man swing the pickaxe high, ready to strike him. Questions swirled around his head, mumbled too weakly to ever be heard.

Why me? Why am I here?

The skull-headed diver was right there in his mind's eye, as if on the inside of his eyelids.

He felt a point of the pickaxe impact his skull, and the thoughts and visions ceased.

The water tower at the foot of the platform gurgled and spluttered. The chain lurched downwards, tugged by no hands. Out of the hose, a globular clump of black splattered down onto the drain. The horrible congealed substance slipped through the slits of the grate into the sewers below.

Clarence Richards was never heard from again.

***

7th May 1955

Special Constable Harold Grange inspected the tar-like muck around the drain. "And no one saw him after he left the station?" he said to his accompanying officer.

"That's right."

"Great," Harold stood up and brushed his hands on his trouser sides. He scrunched his crooked nose. "Another missing persons case to add to the pile."

"There's no evidence of body parts. He wasn't hit by a train."

"Like I said. Missing, not yet presumed dead."

"What should I tell the family?"

Harold swallowed and looked off towards the town. With a two-year old of his own now, a young boy called Thorston, he dreaded the thought of the boy having to grow up not knowing what happened to his father.

"You tell them we're still looking. And that we'll do everything we can."

"What's the black stuff?" the officer asked, "It doesn't look like sludge, or coal."

"Get it tested," Harold pointed to the substance. He rolled his shoulder.

Off in the distance, he spied a tall dark figure amongst the trees. Harold stepped forward, narrowing his eyes at the strange person. "Clarence?" he called out.

His foot caught on a rail. Catching himself, the momentary drop of Harold's glance was all the figure needed. When Harold looked back, it was gone.

"Rats," he muttered.