This is the last entry in Edgar Brent’s journal. The journal was discovered in 1958. What became of Brent and his party is still a mystery.
Journal of Edgar Brent.
The Tikshama - Day I, Kalander Hut.
July 23, 1932.
We left our rest camp at Edding Waters at approximately 8.15 this morning, knowing well that its amenities would be the last semblance of true comfort we’d see in the coming days.
Before embarking on our weeklong journey, we’d heard much of the Tikshama and read much about that peculiar country, and the terrain that awaited us. From our brief conversations with other members of the Exploration Society and from what we could deduce from the scant literature pertaining to the trail, we fostered little concern for what we’d encounter. After all, the collective experience of our party more than qualifies us for the potential difficulties - even dangers - which we may face. There is my beloved, Vera, a student of medicine, a soon-to-be doctor of the mind. Then, there is Karl, a trusted companion and retired soldier who has seen the sun rise over more exotic lands than any adventurer could dream of. Lastly, we are joined by Henry and Lilian, exalted members of the Society. Yet, as I write this entry, hindsight pleads a different case.
Despite our trove of skills, in my secret heart, I wish I had scrutinised the myths clouding the trail more closely. I wish I had leant an attentive ear to the whispers so arrogantly brushed aside as folklore. For it is only our first day in the Tikshama, and before this night draws to its conclusion, my blood has already been chilled.
The trail began easy enough, as pleasant as one could hope. With the banks of Edding Waters at our backs we followed the path across the bridge earmarked on our map. A sturdy construction of wood and steel. An impressive sight of workmanship, especially for an area as remote as the Tikshama. On the other side of the bridge, the trail veered to the east, snaking its way up and away from the ocean and the bay. The sandy ground and coastal brush closed in on us as we climbed into the forest crowning the hillside. All shades of green enveloped us, and the pillars of light that punctuated the canopy offered a gentle gallery of illumination.
We spent much of the day beneath that sylvan ceiling, crossing streams and traversing minor ravines. A simple trek if there was one, and as I’ve stated, we encountered nothing beyond the expectations of our experienced soles. The party was in good spirits, genuinely uplifted by the excitement of our new endeavour and simply thrilled to be wandering through the splendours of nature’s womb once more.
It was late afternoon, the sky bleeding with the magenta hues of dusk, when we came upon Kalander Hut - our refuge for the first evening in the Tikshama; and where I find myself writing this entry. As expected, it is humbler than our lodgings at Edding Waters. A solemn structure, with bones of wood and nails, and a dark, tarnished face that offered no invitation or warmth to our arrival. Nonetheless, we wasted no time exploring the dank rooms of Kalander and choosing our bunks for the night.
We settled in alongside nightfall, lighting a bonfire to ward off the evening chill. Out in the darkness, we could hear the distant waves crash and wash against the shore. It was with the settling of the shadows that I felt the strange unsettling of nerves come over me. At first, I shrugged the unnerving sense from my shoulders. I’m quite accustomed to the first jitters of a new expedition, and it’s not uncommon to feel the oppression of the wild until one’s own soul has acclimatised to the vast unknowns beyond the boundaries of civilised men. Yet, as the night drew on, our bellies filled with sustenance, and our veins warmed with whiskey, that the unerring creep in the halls of my mind reared its head once more. I suspected the night-crawlers to be the culprits behind my failing fortitude. In my mind’s eye, I could see the slits of their bulbous eyes glint in the twilight of the fire, their padded feet and scaled bellies shift soundlessly over the dead leaves blanketing the ground. It is always the invisible things which hold the most fear for us. It is the unseen which possess the most influence over our imagination. And how I wish it were the case here. I would pay any price to erase what I saw from my mind. Even now, the pen shivers from my grip. It tries to flee from the very words I intend to write. Even it, this simple tool, knows what is too mad to be real.
It was only an hour or so before we all retired to bed when I ventured from the sanctuary of the firelight to relieve myself. The lavatories, situated in an outhouse removed from the main hut, stood in absolute darkness. A narrow wooden walkway acts as the only limb connecting the two structures. Along this path I walked, listening to the sound of my boots against the damp wood, wishing the heat from the fire remained on my back as I stepped further into the black. With haste, too quick to make any claim to courage, I lit the lantern hanging beside the entrance to the outhouse. By now, my unsettled condition had crawled deep beneath my skin, its barbed legs digging for my bones. Alas, its burrowing was thwarted as the dim light from the lantern cast away the immediate devils in the dark.
I stepped into the closest cubicle, latched the rusted hook, and sat on the cold seat with the lantern between my legs. It was then, as I was concluding my nocturnal evacuation, cast in the pale light of that single flame like a pathetic puppet, that I heard the scratching from above. Inconvenienced by my own indecency I ignored the sounds, and yet it persisted. The unnatural way in which it continued, like a petulant child desperate for attention, struck a resonating chord down my spine and an arctic chill gripped my sanity. I looked up as I closed my trousers and buckled my belt. Hovering in the darkness above me, lingering in the small gap between the cubicle wall and the roof, was a horribly pale face. Neither in the light of the lantern, or entirely without, the face glared at me with a hungering curiosity. Its great black eyes, filled with double reflections of the lantern, swallowed what light reached them. Thin lips pulled back to reveal toothless gums. Long, gangrel fingers curled over the edge of the cubicle wall, jaundice nails carving grooves into the soft wood. A waterfall of dark hair hung over the creature’s shoulder, crushed leaves and broken twigs entangled in the wild mane. For a moment, we stared at each other. I, a man, teetering on the edge of madness. It, a she-creature from the blackest pit, opening its mouth like a python. I grasped for the lantern between my legs, but before I could raise it, the creature was gone.
I would like to say that I pursued the demon, or that I offered a valiant search for evidence of its existence, but I did not. Instead, I hurried back to the safety of my companions, and the light of the fire.
My blood turns cold recalling this strange encounter. In fact, it has yet to regain its warmth since looking into those dreadful eyes. Still, I can see its gaping maw stretching, hungering to devour me in that cubicle. I do not know if I will sleep this night. Nor am I sure if I should tell my companions about what I saw. It sits ill with me to keep something from my Vera, but what would she think of this? She’s not one to entertain the bizarre and outlandish. And I would rather not lose my credibility with the group, as being someone who does. For now, I will carry this terror alone. For now, it is my secret to keep. And in the morning, under the domain of the sun, I will go back to the outhouse. Perhaps then, I will find something then. Something which will settle my troubled soul. Some sign to tell me I imagined it all.
- AB.
Gasped out loud at that face! Bit nervous to read part 2...
Chilling!
Should NOT have read this at such a late hour. No doubt I’ll be seeing pale faces in the dark :(
Great work!