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Also, check out Unknown Transmission for the other half of the story.

All The Dead Things

November 23rd, 2017

My eyes are open. I’m in a cabin, lying on a bed, on a bare, ancient mattress, surrounded by old, wooden crates nailed to the walls. The crates are stacked on top of each other, crammed with packages and jars and disintegrating, rusted cans with faded labels that read, “corn flour”, “wholemeal biscuits, and “cabbage”. At my left there is a large, wooden crate with “SYRUP” printed on it in all caps. An ancient iron stove is crouched at the foot of my bed, its metal chimney rising up from its oven and poking through the roof. Ruined clothes hang from the ceiling on lines suspended by narrow, iron hooks.

I know this place. I totally know this place. But I have no business being here. This is Ernest Shackleton’s hut.

What the actual fuck.

A face ebbed into view. A gray, oblong face with a thick, bulbous nose, and nasty, ragged teeth. And those eyes. Those, giant, dumb eyes.

Of course.

“Hello, Chikushou.”


I tried to grab him. Tried to grab him and do all kinds of horrible, violent things to him and that face of his…. but nothing… nothing happened.

“Don’t try to move,” Spegg said. “You’re not whole yet.”

He was right. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even feel the weight of my body on that shitty old mattress.

Spegg passed by the window, momentarily casting a shadow over the room.

I looked down. Hoooly shit I was a mess. I recognized a few parts: a leg, a hip, a nipple, but a great many important things were missing. And filling the gaps between what few parts I had left was a thick, shiny black liquid, like I’d been dug out and topped off with oil.

What is this shit?

Spegg took an rough-cut wooden stool and sat down next to my bed. It groaned under his weight. He made a hollow, bubbling sound in his throat, then leaned in, indicating the oily gaps in my chest with a bony finger.

“I saved what I could, brother,” he said. “But I had to cut away all the dead things.”