Introduction:
Hello would-be customer and welcome to the Midnite Market of Malevolence. I am the Market Magnate, The Ghost of Simon Cowell and I am here to guide you through this market of horrid tales. Anyway, you may be wondering what this Midnite Market of Malevolence is. This is meant to be the Midnite Gazette and you’re correct but as you may be aware, the person who captured my spirit in a can of Club Rockshandy is a writer and writers sometimes write things including short stories. Some of these stories are submitted to a magazine or some other form of publication but if they are rejected they are left sleeping on a cloud drive. So instead they will be given a home in this market. The Midnite Market of Malevolence appears infrequently and will only appear when a story is ready to for the stalls. The Midnite Gazette will continue to be the flagship series that will appear much more frequently. The Market will be used for publishing fiction while the Gazette will be used for the same things it has always been used for; writing updates and essays.
The format will be like this: An intro from yours truly giving a little bit of information about the story, then the actual story. The first story you can find on our market stalls is a famine-era horror titled Providence. Somewhat inspired by Alan Moore’s Saga of the Swamp Thing, it is a tale of terror, revenge and the overwhelming power of nature. It had initially been written for a specific online publication but they rejected it just as the Ghost of Simon Cowell has rejected so many would-be singers. However, the author likes the story and it has no place rotting on a drive being read by no one. The author has told me that it is not perfect and he would probably rewrite a few sections but the best talent a writer can have is knowing when to stop editing a story and just let it go. We hope you enjoy your first trip to the Midnite Market of Malevolence and if you do please tell your friends about us. No Refunds and no Louis Walshes allowed.
Providence:
Across a barely built, pothole-riddled road came the din of screeching metal carriage wheels. Lord Kemptonsworth peered out through the curtains at the Irish countryside, intermittently flicking his silver cigarette case open and closed as he looked on at the diseased land sapped of its greenery and resources. The land had fallen ill and the potato crop failed, taking the common cottier with it. They stood little chance in the face of relentless famine, even less without assistance from lassez-faire worshipping leaders and landowners who continued to extract and export resources from the land. Skeletal wraiths wandered along the broken bog road, wailing mothers carried baby-sized corpses, and working men struggled to find the energy to stand on their feet. “Do you require a match, sir?” Lord Kemptonsworth’s assistant William banished the silence which had seeped into the carriage with a question and the shake of a matchbox. “Huh? Oh... oh, yes. Thank you, William” Kemptonsworth found himself in a trance watching the spectres along the road. He flicked his cigarette case open once more and brandished a cigarette. “The newspapers have failed to divulge the true scale of these ghastly sights” William lit the cigarette and blew out the match. Kemptonsworth took a long drag of the cigarette. “Right you are. It’s a sorry sight indeed, but they will need to pull themselves out of it. We have assisted as much as adequately can be expected. We must not interfere in providence.”
Kemptonsworth’s convoy of carriages arrived at a newly bought site a few miles outside Mullingar. The Lord’s security flocked out of carriages in front and behind his own to greet the agent who handled the deal standing at the entrance to the site, taken aback by Kemptonsworth’s personal arsenal. “Quite a battalion you’ve brought along.” Kemptonsworth grinned in reply. The horde of hired guns served two purposes: to protect him and to demonstrate his wealth. Both indispensable. “I’ve read the reports of attacks on landlords. It would be foolish to travel unarmed, and I am no fool.” “That you are not, sir. A fine decision, for sure.” Lord Kemptonsworth was right to be worried and take precautions with his safety. As The Great Hunger continued to rage on, anger and desperation bubbled to the surface, exploding into acts of violence. Anti-landlord sentiment surged bringing violent attacks and murders along with it. The White Boys, a group of white mask-wearing vigilantes, were to blame for most. Hiding in the trees of quiet roads, ready to attack, and retreat into the forests like their ancestors centuries ago. With greetings and small talk shared, Kemptonsworth and his agent got down to business with a thorough survey of the land. Stone cottages and hovels peppered themselves across the vast green and brown variegated fields. Housing tenants that now fell into Lord Kemptonsworth’s care. Though, thanks to The Poor Law Act, the Lord had no desire to take on these stragglers. He wanted them gone as soon as possible, along with their cottages. Flattened and prepared for farming. “Proper modern farming something these tenants knew nothing about.” He proposed eviction, but the agent disagreed, concerned about the possible backlash against the workers and the land, which he warned could be set alight. “What about assisted emigration, my Lord? Many landowners offer that service. Paying for their tenants’ ticket to America or Canada.” William butted in with his two cents, as he liked to do. “It wouldn’t be cheap. We would need to provide rations also, but it would cost far less in the long run and it would give off the image of a benevolent landlord.” The proposition didn’t seem to excite the deadpan Lord Kemptonsworth, but having weighed up his options, he agreed. “Fine, pay for their travel. Just clear my land as soon as possible.” He flicked a dismissive gesture towards the men and turned to leave, but found his march halted by a sight in the corner of his eye. A towering tree stood in the adjacent bogland. The thick tree wore sprawling branches that hung out across the bog like parasols. An obsidian bark wrapped around it like armour. “I see the Bog Guardian has caught your eye, Lord.” The Agent wandered over to Lord Kemptonsworth with his arms behind his back. “They say it has watched over the bog for centuries and protected the people. Admittedly, it hasn’t done a great job as of late.” “Who does it belong to?” “Well, it sits on the bog, which is included in the deed for this land. So, as of today, it belongs to you, sir.” This revelation caused the formation of an actual smile upon the Lord’s face, not a faux grin but a genuine display of happiness. His jawbones cracked and his skin tightened and winced from this strange muscle movement. The tree was beautiful. He had never seen one like it. The glossy bark shone like chunks of onyx. In Kemptonsworth’s mind he saw droves of memerised guests amazed by the stunning furniture sprinkled across his home. He pictured a stunning black wooden bannister on his stairs. His smile grew. “In that case I want it brought back to England with me. I have plans for the wood. William, see that the men successfully fell the tree and transport it back to the ship.” “As you wish, my Lord.”
The men got to work on their task while Lord Kemptonsworth and the agent left for Mullingar to attend lunch with the Lord’s friend and business partner, Lord Delevigne. They took a handful of men with them for protection, leaving the rest to tackle the tree. The men would spend the next few hours failing to down the mammoth tree. Their saws and axes barely pierced the bark. When word reached the nearby village of a battalion of Brits cutting down the Bog Guardian, a group of enraged locals arrived to put a stop to it. William attempted to calm them but the discussion quickly turned sour and threats were made, springing the leader of Kemptonsworth’s forces, Rodney Russell, into action. He drove the butt of his rifle into a member of the opposition’s nose and sent them down onto the soggy turf. He followed up with a shot from his rifle into the sky and another into the turf beneath their feet. “This land and everything on it belongs to Lord Kemptonsworth. He can do as he pleases with it and his orders are final. Now, leave us be or we’ll bury you in this bog you love so much.” This explosion of violence added weight to the threats, and the locals retreated with mumbled warnings of White Boy arrival but the threats were hollow and the men were left unbothered. The Bog Guardian put up a better fight but Rodney and his men eventually brought it to its knees. The men dissected the branched behemoth, chopping it into more transport manageable chunks before heading towards Dublin to reconvene with the rest of the faction. They had only been in Ireland for a week, but a week was more than enough, and Britannia had been calling.
Lord Kemptonsworth gazed upon the tree with glowing pride. Any Lord or Lady that stood in his home would surely look upon his bituminous furniture with glowing envy. “Magnificent work, as always, Rodney. You should be proud of your men. They’ve served me well, again.” Kemptonsworth placed a hand on Rodney’s broad shoulder, he nodded in reply and gave his appreciation for the kind words as he directed his men to load the pieces of wood into the lower deck. The tree’s unplanned inclusion caused a headache in lower deck storage, promoting most of the other cargo to the upper deck including food, supplies and barrels of oil, much to the annoyance of the ship’s captain. Captain O’Neill hadn’t travelled to Westmeath with the rest, though employed by the Lord he was no fan of him and preferred to keep his distance. O’Neill worked for the Lord for the money and his yacht which was a beauty, much larger than a personal yacht needed to be. Kemptonsworth’s image was of vital importance to him. If his associates had large yachts then he would need one larger. Same with carriages, estates and personal servants. This trip, with the battalion of hired soldiers and the unexpected inclusion of the tree, was the first time they actually needed a yacht of such size.
“This ain’t right, it ain’t. Why do we gotta stay down here guarding a damn tree? Who’s going to steal it? A bloody mermaid?” Thomas, one of Rodney’s men, lamented to the four other soldiers Rodney tasked with security on the lower decks while the rest relaxed up top. A thankless job, fraternising with the rats and the shadows, but an important one. Usually it was quiet, so the men passed the time playing cards. “We aren’t guarding the tree, you troglodyte. We are making sure nobody has snuck onboard and hid themselves down here. It happens more often than you’d think, especially now. Did you see the state those ghouls were in? Any of them would be desperate to sneak aboard” Henry was quick to respond, not one who enjoyed hearing the crying complaints of other supposed soldiers. Henry was one of Rodney’s best men, quick-witted and even quicker with a rifle, never second guessing himself about firing either. He didn’t have to be part of the lower deck crew, but he preferred it down here. It was the only place on the ship that might see some action. Thomas didn’t take well to insults and bolted up from his stool prepared to fire back with a barrage of rage-filled insults. The barrage never came though, disrupted by a loud crash. “What was that?” Thomas turned his head towards the sound, away from the lamplight and into the darkness. “Probably just a rat, but we best be sure. Charlie, go check.” Henry took an oil lamp off the makeshift barrel table they were playing cards on and handed it to the sandy-haired, fresh-faced cadet. “Why me?” “Because I said so. Now go on and do your bloody job.” Charlie shrugged his shoulders in response, slung his rifle over his back and took the lamp to light the way. He kept quiet on his way down to the tenebrous storage area as not to alert whoever may be hiding. The lower deck had an eerieness about it, the squeaks of hidden rats scurrying to and fro and the wallop of waves against the boat were the only respite from maddening silence. Charlie reached the Bog Guardian’s remains at the end of the lower deck, but saw no one. He shone the candle into every corner and crevice in search of an unwanted passenger but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Must have been a rat. They ain’t nothing down here.“ His words travelled out from the shadows and he followed after them but couldn’t. His boots had become stuck and he couldn’t move. A thick black substance seeped out of the tree and formed a puddle beneath him that bubbled and boiled. The substance had the look of tar, with tinges of brown as if mixed with mud. Twigs and small clumps of turf whirled around the bubbling pool. “What in God’s name is that?” “What’s going on? Do you see something?” Henry replied to the darkness, only the tinge of the oil lamp’s flame visible in the wall of shadows. “I’m not sure. It’s like a puddle of tar or oil, I can’t seem to move!” Charlie attempted to pull his feet out with force, but to no avail. Henry flicked his head towards Charlie and ordered two of the men down to assist him. Both picked up their weapons and disappeared into the darkness. Charlie thought to take his boots off and leave them stuck to the spot. He could do without them. He hunched over to untie his laces but froze in horror at the sight of the moving puddle… crawling up his legs. He shot straight back up as the puddle engorged his boots, melting through them and attaching to his feet. Charlie yelled out in agony. He helplessly attempted to dislodge his legs from the substance but it was too late. The Bog Guardian was a danger to all who woke it, but it needed a host. A living organism to pilot. Panic set in as the Guardian climbed his legs, he screamed and grabbed at the mucilaginous substance on his legs attempting to pull it off him. He ripped clumps of it off his legs and they liquified, flowing over his fingers and down his arms. It all happened so fast. “NO. NO. NO. GET OFF ME!” By the time the two men reached Charlie, the obsidian substance had encased his body. An inhuman swirling sludge of mud, bark and branches. The men froze as the branches slithered in through Charlie’s nose, mouth, and ears. His face stuck in an expression of horror like a terrified statue. The branches flowed in and back out of every crevice, the sludge reached up above his head and poured back down his face. His eyes expanded like balloons and burst, twigs grew out of his sockets in their place. One of the men keeled over and threw up before attempting to flee. The other lifted his rifle and fired, the bullet hitting The Bog Guardian and sinking into its liquid body. Shooting at it was as useful as shooting at an actual bog. The Guardian reached its arms out on each side of itself. Branches grew out and touched the sides of the wooden ship, growing along the walls like a trellis, streaming up and onto the roof of the lower deck. The man loaded his weapon to prepare another obsolete shot, he would not even get the bullet out of his pocket as a spiked branch grew out from above his head and plummeted down on him like a falling stalactite. The branch plunged through his skull and spurted further branches that stretched out from the man’s skull, flowing out of his mouth and ears, blossoming outwardly and encasing his body like fertile ground. Thomas and Henry entered the shadows to the sound of the rifle fire. The fleeing man met them halfway, scampering away from danger. He didn’t stop to warn them; he didn’t even seem to know they were there. His fear-filled focus was solely on the upper deck. Both men tried to grab his attention but failed. Out from the shadows came a slithering snake of muddied bark and branches, sliding up past them and wrapping around the man’s leg, dragging him back into the abyss. He screamed for help and drove his nails into the wood scraping them across it until his fingers bled and burst. Henry attempted a failed rescue, but the man was dragged too fast and with too much force. He disappeared into the darkness, the sound of his screams drowned out by shattering bones and the splash of blood hitting walls. Thomas and Henry lifted their rifles and shot indiscriminately into the dark, hoping to hit whatever monstrosity had torn through their men. They fired, reloaded and fired again and then again. Panicked reloads and shaky shooting at a target they couldn’t see until it finally stepped out of the shadows to reveal itself. A heavy mass of walking bogland, with no discernable features, bar the limbs belonging to its host. Charlie had only gone to investigate the noise a few minutes ago, and now three of the five men were dead, slain in rapid succession. They two would meet the same fate, with little fight. Their screams reached out to the deck then abrubtly stopped replaced by lumbering stomps up the lower deck steps.
The sound of gunshots and pain-filled shrieks grabbed the attention of the other men and of Lord Kemptonsworth, who sent William out to investigate. “What is the meaning of this incessant racket?” William burst out of Kemptonsworth’s quarters and gazed upon the mass of mud. The blood and innards of the slain security coalesced with the beast’s body and shone like crimson gemstones in the sunlight. The men on deck stood in stunned silence, looking on as the Sun’s rays illuminated the monstrosity. The sight of the beast could have brought men to madness. Two men flung themselves from the deck and into the freezing waters below. Two more men ran towards the creature, firing shots from their rifles that sunk into its body like a stone dropped in a sinkhole. They unsheathed their swords and attacked, both slicing and cutting at the brute. But they were as worthless as the bullets, merely cutting off some branches. Mud can be sliced but it will always return to its shape. The men ducked and rolled away from the beast’s flailing branched limbs. One man lunged forward and stabbed right through its torso. The man screamed out in pain as the brown mass flowed into the wound and engulfed his arm. The Guardian walloped the man with a backhand that sent him tumbling across the deck. His arm stayed held in place. Branches grew towards the other man and wrapped tightly around his legs, crushing every bone and tendon. They grew up his spine and around the back of his head clamping tight to his face. The Guardian moved the man like a puppet and directed his gunfire at his comrades. Having witnessed the power of the beast, a frantic William retreated into the Lord’s quarters. “William, what is happening out there?” Lord Kemptonsworth’s question fell on deaf ears. William ignored his employer and ran over to the Lord’s desk, pushing it in front of the door to create a barrier. “William, what are you doing? Answer me, damn you!” Kemptonsworth insisted on an answer, but again, he received none. William’s attention found itself to a large cabinet leaning against one wall. He tried to move a cabinet over and add it to the barrier. Lord Kemptonsworth got up from his seat and marched over to his disobedient servant, standing in front of the cabinet and blocking its path. ”Move out of the way, you jolterheaded fool!” William had never even raised his voice at Lord Kemptonsworth, let alone hurled an insult towards him. Kemptonsworth’s eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead and his anger boiled. “HOW DARE YO--,” the headless body of one of his men crashed through the doors and bounced across the floor, stopped only by the back wall. Kemptonsworth’s attempted tirade halted, and the room went silent. Frozen by fear, it felt like time slowed around him. William darted across the room in search of his flintlock pistol. He screamed something at Kemptonsworth, but a raucous ringing in his ears blocked the words out. William grabbed at his pistol and turned to door. The Bog Guardian stepped through the partition. Lord Kemptonsworth was sure he was hallucinating the sight of the hulking abomination, he’d heard of people catching famine fever - a mix of typhus and relapsing fever - and falling into madness. He reckoned he may have caught it. The Guardian lumbered towards William, who fired a shot right at it blowing a temporary hole in its shoulder that quickly closed up. He loaded another shot but the bog-bodied behemoth reached a viscous hand out and seized a hold of his throat, lifting him off his feet and devouring his head in a sea of mud and leaves. William’s lifeless body slumped to the floor with a thud. The Bog Guardian’s attention turned to Kemptonsworth. This was no hallucination.
The havoc on deck alerted the remaining men. Rodney roared orders as his men readied themselves for battle. Barking battle tactics and formations, the kind that served them well against human opposition. “Protect Lord Kemptonsworth at all costs.” Rodney grabbed his rifle and led his men out onto the corpse riddled deck. Blood and body parts decorated the wooden floor. Rodney looked across the boat to see the Lord’s quarters had been breached. “Turn those rifles on yourselves and save yourself the torture.” Captain O’Neill sat up against the boat’s mast, blood dripped out of wounds across his battered body. His left hand was nowhere to be seen. “Captain. What the hell happened here?” Rodney asked. The Captain shook his head. “Providence.” He smiled through bloodied teeth. Commotion coming from the Lord’s quarters cut the conversation short. Rodney and his men took off towards Kemptonsworth. “Get back from me, you rotten beast. You demonic monster, stay back!” Kemptonsworth was unarmed, but he knew a weapon would have done him as much use as William’s. Desperation set in for a man who finally found himself in a dilemma that money couldn’t fix. “What do you want from me? I can give you anything you desire. Anything!” Like William before him, the Lord found himself lifted off his feet. Thick branches wrapped around his throat, closing his airways. His head swelled and resembled a tomato from the squeezing pressure. Blood flowed out of his nose as his eyes bulged. Someone who loved to hear himself speak, the last words he would hear would come from a beast he didn’t think capable of words. “You take my land and send me out to sea. Banished from my home. Yet, you call me monster.” If Kemptonsworth could have screamed, he would have. Rodney’s men approached the quarters, sprinting alongside rows of blood-covered branches. The Bog Guardian met them at the doors dragging Kemptonsworth’s headless corpse along the wood and tossing it overboard. The men had shared many missions together, they had cheated almost certain death countless times and dragged victory from the jaws of defeat but as they looked upon the abomination before them they must have known this would be their last battle. Yet they lifted their weapons anyway and fired away in a desperate hope to prove themselves wrong. Across the ship, Captain O’Neill clambered to his feet and dragged himself to his quarters. He grabbed an oil lamp in his remaining hand and hooked another up with his left forearm. Heading back out to the deck, he wandered over to the barrels of oil that the men had moved up top to make room for the tree. As the last of Kemptonsworth’s men fought and fell, Captain O’Neill flung the first lamp at the barrels before grabbing the other lamp hanging from his arm and flinging that too. The barrels took light immediately and the port corner went up in flames. The fire quickly spread like a blight across the wooden ship, surrounding man and beast in a wall of flames. Yet they continued to fight on, battling away as the ship burned and they plunged into the murky waters of the Irish Sea. A cacophony of gunshots, broken bones and screams played the ship down below the water.
Decades later, Lord Kemptonsworth’s grandson Daniel would lead an underwater expedition out in search of his grandfather’s lost ship. Hoping to find any lost riches buried with his grandfather. Hoping to uncover the mystery of what had happened to him and his crew. They would locate the wreckage, but they unearthed no riches bar some damaged jewellery, faded coinage and rusted weaponry. It seemed as if nature had reclaimed the boat, branches had formed all along the wreckage, with plants growing out of some of the skeletal remains. None of them had come across a wreckage such as this. The expedition hadn’t brought the answers or riches that Daniel sought but his men did find some strange coal-coloured wood glowing in the caliginous water. Like his grandfather before him, Daniel could not take his eyes off the hypnotic bark and ordered it to be salvaged, packing the pieces up and taking it back with them to British land.