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The Thing Below. Those that knew William Buthwort barely noticed that the shy retiring fellow had grown more distant, neglecting his meagre work and social commitments with more frequency, retreating from human contact in an inexorably slow and altogether unremarkable manner. So nondescript was William's increased sequestering of self that his departure came as no surprise to many. It was even remarked that it was a matter of natural progression; that it had always only been a matter of time before he faded away entirely. In form Buthwort was a weedy dark haired fellow prone to lurking in the background. He possessed a narrow clayish face with wary eyes that hid beneath a pronounced brow. Making eye contact with the unassuming man during conversation was something of a challenge as those hesitant orbs seemed to look everywhere but at their partner in discourse. There was a marked furtiveness to his hands, which fluttered skittishly about him like two caged birds. He favoured inauspicious black clothes that accentuated his pale lifeless complexion. His choice of vocation as a research librarian complimented his reserved closeted nature. In spite of his age and obvious intellect he only held a junior position at the City of Hobart Library, content within the dusty archives section and showing little ambition for improving his lot. He often mumbled that there was something about the cataloguing and preservation of musty papers, records and tomes which comforted him. Truly for as long as I'd known Buthwort the man had been inclined towards indefinable muttering, his associates and family often marking his irritating propensity to let sentences trail off ambiguously midway through. It was not that momentum of thought ceased, merely that once started he would became abstractedly fearful of voicing his thoughts, lest others judge. As a consequence he did not finish. William Buthwort was incomplete in more ways than one, his mumbled lamentations of obtusely espoused sentiment carrying confused hints that deep down there was something darkly amiss; muttererd hintings cryptically at a self intuition of altogether frightening aspect. These obtuse brooding comments had prompted his co-worker, Dash Newton, to suggest in exasperation that if Buthwort truly desired to identify this missing aspect he should escape for a spell. Newton went so far as to recommend an excellently secluded cabin near Queenstown where, to put it in his own words, "personal demons could be confronted". Upon further prompting Newton explained that he'd stumbled upon the backwater place by sheer happenstance whilst out hiking in the hustled unhallowed hills that fringed Queenstown. The place had stuck in Newton's memory. The buildings remoteness bordered on the inaccessible, lending the suggestion that its past denizens were shunned by society and that activities of a darkly clandestine nature occurred there. Newton explained he had entered its dusty and decrepit interior only briefly to determine that it was truly deserted. He remarked that there was a carving above the door bearing the name of one A R Mason. The mention of Mason engendered much interest from Buthwort. It so happens that at this time Mr. Buthwort had been cataloguing freshly uncovered records of Sarah Island and its environs. Sarah Island was the first and harshest of the penal settlement of Terra Australis almost two hundred years previously. The records meticulously detailed in a very factual manner the operations of the historic place. Their precise yet archaic columns tabulated convict transfers, supply orders, ship arrivals and departures, rationing, religious events, work details, billeting and disciplinary measures. There were also extensive records of a number of calamitous escapes, subsequent punishments and even executions. On matters of death Sarah Island had an unprecedentedly heinous history and it perhaps reflects Williams moribund state of mind that he was particularly interested in the newly recovered records as they related to one inmate in particular, Andre Mason. The scattered entries told a story of a gang of eight of the most hardened and resolute convicts led by Andre Mason. The gang had murdered their guards most foully then escaped Sarah Island to the mainland in a small boat which they had secured. Andre Mason was discovered by a drover named Ridley Escot some nine months later, eking out a meagre existence in the harsh environs about Queenstown, apparently surviving upon little more than insects. Half mad from starvation, Mason had convalesced with Escot, but whilst the convicts tortured body mended, his mind did not. The escaped convicts' fervent insanity prompted the drover to shackle and bind him then fearfully hand him over to the Sarah Island authorities. The means of Mason's almost miraculous survival was not explained, but his return elicited an overly swift and brutal execution. The records of Mason's deeds and the fate of the seven other convicts were unusually terse and brief. A footnote concluded that the seven were dead, although bodies were never found. Mason was not buried in an unmarked grave as was the norm. He was cremated, at that time an ignoble end for the damned. The only clue to the fate of the seven convicts and Mason's miraculous survival was a cryptic comment in the Drovers testimony. Apparently Mason had stated in one of his more insanely rambling moments, that the he "had the strength of seven men at his disposal". Buthwort's interest took the form of uncharacteristically insistent probing. Newton provided a detailed description of the place and, more importantly, furnished Buthwort with the only photograph of the aforesaid ruin in his possession. This old photo showed a haphazard construction. The oldest parts of the shambling structure bespoke its use as a refuge for escaped convicts, half-castes and bushrangers. Its confused configuration of rotted timber fences intimated that at one time the place was used for the re-branding of rustled stock. The lean-to skillions and sagging gambrels spoke of later extensions and use by successive clans of inbred squatters. It appeared to be the proverbial isolated cabin, its rustic shabby air suggesting a darkly coloured history. The photo included the surrounding ridges and peaks and allowed for the ready location of the cabin. I have since scrutinised Newton's description of the cabin in detail and find that without the photo the description he imparted could have lead to any one of a thousand nondescript cabins which dot the countryside about Queenstown. More to the point however, the cabin was razed to the ground as a result of the calamitous events recorded, and whilst the lower levels may remain it is unlikely that any shall ever find that den of evil again. This conversation with Newton is the last recollection that any soul has of William Buthwort before he stepped off the face of the earth. Armed with Newtons photo, a back pack full of camping gear, food, clothes and other provisions Buthwort departed for a long weekend, telling not a soul of his destination, other than mumbling to Newton that he was "getting away". I later learnt that Newton presumed that Buthwort opted to escape for a jaunt to the olden country perhaps to become irrevocably lost amongst the innumerable dark rolling hills, the silent umbrage woods, the un-trafficked dusty ways and desolate crossroads. The truth is much different. Buthwort went to the deserted cabin on the hinterland of Queenstown. Buthwort found it. Buthwort uncovered its secret history, a dark history that should have stayed lost. The drive to Queenstown was not long, yet for Buthwort it was an exciting one, fraught with anticipation. He parked his vehicle on the side of the road near one of the landmarks in the photo then headed inland, unloaded his pack and began his fateful trek. After decades of unchecked mining the land around Queenstown was an uninviting blighted moonscape possessed of an abhorrent aspect. The dry scaly wind whined in haunted desolation, upward sluicing over the steep ragged denuded ridges and downward delving into deeply gullied ravines and grottos which festered in shadows like angry wounds. The cabin lay on the hinterland between the oldest and craggiest of chasms and the thickest oppressing forests lay about it. It was a long arduous trek and involved much checking of the map and photo to the landmarks then double backing through narrow ravines and dead ends that mazed the hills. Said cabin was discovered to be everything Newton had promised; remote and nigh on inaccessible, a rambling tottering structure with sagging shingle gambrel roofs and rusted corrugated skillions held aloft by a beaten and broken frame of weathered timbers all hoary with age. The interior was musty and sombre but furnished well enough in trappings of a bygone age. William found A R Mason carved upon the top of the door jamb just as Newton described. He clambered atop a chair and traced his fingers upon the ragged cut, his mind meandering the many paths of mystery that enshrouded Mason. Beside the cut were odd symbols. Was this where the seven lay? Had they died or lived here as bushrangers, building this place as a refuge from their pursuers? Mason could not have built this place alone, yet the structure was not from one specific era, being a gradual conglomeration of buildings. The sun was setting as William finished unloading his pack. He found an ancient girandole and some safety matches. After a breaking a few matches and discarding their remnants on the floor he found one match strong enough to light the beeswax candle, then adjusting the mirror to illume the bench, he made a fire and prepared an easy dinner by the ruddy glow of candle light. The pasty fellow sat down at a table with a bowl of steaming food and cleared off a dusty old newspaper. He noted with no small curiosity that the paper was from two decades ago. Beneath was an old bakelite tape player, voluminous piles of notes on faded cartridge paper and an ancient tome beside it that heretofore had escaped his furtive attention. The parchment was antediluvian in appearance and Buthwort carefully thumbed through its soft pages, noting its unnatural texture between his thin fingers. It's vellum touch was delicate and sensuous, and the curiously incomprehensible lines and curves that populated its sallow pages left an insalubrious impression upon his mind. Sensing that the book and tape player were linked William pressed play on the machine. "- forbidden secrets best left under lock and key. Regardless I have commenced my translation of Mason's text, using the Book of Eibon I unearthed in the chamber below as a reference. It appears that I was correct in my beliefs," there was triumph mixed with a peculiar dread as the voice paused, "this is perhaps the first edition of The Necronomicon by the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred, untouched by the censors of Rahj. How Mason came upon it, I do not know." William blinked at this statement, an instinctual shiver running up his spine. "The pages of the tome are of skin, the ink blood, the binding hair and the cover? well, it is as I surmised. It is made from the dead." Buthwort ceased his casual fingering of those soft pages, retracting his hand in shock to look closer at the paper. God help him, the narrator was right! "The text contains incantations and non-Euclidian formulae which ?" with a horrified disgust William pressed stop. A forlorn wind blew outside and the candles strained and dimmed, as though starved of oxygen. The great age of the building pressed down upon William from all sides. With a deep and troubled sigh Buthwort pressed fast forward, and then, thinking better of it, stop and play "-lines and curves that can be made to point out directions leading through the walls of space to other spaces beyond ?" again William pressed stop, a grin slowly splitting his face. The conceit of the recording tickled his dark fancy in a macabrely merry way. This must be chicanery! Again William pressed fast forward and a moment later play. There was a bone chilling chanting, and William heard the words " ?Cthulhu Kadath Yog- sothoth ?ngah'ng ai'y zhro Clatoo,?" before he pressed fast forward again. The hair on the back of his neck was standing proud as the tape spun in sickening revolutions. He pressed play again to hear more jumbled and hebephrenic sing song ranting. Amongst the mad ululations Buthwort heard what sounded like "-Per adonai eloim, Klark Aaszhton geb'l ? Ee'h Verata-" before he suddenly pressed stop. Weird electricity seemed to hang in the air. The young man pressed down fast forward. An ill wind blew into the room then ceased when he stopped the tape. A hushed expectancy seemed to linger as he pressed the play button. "-Nyarlathotep Nicto!" The single beeswax candle dimmed to naught but an ember as an inferno of eerie achromatic energies wracked the room. Buthwort was suddenly struck breathless by a crushing pressure on his chest. Eyes wide he bent over, struggling to breathe, grasping his constricting sides as the shadowy wind shrieked and moaned like a many tongued beast. There was a sudden blast as of thunder which sent him flying bodily across the room, pain twisting through his body as he crushed cruelly against the wall. Sickly weird light saturated the chamber; and Buthwort cowered in the corner in a huddled mess. With gut wrenching force phantasmagorical dark energy tumbled in a wildly juxtaposed manner throughout. Buthwort lay almost insensate in the gathered gloom. "What was that?" he wondered affright. To his still ringing ears his voice possessed an ominously dismaying quality, confounding his ear's expectancy by its discordant tone and distinct lack of resonance. As he flexed his jaw muscles to equilibrate his ears he counted his blessings that he had not been struck deaf by the resounding thunder clap of unknown origin, yet the sense of something awry grew; the glowing will-o-wisp and curious electricity in the air suggesting that this matter was not yet played out. Buthwort pushed himself up as the dark matter continued to throb and pulse like a terrifying eye focused upon him. Odd whispers and spectral pressures in the air gave the sense that some thing other, some malign cosmic force, was fumbling about the boundaries of reality, seeking to bridge the infinite gulf of the beyond and break through to this world. A creeping sensation upon his skin alluded that those alien forces were trenchantly seeking him, and the increasing proximity of the eldritch noises and weird sensations seemed to confirm his growing fears. The dark iris from beyond seemed fixed intently upon him, floating like an errant bubble, then starting to move, inexorably towards him. Blackness and dark energies reached out like tentacles and the whispering grew. Blackness snaked about his form. Blackness engulfed him. The blackest silence. Buthwort felt a disquieting sensation growing come upon him in the dark, a burgeoning of raw nerves that begged to be scratched, that grew insistently to become a fiery wriggling then a grotesque ache in his chest; oscillating forces rippled through him, resulting in an unprecedented eruption of outward bulging flesh. The eeriness continued, his hips twisting queerly as fat and muscle reformed into alien and discombobulating contours. As the preternatural billowing and welling of his soma increased, a singular weightiness manifested in regions grossly unfamiliar to Buthwort. Finally the blackness dissolved. A shocked gasp escaped Buthwort lips as he lurched erect. His pants, which had inexplicably lost their purchase about his waist, fell in a tangled mess about his bewilderingly skinny ankles. Naturally Buthwort glanced downwards, his eyes slowly widening till they seemed to be mere pin pricks lost in a sea of tortured white, screaming in voiceless volumes of ineffable terror. The ominous silhouettes of long shapely legs tapered away beneath; however it was the air playing visibly upon the delicate tufts of his exposed nether regions that struck him dumb. Struggle though he might, Buthwort could not avert his gaze; for though he did not wish to behold what lay before him, its abject impossibility had an estranged fascination that overwhelmed better judgement. The singular sensation in his groin confirmed matters which he would have preferred to remain in question. A dull ache informed him that he was holding his body in an overly strained manner; his teeth were clenched in a paroxysm of fear and his breathing was oppressed. He swallowed and forced himself to let out a long controlled breath, feeling keenly the ludicrousness nature of his predicament which seemed intent on goading him to uncontrollable fits of hysterical laughter. He clamped down hard upon his gibbering mirth and, in a curiously detached manner, took complete stock. Buthwort's sagging jaw rested between rapidly grown and prominently globular breasts ? substantial mammaries that jiggled unusually in his foreground view. William experimentally hefted one of those overly large masses, marvelling in no small horror at its delicate flesh, then placed a hand on his all too narrow waist. He was a good deal shorter and most assuredly female. His mind raced with many questions which he had no answer for. Could he believe that this had happened? Buthwort hoped not, pulling those flagging pants back up and tightening them snug about rounded hips. The belt buckle had gone in an alarming number of notches. The shoes were now a poor fit and he kicked them off to stare in worry at much smaller feet. "What did I do?" wondered an unknown yet decidedly dulcet voice. Buthwort stared at a strangers hands, turning them over. They weren't familiar in the least. They were someone else's. But whose? Where was his body? What had happened? The girandole candle dimmed further and Williams's eyes narrowed, his fears of his lost body replaced by the fear of the unknown thing from between space. There was a disturbing noise from outside, an ill wind moaning through ill shuttered windows, rustling trees and cracking twigs in the darkness - but there was more. Underlying these meagre noises was the ominous presence that had touched William moments before. Then a voice broke the eerie mood, "It has been an hour since I spoke aloud the incantation. I..." the strained voice paused. It was the same voice from before, recorded decades ago on the tape machine, yet it had an urgent hysteria to it. "I... don't know what I've done... I knew that Mason was a heinous monster, but..." the voice sunk to a horrified whisper, "I never suspected... my investigations suggested that he became a cannibal, surviving on the flesh of his fellow inmates..." Buthwort nodded as he stared at the machine. He had assumed as much as well. "But the truth is worse... it is unimaginable... I must be going mad, but I must say it, for it is true... Mason was insane, a master of the dark arts... but he ate none of them. The others... I have seen what remains of them... below... I think the incantation roused it. I managed to fight it off with a torch, but the night is long and my fuel dwindles. The light is all that keeps it at bay... I can hear it below now... it will take me soon I fear... God damn my curiosity. If you hear this message then heed my warning. If it is day then flee. If it is night, may god have mercy on your soul... Ware your soul... It does not eat... It consumes!" The tape continued with deep breathing. Buthwort nearly jumped out of his unfamiliar skin when a loud bang shook the old house. Again there was the bang ? it was a trap door in the middle of the room which seemed to leap up ? pushed by unknown forces below. A chain rattled. Wobbling unsteadily on his new legs he grabbed a rusted fry pan from the kitchen bench and clutched it fearfully in his small hand, snatching up the candle in his other hand. There was a boom, a groan of hinges, a flaking of rust and the snap of chains as the Hewen Pine trap door swung open. William took a fearful step forwards, awkwardly approaching the bolted hole in the floor, preying he would not have to run as he held the flickering candle aloft, the pan back ready to swing. William clutched the candle downwards and peered into those dark depths within the dank basement. The tape had mentioned a chamber below, but what sort of chamber? William saw nothing, but from those bleak under shadows came a sound like a pack of ravenous dogs gnawing on bones. It was then that the precarious of his predicament hit William. He was a weak defenceless girl, alone, facing ? what? Something from beyond? It couldn't be possible, yet perhaps it was. Certainly this form in which he was thrust was just as impossible. There was a sudden wailing of the wind outside the window. William gasped fearfully, gripping his frying pan close to his chest, pressing his breasts flat against its hard unyielding metal and lowering the candle as he strained to see down. "Hello?" he called as his nose crinkled at the hint of a decidedly unsavoury odour. A blast of wind snuffed the candle and he twisted upright in surprise. Unaccustomed to his new proportions he lost balance and ungainly tumbled to the floor. His hands shot out, the fry pan and candle forgotten, as he landed heavily on his rounded rump. As they landed the candle and fry pan made a god awful noise. Heart in throat Buthwort stared blindly over the silhouetted contours of large breasts and down between those alien legs towards where the fearsome hole lay. The chest rose and fell in an unaccustomed manner. Buthwort was struck dumb, paralysed by staring fear, unable to breath the air, eyes growing wider and wider as with nightmarish preponderance something like fingers snaking about that narrow ankle with cold doom. Too late to recoil, the unearthly touch snapped sense into William. Madly legs kicked the soiled thing. Whilst those legs were the most muscled part of William's new anatomy they were not strong enough to break free. And the thing from below seemed almost indifferent to pain, moving in a horrifyingly leisurely fashion. Somewhere, someone let out a terrified yell. It was a frightened little girl screaming. Her terror was distant, like the unheard pounding of blood in ones ears. This fear was smothering and belittling in its intensity. William gasped. The smell from below was suddenly overpowering in its putridity; an ageless mustiness mixed with insalubrious wet and moist rot. The smell was so thick it was palpable. The vile thing from beyond dragged and pulled William towards its dark pit. "Light!" he muttered, remembering that the this thing of darkness may be driven back by light. William reached frantically for the candle but the girandole lay just beyond his grasp. He struggled and kicked his long limber legs, felt his jeans leg tear and, for a moment, it seemed the thing's unclean grasp was slipping. William strained and clawed for the candle, praying his longer nails would somehow find purchase. Nails touched the waxy end. Then the thing snaked up higher towards his thigh, pulled and the candle was lost! William sobbed and blinked away tears. His delicate foot now overhung the empty maw of the basement. He cried, his narrow fingers gripping at the fly worn matt, dragging at it, knuckles white and wretched as bird claws. With a great and weighty certainty he knew he was going to die. "No!" he screamed. The things earthy putrescent stench was thick in the air. William could hear an unearthly pursy, as of bellows. The cold clammy air from the crypt blew upon the bare skin of his ankle with a sickening regularity. "Damn you!" he snarled. "You're not getting me!" But he didn't have a choice in the matter. The horrid thing had an insidious grip and a deathly chillness was seeping into his skin. Somehow he was on his front being pulled painfully and indignantly along on his chest, his large sensitive breasts being pushed up around his throat most cruelly. Kicking and screaming, his struggling bothered it not a bit. It yanked and he was in the hole from his narrow waist down. William grasped at the table leg with his torn hand, clenching hard and willing not to let go. The weak muscles in his lithe female arm seemed hardly up the task. Perhaps, for the last time, he wished he was in his familiar male body and not this weak female shell. With his free hand he reached down and fumbled with his pants belt buckle. He strained for a moment. The pants were taught due to the things grasp, yet he somehow managed to loosen the belt prong. He let out a strangled gasp of relief as the things grasp lost purchase, taking his jeans with it. His feet dangled in emptiness, legs bare except a scant pair of boxers which hung around his ankles. Buthwort struggled up, his feet searching for a foot hold, but too his dismay his legs were tangled by the boxers. He gritted his teeth and pulled placing his faith in almost non existent upper body strength. William was almost out over the lip. Suddenly the thing snaked up to encircle his waist and began pulling him back in again. William flailed about with his hand to get his balance and grabbed ... something small. The skanky thing yanked him closer to the hole, putting all its unearthly weight to the task, scraping him against the rim, his hands dragging furrows in the old matt, his upper body inching towards the doomful hole. William could feel a cold breath on his inner thigh, felt terror fluttering in his chest and a horror in his loins. The thing reached up and snaked one decomposing member about his shoulder, its flesh pressing against his bare rump. William shuddered in its cold unholy grasp as something like a wet tongue licked at him with an unnatural craving. With a terror laden cry William was torn painfully over the edge and tumbled down the old timber stairs into the dark pit, landing with a squelch atop the monster. Boxers still around his ankles, William was enmeshed in a horrid tangle with the thing. Its grip was firm as ever and William was powerless against the putrescent thing's enveloping hold. Up close he could make out nothing yet the stench was indescribable. There was a wet sound as of the sucking upon gums hungrily, but William was certain that this thing had nothing that would even approximate a mouth. Crying out in fear he raised his left arm to fend off the creature and something tore painfully at his palm. As it grated his hand William realised he clutched something small in his hand. A match. dragged the match over a nearby rock and the stick wavered then blazed in his hand. There was a liquid vacillating of air as he turned the small phosphorescent light towards the thing, only to illuminate the empty basement. The thing had gone. For a moment the matches light flickered and sputtered, struggling to burn through the damp blood and tears. Then the light extinguished abruptly. "Damn..." Somewhere in the dark the thing started to shamble back. William pulled up his boxers, twisted and groped blindly for stairs or a ladder, banging and scuffing his bare knee and missing a tread in the dark with his unaccustomed feet. He was bleeding messily from his wounded hand and his heavy breasts battered rudely against the timber risers. Behind he heard the insane thing's mouthless moaning growing closer. He climbed upwards with double fervour, blindly searching for footholds, his panic more of a hindrance than a help, moving as fast as he could with his pained hand and unfamiliar feet. His head emerged into the room above. As he crested the lip of the trapdoor the thing snatched his ankle and he fell face down on the bloody carpet, squashing his breasts painfully flat. He let out a scream and started to cry again as he tried to free his foot. There was no match to save him now. "No you don't!" he wailed as he grabbed the discarded fry pan with his good hand and swung it at the grasping thing. There was a weird shrieking sound and a wavering of air as William sensed the grotesque appendage sinking back down into the hole. William was up on his feet and slamming the trap door closed in an instant, locking it tight with a bolt. Then he picked up the candle and stood in the room, bruised and scratched, breasts heaving, finger nails ruined, dripping blood, hair and face covered with muck and dirt, and tears running down his cheeks. The trap door heaved as the thing below put all its unhallowed weight to the task of pursuing its escaped quarry. "It's coming for me!" A frantic voice cried. The voice from the tape. In the background was a wet snarling slavering din, the snap of chains and the heft of weird footfalls. "Fire! I'll burn the place down around it I'll ---" there was a strangled gurgling death rattle and then nothing more but a horrid slippery sucking sound and the bellows breathing of the thing from below. William leaped towards his pack and grabbed his gas bottle, opening the nozzle fully. Behind he heard the sound of the trap door flying open. He threw the bas bottle behind him as the monstrous thing surged and throbbed towards him, its titanic gelatinous limbs catching the missile and crushing it with impunity. "Thank god for small favours," William noted as he lit a safety match and flung it at the creature then dove behind the table. The explosion was deafening, the fire ripping through the cabin and hungrily latched onto the old timber walls, floors and roof. William climbed dazed to his feet and stared at the blasted ruin of the thing. It still moved, shambling madly about in the fire and light and smoke, revealing only parts of itself in full light to William's terrored visage. The little William beheld of the thing was more than unnerving, it was mind shattering. Buthwort let out a terrified scream and scrambled away from it, past the table that held the Necronomicron and tape player, past his pack with his clothes and out the door to the darkness beyond. In that insane escape from the flaming inferno of the cabin all chance of Buthwort living the normal life he knew died. That which had been Buthwort roamed the hills for an interminable duration. It may have been a day, a week or perhaps a month. How this empty shell survived I do not know. Yet it did. When reason returned, a woman found herself in an asylum for the insane. In time she was released. The remainder of this story is self evident. William Buthwort was missing, presumed dead and I now had knowledge of things and matters which no person should. I do not understand it, yet I know it to be true. I have been touched by the otherworldly, marked by it and it hungers for me still. On cold nights I can hear it out there, just beyond the ken of the real world. And now you know it too. T'Gthuhlu!