Forgotten Times

Prologue # Instinct.

The nights sky was shadowed by clouds with the moon's natural light nowhere to be seen. The air was full of a wet mist that coated anything it touched with the cold grip of aqua. Down at the rocky beach the sea slowly crept in. The wind of the night had a chill but was almost still. The slushing sea water hitting against the rocky shore began to bubble, tremble even. The silence in the night seemed to be drawing in, causing the local wildlife to not even stir. A seagull on the edge of a rock observed the water with its deep black eyes. Something was wrong and it could feel it in its hollow bones. Fear held this Ariel navigator in its cold grasp. It couldn't say what but something was in the water. It was used to being the predator but right now it felt very much like pray. Opening its beak it spun around to sound an alert to its kin but no noise left it's throat. A great splash of water rained down on the seagull and it tried flapping its wings in defiance but it was already too wet. The wave drenched the bird from top to toe. The sensation of being pulled yanked the birds perception, almost like diving but in reverse. The rock it once stood on was now quickly growing smaller in its eyesight. An impact of water smashed into the gulls body causing it finally to make a small shriek before it's throat filled with sea water. The last sight and sensation the gull ever felt was the sight of awful slimly pink mouth enclose the light as the feeling of its bones being crunched, bent and smashed and the bird knew it was being eaten. It's very last sight was the tongue that had ensnared it wrap around its head and then squeeze.

Stumbling his drunk sorry state of affairs down the old cobbled street he called home. Fred smirked to himself, what a spectacular night he had. Spent over fifty quid on all assortment of alcoholic beverages. Licking his lips the flavours of each shot he had made its way back down his throat. First was the apple flavour then cherry then a vodka neat before a sambuca and tequila. Fred of course would add many more shots to the list. He chuckled as he remembered having a tactical vomit so he could continue on the night. Not over busy was the pub tonight but it was the high winter and business was down so local were king. The right side of his gaunt unshaven face was still a little tender and raw from the slap he received from the bar maid. The slap of course was completely called for and he wasn't in the least bit shocked or hurt by it, well at least emotionally. The cobble dashed wall kept Fred up as he fell against it from his drunk staggering. Grasping out with his hands he ran his skinny leather hands up the cobbled wall. If he was sober it would hurt but that would be tomorrow's problem. Much like every problem in his life, tomorrow's problem. The major issue right now was not passing out before he reached the dump he called a home. Blurred of vision and head spinning he did the only technique that would help in this situation. He closed his left eye so all his vision was was focused in one point. Sober Fred would laugh and say that it really shouldn't work but drunk Fred swore by the use of drunk eye. The street he was currently attempting to wonder down was small, much like the town he lived in. It was old buildings as he lived in the oldest and southern most part of the town. There couldn't be anymore than 3 metres from each building. Just enough room for a car and no more. The streets were either old bricks or large concrete slates. Old renovations with new. The buildings much the same no bigger than two stories but due to the uneven way they had originally been built. Some stood higher than others and on silent wet nights like this they seemed to watch all who passed. Each window and door for the buildings Fred slowly passed were different. Some coloured others old, windows of a modern look and some that look like they had been around since world war one. Fred cursed the fact we lived so far away from the pub, he had done this walk over a hundred times in better and worse states but it was always hassle. It was taking so long for Fred to get to his home that the wet mist had made his clothes uncomfortable moist, even for his drunk state of mind. Grunting and pushing himself forward more with subconscious willpower that anything else he plodded forward. Finally emerging from the enclosed street he had made his way through he reached a small crag. To his left a mound of grass that held a bench and an old war cannon, now out of action a relic of the past of more difficult times. Immediately in front of the cannons tip a great plunge would meet anyone hearty enough to jump. Usually when the tide was out you could walk down a small set of stairs just a little further ahead and scavenge the rocky beach for crabs. Tonight however the tide was unusually high and the sea rather restless even for such a quite night.

At the corner of his one open eye Fred had thought he had seen a figure or object look at him and dip under the water. He smiled as it wasn't unusual to see seals around these waters and they were curious animals. Yet his mind told him seals, he felt an uneasiness like someone only gets when they know something isn't right. If Fred had been sober he may have listened closer to his instincts and attempted to arrive home sooner. However Fred was still struggling to walk and see without vomiting for a second time that night. His old hand grasped at the steel banister that lead to the stairs. Even intoxicated the wet cold steel stung like a million small needles. Yet he didn't let go, he needed the support. His home wasn't far now another fifteen minutes and he would be there. This road lead to an old large bed and breakfast to his right and past that was the area he lived in. Garden Home was the name of his scheme. Nice houses all old builds, gardens, sheds and fences a very peaceful living. It was mainly inhabited by pensioners and people in retirement as it was right next to the beach. He just needed past the pier on his left that was home to some older buildings and he would be able to see the beach and the small shack he called a home. Again the feeling of unease washed over Fred and he looked down at the water as it thrashed against the rocks. Narrowing his one eye for better perception he found nothing of note. Getting old is what he put it down too. Old and paranoid he deserved to live in Garden Home with all the other decrepit, senile ghouls. The night air started to have a scent of sewage. A raw smell that was like a small fire in the nostrils. Fred at first barely noticed it until it slammed into his natiel passage. Placing a hand over his nose to combat the stench did very little to help. He felt his gag reflex at the back of his throat play up and start to dance, it could be the drink or the stench doing it but he had put money on both. Swallowing down the phlegm that arose like a torrent of water he had to stop moving. Collecting himself he took large breathes in to counter the nausea. Placing his hand on the old styled brick walls that had been built countless years ago he felt a goo slime envelope his hand. Pulling the hand back he noticed the slime was of yellow colour. The texture was the final straw as it overloaded his senses and he projective vomited the remaining ingredients of his stomach. The smell and texture of this slime and the eeriness of the current situation became a high beam of warning to old Fred and with the remaining control of his body he started to power walk towards safety. The smell never left as he marched forth if anything it grew in strength. Fred also noticed that large globs of slime were placed around randomly on the cobbled paving and the walls. Thick and almost luminous the unknown substance put goosebumps up Fred's entire body. Fear what he was feeling was fear, in his long life he had known it only a couple of times. Once before he was close to being run over and another time he was choking on food and nearly blacked out. Moving onto a small jog, be it an unbalanced one he tried to avoid the goblets of slime as he moved on. Both eyes wide open with fear the drink still in his system had been overwritten by his survival instincts.

The bungalow that Fred called a shack was a small building, one bedroom. The way the area was built each building was attached to the next but they all had front and back gardens. The roofs of the area were all slated green and the door frames painted the same awful green. Some had taken it upon themselves to repaint but Fred never saw the point. He wasn't particularly house proud and not really a gardener either as the grass was shadowed by the weeds. Reaching his garden gate his breathe was heaving but he couldn't be happier to see his home. A great creak followed the gate as he opened it, another one of his tomorrow jobs he never got around to doing. The stone path that lead to his front door was barely visible from the weeds and grass but Fred had done this walk thousands of times. Clasping his tired, drunk and scared body to his door he let out a sigh of relief. Safety at last. Gripping the door frame with his right hand he recoiled in disgust once more. Slime enveloped his hand and door handle. The muck slopped to the ground and gave a large splat. A million questions went through Fred's head. What was this stuff? What caused it? How didn't the rain wash it away? Most importantly why was it on his door? Panicked and confused he didn't know what to do. His mind went into lockdown. Scream for help? Or open his door and pray nothing was inside his abode. However before he could make a choice his senses went into override. The smell now didn't so much burn as hurt. It worked it's way up his nose and down his throat. So thick was the miasma that he almost forgot to breathe. The heart in his old skinny ribcage was working faster than it had ever done. The machine was not used to this kind of performance. Turning Fred stared down his path towards the sea. Whatever Fred saw emerge towards him was his last. His heart couldn't handle the shock. Stopping dead in its tracks. Fred's old body hit the ground with a tremendous thud. His face permantly fixed in wide eyed panic.