This Empire of Dirt

"The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age."

-H.P. Lovecraft

What would you say if you woke up to an unfamiliar creature laying at the foot of your bed, its stomach pressed into your feet, its paws pressed into your legs, and its snout across your thighs? What would you do if it were as black as the night, and seemed to writhe and twist without moving, without breathing or blinking? If it wreaked of death and decay, if you could swear you saw maggots crawling just under the film of its eyeballs, if its bones showed in several places and something inside of it appeared to be fighting its way out? Would you name it? Pet it? Attempt to train it? If you are anything like me- if you are sane- you might leap up, pry open your door, and run to your car, refusing to return even after animal control arrives.

What if, however, that same creature was more than a mere amalgamation of terror and gore? What if it reached into your mind and placed pressure on a few specific areas, flooding your brain with chemicals that made you fall in love with it? Not merely the love a man bears his dog... But something far more horrifying and taboo? Would you succumb to madness in the wake of those feelings? 

Reader, I will leave you with this, before I disclose to you this tale. Our existence is meaningless. We are not destined for greatness, nor are we fated to scrape the bottom of the barrel of the length of our lives. This society, and all of its hazards and consequences, are merely projections that we created to feel some semblance of safety and purpose. But, in truth, we live in anarchy, and we die meaningless deaths. If you cannot accept your place in the Universe, then you, too, will fall victim to it.

James Franklin Harlan was a pediatrician first, a scientist second, and a father third. If he was not preaching to unhearing parents about the importance of vaccinations, and if he was not subjugating rats to various diseases and potential cures for said diseases, only then might he be found reading a brief story to his meek, albeit intelligent, children. If, on such a day, you were to listen in on Doctor Harlan's bedtime readings, you would also hear the love he bore for his triplets. You would hear this love in his carefully crafted, cartoonish voices. You would hear this love in his pauses to explain difficult words or morals. And, perhaps most blatantly, you would hear it in the closing of the stories, in which he meticulously pecked each child on the cheek and forehead before tucking them in. It is this love that troubles me so, my dear reader. It is this love which has rendered me sleepless on many a night.

Doctor Harlan returned home early in the morning on July 4th, 2010. His children were already asleep, and, to his tired eyes, all was right in the world. He greeted the Sitter, shook her hand, and gave her an extra twenty for the cleaning she'd done the weekend past. He locked up behind her, had a shot of whiskey, and climbed the stairs to the third story of his expensive downtown home, where his study was located. Harlan was not fond of working from home on holidays- especially at two A.M., when he planned to take his children to Folly Beach at noon in eight hours. But he'd been forced to stay behind at the Office an extra four hours, and so his research at the lab ran far later than he'd anticipated. Not wanting to stay the night over, he was left to write his papers here, where he could at least wear a bath robe instead of a lab coat.

For nearly five hours, James typed away, backspacing every now and then to adjust his spelling or reword a particularly difficult sentence. It wasn't until 6 AM that he first noticed the scratching coming from the hall, and it wasn't until 7 AM, with sunlight streaming through the windows, that the sounds truly registered in his mind. He stood up slowly, not wanting to startle whatever pest was mucking about out there, and retrieved his phone from the desk's drawer. Harlan crept out into the hallway, and clicked on his phone- only for it to buzz and ring loudly as it shut off. He cursed and jumped, dropping his phone and startling the creature away before he could see it. 

Heart racing, James bent down to retrieve his phone, still cursing. "Damn things, have enough charge to sound a fucking tornado siren but not enough to turn on a fucking flash light..."

"Daddy," one of his children called tentatively, "I think you scared Muggsy with all those bad words."

James glanced up, his cheeks red as he realized how much he'd been cursing... And then his eyebrows knitted, his forehead creased, and he started rubbing at the skin behind his ear- a nervous habit that he wasn't aware he possessed. "Muggsy? Is that one of your imaginary friends, baby?"

His child, Carla, giggled. "No, Daddy! That's our pet!"

"Pet? When did you get a pet?"

Carla clasped her hands and rubbed her toes on the carpet, looking down and around. "Well... Miss Louise and I found him outside a few days ago, and he looked all sad, so we let him stay inside for a little bit... He was sooo cute, Daddy, so we thought... Maybe..."

James sighed heavily, and massaged the bridge of his nose. Of course the damn baby sitter would bring a stray animal into the house without telling him. He suddenly regretted the twenty he'd tipped her, seeing as the random flecks of dirt he'd been seeing in the guest bathroom now had an obvious explanation. They must've been keeping this animal in there or something.

"Alright," James said. "Show me where Muggsy is, Carla. Please?"

After a few seconds of figuring out whether or not she was in trouble, Carla complied. When James laid eyes on the creature, he was filled with dread, disgust, and fear. The time was 7:30 AM. At 9:00 AM, James found himself loading up the car, his triplets taking up the passenger side seat and two of the back seats, and Muggsy taking up the third empty seat. He had a moment of dissociation, but it faded away as he laid eyes on Muggsy. He felt a sudden warmth wash over him as the thing started panting; a warmth he hadn't felt in nearly a decade. The world seemed... Right. 

The family spent their day on Folly Beach. Carla, Stephen, and Rose mucked about in the water, while James sat in a folding beach chair, one hand scrolling down a few medical articles on his tablet, the other lazily massaging behind Muggsy's ears. It was almost 4 PM before anyone showed up on their section of the beach; it almost seemed as if they were being avoided, until then. The two new comers were an elderly couple, saggier than a wet bag of sand, but smiling brighter than anyone James had seen before. As they drew closer, the woman's smile faded into a look of fear, while the man's faded into a look of disgust. James raised an eyebrow. He shot a glance out to his kids, who were building a sand castle beside some rocks, to make sure they were fine.

"Hey," James called out as the elderly man drew closer.

"Hey," the man replied. "What the hell do you think you're doing? This is public property, sicko."

James stared at the man for a moment, still lazily scrolling through his tablet. "What do you mean? Wait, are you talking about my pet? Muggsy's a rescue, damn it, it's not his fault th-"

James found himself ass-first in the sand, a line of blood trickling from his lip. "What the hell-" the old man kicked him square in the chest. Behind the assailant, Muggsy was standing up, its fur on end. 

"You sick little fuck... Take your-your-your whatever that is and go home, before I call the cops on yo-"

"Daddy!" came Carla's scream. The triplets were sprinting towards the scene.

"Oh, you've got kids here and you're doing that? Y'know what," the man growled. He looked around until he saw James's wallet, then grabbed it, snapping a picture of his I.D., of the dog, of James, and of the scene. "Your ass is grass, you god damned pervert." He tossed James's wallet to the sand, turned, and walked back towards his wife. "Let's find a more public place to set up," he grumbled.

Muggsy padded over to James, then sat by him. Without so much as a thought, James began petting Muggsy again. He started to scroll through his tablet

No. His heart skipped a beat. His tablet sat on top of the cooler, untouched by anyone or anything. 

"Whatchya reading, daddy," Carla asked. His hands were still moving. He began to shake.

"N-n-nothing, darling," he said, his voice hoarse and husky. With great effort, he rested control of his hands and got to his feet. He stared down at Muggsy, his brain working over time, searching for information that had gone missing somewhere along the way. The creature stared back at him, and he felt himself growing hot again. Time seemed to slow around him. He fought it, only to feel his daughter tugging at his hand.

"Play with Muggsy, daddy," she was saying.

James clenched his fist.

"We're going home. Now."

He shoved his tablet into his bag, folded the chair, and grabbed the cooler. Stephen and Rose trailed after him, but Carla called out to them. "You're forgetting Muggsy, daddy!"

He turned, his head spinning. It took every ounce of strength he had to focus. It's worse than a bad trip, he thought to himself. "No, Carla, I'm not forgetting Muggsy. Muggsy isn't coming home with us. Hurry along, now."

James turned again and started walking. Stephen and Rose kept close on his heels. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that, to his relief, Carla was starting to follow as well. Muggsy lingered, its head down and its tail between its legs.

Unfortunately, that's not the end of the story. I wish that it were, for what follows is more hellish than any fictitious work I have ever laid eyes upon. If there is a god, he must have been particularly callous when he heard Doctor Harlan's prayers, for there was no answer. This is your chance to back out, Reader. This tale will leave you more troubled than when you began, and with more questions than answers. If, however, you choose to continue down this road, and to join me in a cynical, hopeless existence, then you need only turn the page.