The Walls Have Teeth

By Eric Hyde

Welcome to Eric Hyde’s twisted domain, a place where people strive for a semblance of ordinary life amidst the encroaching darkness. Within these pages, a disgraced Detective, a survivor seeking refuge, and a sadistic killer converge. An elusive cult with unclear motives leaves a wake of emptiness and despair. Will their true intentions be revealed or forever elude both the characters and the unsuspecting reader? Traverse an apocalyptic wasteland, from Death Valley’s depths to the heart of an investigation, in pursuit of a malevolent force. Brace yourself for the captivating tales that unfold, but beware—within the sturdy walls of this house, even the strongest secrets have teeth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035816187

Eric Hyde

Eric Hyde resides by the sea, alone more often than not. His story-telling career began during lockdown to keep his mind alive. He found common themes appearing in the stories and decided he had found his purpose in the macabre texts he created. Taking inspiration from the likes of H P Lovecraft, Stephen King and Hunter S Thompson, noting their approach to replicate the 20th century in the 21st – copying Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, word for word, to “feel what it’s like to write a masterpiece” as a basis for how it should feel to create his own work.

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About the Author

Eric Hyde resides by the sea, alone more often than not. His story-telling career began during lockdown to keep his mind alive. He found common themes appearing in the stories and decided he had found his purpose in the macabre texts he created. Taking inspiration from the likes of H P Lovecraft, Stephen King and Hunter S Thompson, noting their approach to replicate the 20th century in the 21st – copying Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, word for word, to feel what it’s like to write a masterpiece as a basis for how it should feel to create his own work.

Dedication

For H L W, N M, T M W.

For the people that mean the most to me.

To S K, H S T and H PL.

For showing me the way, as you did for others before me.

Copyright Information ©

Eric Hyde 2024

The right of Eric Hyde to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035816170 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035816187 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.co.uk

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you LMG for being.

Dwellers

Birds chirping around nine am feels better on crisp grass. Waking up on these fields when I was young was esoteric in nature, often hung from last night’s mischief; always confused as to how I got here.

Things were different this time. I haven’t had a sip for years and I knew exactly how I got here. For whatever reason, the world’s powers structures crumbled and felt the need to annihilate one another, for good. I was lucky enough to be offered a place here, far below with sturdy foundations and support necessary for harbouring nuclear fugitives – the lucky few that outlived the world’s demise, but the structures of the survivors were weak and rotten at the foundation with too much weight, it was sure to buckle.

It was a struggle getting out – unarmed and starving but vigilant and alert. I remembered the way out, but it was impossible to seal the door properly. I walked along a silent river for a while, feeling an itching sensation the whole way up my fuzzy legs. Atop the river bank, a marshland with scorched, golden-brown grass. When the bombs fell, the crisp life that I had grown accustomed to when waking up in these fields when I was young, would never feel the same.

The river ran through sodden reed fields with the scorched marsh along either side. I scaled the vertical bank that ran parallel at shoulder height before the reeds, they felt weird on my legs. But the marsh only sucked in the sole of the grimy grey and white Reeboks sealing feet in Mr Men socks, both Christmas presents from Grandma. I didn’t enjoy the notion of marsh napping under the stars. Instead, I thought it best to keep on until the legs hit solid earth, I got there around noon. Still hungry, lips getting dryer by the minute so probably thirsty. I had nothing to fix either ailment, so sleeping it off was the safest bet.

Ducking into a side bush, I managed to get an hour or two with my eyes closed before the sun opened up the lids at noon of my second day above ground. Looking around, I saw what I can only describe as some grotesque graveyard. Sheep and Bovine lay sprawled in rotten, maggot infested carcasses piled in herds along the cracked pavement the ground had begun to reclaim.

Busted and bruised but sturdy enough for your Mondeo.

I took a minute to breathe outside an old farm, thinking I’d have a moment to savour filling my lungs with the fresh country air but the sensation in lung was putrid and rotten.

Should’ve kept walking but I had to pry. Must’ve been about three hundred skeletons piled up in cages. Skeletons of every kind of farm animal lay dormant some still with flesh in dangled drabs from the ribs and legs. Once white or red, now rotten with a grey tinge in the few strips that remain. Either succumbed to radiation or simply starved to death. I returned to the river to vomit. Most of it was carried away but mostly it reminded me of how hungry I was. Never occurred to me that someone might need to take food through the middle of nowhere.

When I woke on the golden-brown, scorched grass this morning, I couldn’t tell if I was hungry or angry, definitely the former; I haven’t the time for the latter. I kept on through the carcass ridden fields of golden-brown until I made it to the roadside. A grass bank caught my fall as I tumbled down a dry dirt decline, landing abruptly into the empty traffic lane. I gathered my senses now scattered but functioning. That’s when I saw the Mondeo, and your headlights spooked me into a dive for the hard shoulder.

‘So, how long were you under there?’ the Mondeo driver asked.

‘Not long, about three years,’ I replied.

‘Oh, okay. Why did you leave?’

‘It was too much, started off fine, but it descended as soon as the door closed.’ I lit a cigarette, probably should’ve asked but the Mondeo will be mine soon anyway. ‘They put the wrong people in charge. A few of them got the idea to force an unfriendly change in management. A few more had the same idea, the same bustling takeover that happened two years before. No family left, no ties.’ I flicked the cigarette butt in the direction of a metal gate on a side road – a dusty dirt road leading to another loathsome farm barn.

‘How did you get out? Surely, they wouldn’t just let you leave.’

I didn’t like my driver’s tone, forgotten his name already and the questions are making me uneasy. I think the radiation levels are too high here, starting to feel queasy.

‘It wasn’t easy leaving; I did what I had to do. Morality went out the window, not proud to say; not ashamed to admit that I wasn’t happy they got in my way.’ Might’ve said too much.

‘You mean you …’ The driver looked at me with a tense wince.

‘I did what I had to do.’ Hold the fort. ‘I’d never do it again.’ A reassuring enough lie, I hope.

‘If you say so.’ The driver was still tense, clutching the wheel and probably unaware the fight or flight instinct kicking in.

‘How did you end up here?’ Act natural, act friendly.

‘Similar to yours, except mine held about ten less than yours, just my wife, our twin sons and me – honestly, it was amazing at first. We’d built the thing to last for this situation. Stashed and stored as many movies as possible and all the video game consoles, we could afford. Cost a fortune for the contractors too, but they did a good job, I thought.’

The driver started to relax, instead a few tears were visibly trickling from their sunken eyes. Their freshly formed, unkempt beard catching a few of the drops.

‘Three bedrooms and a bathroom, a lounge, and a small cupboard. A couple TV’s: appliances and supplies that were meant to stay ticking for long enough to out-live the fallout. Slowly, we started to notice things weren’t right.’

‘What do you mean?’ Pressing for more, hoping not to get more than I bargained for.

‘We noticed a smell, at first, followed by shivering sensations and cold sweats, dry mouths, and hard lumps. I don’t have much longer to live. Over the years, we developed numerous bouts of vomiting and irritability. I’m past that stage, too many of my insides have already started to shut down and I haven’t energy to do much more than drive or walk or talk.’ He took a minute to breathe. ‘When I left, I noticed their idea of Gamma-ray-Retardant was some black and yellow electrical tape that barely held for the years I was in there. Seems like we must have gotten out respectively around the same time. I took a bit of time to enjoy my old bed before I decided to drive.’

I wasn’t sure if he meant something by this – can’t trust anyone in a wasteland, and the wholesome family-man routine made me nervous.

‘You mentioned a family? Where are they now?’ I asked. Something about the driver’s story sparked some pity in me, pity directed towards the man on deaths door. Unfortunately, paranoia seems to overpower pity.

‘They didn’t make it. I didn’t understand why medication wasn’t working. Painkillers can only do so much to combat residual rays the malform the cells, but it was all we could think of to make life a shred easier. And like you said, I did what I had to do, eventually.’

I wanted to ask more, but I could hardly find a response to something that I responded to with such an uneasy feeling. Instead, I nodded in the driver’s direction – a mutual understanding; no gun required.

I used to miss the green leaves turning brown in the autumn months. The surrounding woods were raised above us atop another vertical bank, this time on solid earth, we left the marshes around an hour ago. Driving into the nearest town by the beach, a small fishing town that looks like it could’ve been an interesting place to live before the bombs fell. Enough space to move around but too much rubble to be inhabitable any longer. Apparently, the driver was certain this was the quickest way to the North – the tip off to venture to Liverpool came from the intermittent broadcasts that found their way onto the radio. Not distress beacons, more a call to safety. In truth, we couldn’t make out every word of the transmission but the idea that this city was relatively radiation-free was enough to give two vagrants something to do.

We hadn’t spoken for a few hours now – the silence hung thick like the pungent smell that took this man’s family. I thought.

Far away from the countryside now, our travels had led us to Milton Keynes – now the remnants of an outer-city of the Capital, one I had often stopped in on travels, before the bombs dropped, for fast food and a stretch. Usually, a Big Mac and the walk to the WC would suffice. Still patiently waiting the right time, not sure how much longer it would be until we had to refuel. The dash says half-empty – plenty of time to make sure I don’t brutally commandeer a sinking ship. As I moved my gaze away from the lights above the steering wheel, they were drawn back in the same direction but lower. Meeting the familiar footwear that had been connected to my legs this entire journey. White Reeboks and Mr Men socks, mine had Mr Forgetful sewed on, his: Mr Bump fitting.

The driver’s attire was far more vibrant than my own, with less mud stains, but they were identical, and it gave me the impression that my new friend might not be who they claim. Do I know them? Driving along an empty motorway now, there would be no room for error should I have to back down – the Mondeo would chase me down – can’t jump off a bridge to solid ground and expect to keep running. Before I took my chance, I had to press about the footwear. For peace of mind!

‘Cool shoes,’ I told the driver, who glanced over.

‘Thanks, looks like we have a similar taste, Nick.’

‘What did you call me?’

‘Nick. I know who you are.’

I was starting to sweat. ‘How? From where?’

‘We lived in the same bunker, we lived in adjacent pods down there. We had the same TV, probably a similar room layout and the paintings from the same boot-sale.’

A neighbour down below, the driver had spun a tale to test my faculties. Paranoid of losing their way of life to outsiders; doomed and desperate in the waste. If any existed. It was surreal to meet another from twenty feet underground.

‘So, you’re a liar?’ I responded eventually.

‘Maybe you’re a liar too.’ He paused and I froze. ‘We all knew what we were getting into, we all knew the door wasn’t secure for a reason. We were low enough to not need any reinforcement, you must have known you could leave but you’re too much of a risk to let go. If you hadn’t blurted out everything about us, I wouldn’t have to do this.’ He reached to his left hip with his right hand.

‘What do you …’

The dwellers words were silence by the echoing barrel, hurtling a small calibre bullet between their eyes. Pulling up at the side of the motorway – an empty dual-carriageway, forgotten by time – growing vegetation with deer and rabbits chewing on mushrooms in parked cars. It appeared as if the nuclear winter had fallen, nature itching to reclaim the wasteland before being tarnished further by asphalt and tar.

The Mondeo pulled away as the Dwellers remains fell into the lake below.

In the Stones

1

A breeze seemed to drag gentle waves gracefully over the pebbled shore. Pebbles with easily endless combinations of patterns, chips, and holes, stacked up in mounds to meet the waves at a steady incline. An overcast sky loomed over the seafront; a white sun beaming through the thick clouds and the local towns inhabitants – few and far between – went about their afternoons on a sombre, sunless beach. A few families taking a stroll to forget the stress at home for just a moment, the odd fisherman: leaving his woes aside, probably thinking about dinner or how to find the pleasure in life’s pain. One person, walking a Bulldog-pup wearing a plain black collar on a blue leash, trudges along the shore through the odd specs of sand that patch the point where pebble meets the ocean. While their mind drifted to the same looping thoughts that haunted them almost daily, they tried to focus on their canine friend, it worked. For a minute.

Stopping to breathe, the individual almost trips on their last step, almost tripping over a strange stone. Not the largest of stones – maybe five inches in height, length and girth. Noticeable from first glance, the symmetry of the objects rounded-oval shape was almost too perfect. It wasn’t quite man-made. But it did have a certain unnatural quality to it, almost glowing with a surreal presence that caused the dog walker to fixate on the object with an instant obsession. He grabbed the pebble, noticing the red dot marked in the centre and staring in awe for a moment or two before dropping it into the pocket of his Peggs & Sons coat – a store in Brighton to which he was a frequent buyer. Every third Thursday to be exact. His role as a chef appeared to be one of stoic frustration, too skilled to be a porter; too young to be a head chef, yet his time on the pass had been extensive but his time on Earth hadn’t the same extent to allow him to man the ship. But he could do it in his sleep.

Roughly a year had passed and the stone had remained in his possession, the energy he felt with the item in his drawer was too powerful to let pass to another. Rarely did he think about it, but it was forced into his mind when he moved out of his father’s house, following his own path as opposed to the one that most seemed to take at the age of eighteen. Most would take the long walk down the road to university and most would fall into the ditch on the hard shoulder, you might know the one. One of pathological despair and inhuman substance abuse, getting deeper and deeper until it was too late to clean up the mess and awake from the living nightmare. But this guy was a few steps ahead, waking himself up from the childish nightmare when he was still just that – a child. And now, he was leaving home a complete man, capable of supporting and adoring another human being or two a little ways further down the road.

As they were saying farewell to the man that taught him everything, not a goodbye forever, just for the week until they returned for a family dinner, couple placed the stone on the driveway out the front of their house. Their reason? They had shared its joy and thought it time to send the energy in another’s direction.

2

Walking by the previous home of the useful chef, walked a tall man with a big mouth, a couple skull rings on his finger and a ‘Full Send’ tattoo on the back of his calf. He had moved to this small city from Whales with his long-time best friend, standing at similar heights and thinking similar thoughts, the pair had grown close over the years, so close that all who visited their lair would make a similar remark. ‘It’s like hanging out with my grandparents.’ A humorous observation on the surface but dig a little deeper and you’ll find nothing but unconditional love and admiration to then end. Just like hanging out with your grandparents. The boys were making their way home from work, sipping pints of carbonated alcohol after a long day of serving customers the same fizzy dribble they walked with. Strolling by the dog walking chef’s family home, they felt an alluring aura from the driveway. A grasping force reared them in, leaving them standing in awe at the marvel of compressed carbon that lay among fractured pavements. They too collected the object and began to notice their lives travel the road they had dreamed of for some time now. Each earned a promotion within a few days of the stone entering their assets, the tattooed loud mouth made head chef at the nightclub he had been washing dishes at, and his other half was no longer running drinks and food, he moved onto the bar – a twelve meter stretch of wood designed to pump pints of beer and a dash of line cleaner into the plastic pollution devices that would eventually make their way into the already poisoned Brighton beach. He found himself pouring fizzy dribble and chatting to impatient boozers drifting through the summer in an alcoholic daze, patiently awaiting the end of the summer when he and his other half would move up north for yet another fresh start, closer to home and farther from the sea.

Their soon to be housemate, one they had previously lived with during the first year of their studies, found himself sat on a bench at the bottom of the road of his house on the hill. Sucking a fruity flavoured vape bar that probably caused more harm than nicotine, certainly more addictive to say the least. The guy was borderline psychotic but had somewhat of a handle on himself, enough to still walk the streets freely at least. He had had an urge to sit at that bench – a raging hangover of a night of mischief and dissociative rambles, creeping out a workmate quicker than either of them could notice. The bench was often a good place to hide from yourself, the main road meant there were many people around to focus on, people who weren’t anyone you could push away through fixation. It was a shame too, there really was a click.

But no one wants a compulsive liar, let alone one with a precedent of unwanted gift giving and burning urges to obliterate mess. People make their own beds, let them lay in them.

Let them pull themselves out. The universe has a way of pulling you sometimes, don’t you think? It has a repetitive habit of forcing you to gravitate to the ones that care, and it’s often harder to ignore the pull than to follow or you could say it makes life harder when ignored, it’s just harder to see in foresight than hind.

Different reasons had brought the Welsh pair to that bench – one needed a shower and the other had to complete the walk of shame. Call it fate, call it design. Call it anything but you can’t say it wasn’t strange. The trio decided to make the best of the situation, taking themselves on long walk along the same paths they had trod for nearly three years by now. It’s almost a downer to think about, but it’ll often light a fire under you. Once you recognise monotony you have two choices: ride it out into oblivion or shake it up to heaven.

They couldn’t afford a ticket to heaven, but Manchester felt manageable.

The first house they had dwelled in their first year of fruitless studies was situated opposite a relaxing dive, The Swap. Given it was directly opposite their home, they would often consider rising from the scabies-ridden sofas, turn off Rick and Morty or Joe Rogan and sit with a fizzy cup of dribble or twelve. Like most things the cataclysmically stoned aim to do, they never did. They did, however agree to leave the concentrated carbon with the red chalk dot that hadn’t faded after months of it being in their possession, one of them had even put it through the washing machine, only to find the chalk dot still in place.

Apparently!

As the trio left Brighton, unsure if they would ever see these roads again, they made damn sure to leave this stone outside their abode that never felt like home but will always be remembered for the friendship that sprouted like a rose through mould.

3

Unfortunately for our trio, the most obvious break in the chain had hidden in plain sight. Masked by false notions of self-growth and development, taking shape in the form of fruit and yoga. This guy was demonic for years and he had left it far too late to exercise his demons, instead, he fed them. Letting them fester and grow in the back of his mind. It’s not the overt demons one should pay mind too – the only ones they will destroy are themselves – it’s the evil that contains itself and contains it well, they’re the dangerous ones. They’re the ones to worry about.

It had been weeks since the house had seen him. Not an uncommon scenario – the recluse spent most days locked away in his tower (more quasi modo, less Rapunzel) so it was sometime before suspicions began to light up a red flag, especially with the number of green flags lit up in that house. Having to switch flag salesmen would sometimes come with the price of paranoia, a price often paid by the residents of that house but while this feeling was familiar, it felt different.

Something wasn’t right.

Upon inspecting the basket that contained this particular case, the trio were pleasantly surprised to find a note, slightly scattered but he was just that at all times – slightly