The Truth About Michael Mallory

The Truth about Michael Mallory
By Davin Kimble

Michael Mallory seemed to everyone a perfectly normal human being, as far as human beings can be normal. He was a man of average height and countenance, one hundred and seventy pounds, or so, with the pale skin and bright eyes of his Irish ancestry. A rather un-offensive type in every way, Michael did not fit the stereotype of his Irish brethren. He was not a brawler or drunkard, he did not abuse his wife and kids, and he was not a man who hopped beds like a common street whore. Michael Mallory was a respected Photo Journalist. His one vice was a cigarette now and again and his one social setback was the constant aggravation he felt, usually caused by other people.


Aggravation was how Michael Mallory labeled the problems that arose in his life, as aggravations to be put down like lame horses. Moreover, Michael’s current aggravation had him burning like a reenactment of the Vesuvius disaster. He was being forced to give up his job at the Times-Herald-Workmen and move on to other pastures. The T.H.W., as insiders called it, was a small town paper fully ten pages long on Sundays when there was a page or two of church announcements and upcoming events to print. Michael had worked there for almost twenty years and he liked it just fine. Taking photos of the local football team as they whipped the big boys from the next county, or snapping shots of the latest newly wed couple suited him just fine. None of the big-city-fast-paced-car-crash work for him, slow and predictable was how Michael Mallory liked it. It came as a shock to the general populace of Dublin when Michael Mallory announced that he was moving on to a much more crowded metropolis.

“Yes-sir,” he had proclaimed to his replacement, “on my way and off to snap shots of grander happenings.”

“But Mr. Mallory,” the new photographer had wined, “you seem to love it here.”

Michael despised whining and felt a further kindling of the already raging fire inside him at the thought of this fruitcake young sissy taking over his job. All prettified and clean-shaven like some Stanford bum with not a hint of manliness on his girlish frame. Michael decided to cut the conversation short.

“Don’t you have other things you need to be doing?” He asked the girl-boy.

“Not really. I don’t-“

“Like, taking pictures or something.” Michael said pointedly.

“Oh, yes of course, I understand completely.” The kid said startled.

“Of course, I am sure you do.” Michael said to the boy-girls back as he shuffled off.

Turning back to the job of cleaning out his desk Michael began to think about the place he had been called away to. He did not at all wish to go and for many long years had avoided it all together, strengthening his place here hoping that this time would never come. He knew that it was inevitable but denial was one human trait Michael had never lost. The time had come and he was to be off this very evening, the time granted him to put his affairs in order had been short but adequate; there was no sense in prolonging things any longer. Either Michael would go of his own will or they would come to get him. That was one horror Michael did not want to place upon the souls of his friends in this town. With only one last glance around the room that Michael had called his office, he hefted his box of belongings and left forever.


Delancy Purdue had been born the grandson of one of Dublin’s wealthiest men Celephias Purdue. The Purdue family had run a championship Thoroughbred breeding farm in Dublin for generations. They had been known to consistently produce world-class runners. People from all over the world came to buy Purdue stock and would pay the most extravagant prices for un-born colts. When Delancy had been born his grand father was well pleased. He had yet one more male heir to train and groom as he had all of his own sons, and every one of them had turned out to be championship stock. Therefore, it was not only a shock but also a major problem in the Purdue household when Delancy Celephias Purdue decided he wanted to be a journalist.

“You want to do WHAT?” His father bellowed at him.

“Become a journalist dad, a photojournalist.” Delancy had replied hopeful, and then quickly added, “I could maybe work for National Geographic or something.”

“A journalist,” his father said the word as if tasting it and wishing he could spit it out. “A fool, I have raised a fool”

“No dad,” Delanco began plunging right ahead, “You raised a future Pulitzer prize winning journalist.”

“No I did not!” His father exploded charging him, “I did NOT raise some pussy photojournalist! You WILL be a shrewd businessman like me and the other men in our family. No questions no negotiations!”

When Delancy went off to college he had obediently signed up for the required business classes and faithfully followed his fathers’ orders. In his junior year, however, Delancy met a pretty journalism major that introduced him to the joys of photography, not to mention the joys of a woman’s flesh, and he immediately changed his major to that which his heart desired, photo journalism and one pretty co-ed. He succeeded in hiding this deception from his family successfully for the remainder of his college career. When graduation time came around the bubble burst and all Pandora’s toxins ran rampage over Delancy Purdue. He was summarily disowned from the family and forbidden from contacting any of them in any way. Instead of receiving a brand new luxury coupe and a very large trust, he was thrown out onto the streets to live or die as he chose.

That is how Delancy Purdue the Grandson of one of Dublin’s wealthiest men ended up as an errand boy at the Times-Herald-Workmen. Of course he had a great title and good pay, no one wanted to take a chance in pissing off the Purdue family, even an outcast, but he was little more than an errand boy for the papers real photo journalist Michael Mallory. For Delancy it was a glorious day indeed when Michael announced his resignation from the papers small staff. Finally his day had come and Delancy could begin his career as a great photojournalist. It was a given that he would succeed, he was a Purdue after all.

Delancy knew what people in this town thought of him and he hated them for it, he also planned to one day make them all sorry for their thoughts regarding the grand-son of one of this mud hole towns wealthiest men. He did not know if he hated the fact that people thought him to be a pansy more, or the fact that they all thought his mind was lacking a few important screws. Delancy Celephias Purdue was by no means a dumb ass, or so he liked to tell himself, and today would mark the end of any nonsense amongst these bumpkins. He would show them what kind of man he was and brook no argument. He walked into the news desk after lunch that afternoon and announced to his publisher Harold, and everyone else within earshot, that he was going to Michael Mallory’s home.

“Don’t think that is such a good idea son.” His Publisher told him, “Michael is a private man and doesn’t like uninvited guest.”

“Well I borrowed a lens from him awhile ago and I wanted to return it before he left town.” Delanco said.

“Uh, don’t you think he would have asked for it by now if he really needed it? You borrowed it 90 days ago.”

“Maybe it slipped his mind.” Delancy said, “The man is getting old and out of sorts.”

“Really?” Harold sneered.

“Yes,” Delancy said confidently, “I think so. Do you know what he said to me this morning?”

“I could guess. You run along Danny Boy, deliver that prize lens.”

“I will and the names Delancy.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Harold said walking away shaking his large shaggy head.

Little did Delancy Purdue know, as he walked from that office, that there would be many a wagging head at the thought of his fate after crossing the threshold of Michael Mallory’s home.


The house itself, for all appearances was by no means remarkable, a Sears sided tract home similar to any other within a ten block radius. The only obvious difference was the dull orange siding protecting the outer walls. Delancy marveled at this phenomenon as he stood on the sidewalk outside his vehicle. It was odd enough that siding would even be manufactured in that color; but that someone would pay money to have it put on their home was flabbergasting to say the absolute least. Delancy thought he had surely made a mistake and had stopped at the wrong house. Michael Mallory had always struck Delancy as a man with impeccable taste and someone who would choose orange siding had to be a nut. Delancy looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. 1669 W. Market Rd., this was the correct road. He then looked around at the house numbers near by, they were all clearly marked on the house fronts for easy identification by emergency personnel, and after long, careful deliberation decided that this was indeed the place.

Resigned to prove his prowess Delancy sighed and headed up the walk. Aside from an occasional crack in the pavement with an odd weed or blade of grass poking through, the front of the home seemed reasonably well tended. Delancy vaguely remembered seeing a neighborhood boy here mowing one Saturday afternoon when he’d been in the area selling Kirby vacuums, a short lived profession between college and the THW. Many times he had walked toward a home, on a walkway similar to this one, toting a 100 pound vacuum and an extra twenty-five pounds of attachments, accessories, and order forms. This walk had the same feel, only this time toting a single pound of camera lens, not for sale, but for respect.

That was all Delancy Purdue wanted from the people in this backward back wood, a little respect. The type of respect he thought due to a man who had the courage to give up all his families’ wealth and prestige in order to chase his own life’s dreams. Did any of these people realize that had he chosen to do so Delancy could be running their existence from behind the scenes? He could easily be making their laws, setting their wages, giving or taking at will all through the power of the green god Mammon. And the way Delancy figured it, if he could gain respect from the most respected man in town the others would have no choice but to fall into line, regardless of whether the man lived in town or not. Maybe Michael would send a thank you note; Delancy thought that would top it off for sure even if the crooked old coot would be gone for good.

“I’ll put it on my desk. Then let’s see them doubt me.”

Realizing he had spoken aloud Delancy glanced self-consciously around to see if anybody had heard. At the end of the walk an old woman stood staring at him. She held the lead of a thick chain leash and attached to the other end was the biggest, meanest dog Delancy had ever laid his beady myopic eyes on. The dog actually may have been a big teddy bear for all Delancy knew but he had never been the best friend of any dog and to him they were all the descendents of Cerberus. His first thought was that the old lady would surely sic the monster on him if he so much as moved in her direction; he took a step back and almost fell up the steps to the porch. Recovering himself he only stared back at the old woman thinking that the dog would surely accost the old broad one night and swallow her whole. The dog growled low in its throat and Delancy turned to ring the door bell looking for the safety of the interior.

“I wouldn’t do that were I you.” The old woman’s voice came into Delancy’s ears as a whisper almost as if she was standing right beside him when she spoke. Delancy spun around and found the old lady still standing at the end of the walk. Her dog was straining so hard at the end of the leash that he stood straight up on his hind legs, his teeth bared in a skeletal grin that low growl rumbling in his throat like some sort of badly tuned engine. With the massive size and obvious strength of the beast the woman should have been un-able to keep it from tearing his throat out, but her muscles didn’t even strain with the effort of holding the big animal back.

“Ah, what do you know about it old bag?” Delancy said under his breath, regaining some of his composure but still a little shaken by the sight of the big dog.

“I know I would leave that old house to its peace were I you.”


Delancy was certain that she could not have heard him speak; hell he had barely spoken at all. Yet her brittle, dried old lady voice came back to him in that same soft whisper. He stared at her and her still straining dog and worked his tongue over his teeth. She simply could not have heard me, he thought, I had to have imagined her response. It was only a murmur of the wind or that same wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Or maybe it was just my own mind a little jumpy about the dog and imagining things, surely that and nothing more. As he turned back away from the old woman it struck him funny how much like Ebenezer Scrooge he sounded just then denouncing the hallucinating effects of under cooked potatoes.

Delancy turned from the woman again, unconsciously wiping sweat off his brow, and rang the bell. Hearing no chime from within, he rang it again with a little more force and glanced over his shoulder at the old lady. He was surprised to find the old woman to be gone, completely she was no where to be seen on the street. Delancy walked a little way down the walk in order to get a better view of the block and could not see the lady any where.

“Not only is she super strong but she is faster than a speeding bullet too.” Delancy said to himself.

“I’d be gone of this place were I you! I’d leave it to its peace!” This time the woman’s voice was loud, unnaturally so. The force with which it slammed into his ear drums was mind numbing. Delancy staggered backwards and whirled on his heels toward the house, his hands flying up to cover his ears. He saw the woman’s dog rocketing towards him its lean powerful body pushing it down the walk with little effort but with a focused, deadly purpose. Delancy’s hands left his ears and went out in front of his face in a defensive motion. In his effort to get further away from the dogs attack Delancy fell backwards onto his ass snapping his teeth together with jarring impact and rolling heels over head. Immediately he leapt up looking to take flight and try to avoid the mauling he was surely going to receive should he remain here. He turned around looking for his assailant, the old lady, something to tell him that he wasn’t going crazy in front of Michael Mallory’s home in the middle of small town America. He saw only the old woman at the far corner crossing the street with her dog firmly chained. Delancy looked after her for a moment and regained his composure. He took a deep breath and dusted himself off, then turned back toward the house.

“Let it be.” He heard the old woman’s voice in his head again and whirled towards where he had last seen her expecting to see the dog charging up the block after the throat he had so narrowly missed, there was nothing. He turned again for the house and ran up to the porch.

“Michael, Michael Mallory?!” Delancy shouted raising his fist and pounding the door.

With the first blow the door swung open on its hinges so quickly that it slammed back in Delancy’s face with a bang. Taking a firm hold on the door knob Delancy turned it and opened the door and knocked on the jamb.

“Mr. Mallory?” He called into the darkness beyond the cone of light falling through the open doorway. “Mr. Mallory it’s Delancy Purdue. I am here to return your camera lens sir. “

Upon entering the home of Michael Mallory the first thing Delancy noticed was its state of apparent disuse and decay. The floor boards were worn and rotting away, and in the places where they were covered by rugs sagging from water damage and mildew. The few items of furniture that were in the house were all covered by drop cloths and these in turn were covered in thick layers of dust. The afternoon sun had dimmed to a gray haze as it struggled to shine through panes of glass covered in thick layers of dirt and grime, and to fight off the shadows that had come to call this place home. Oddly enough there was not one single spider web that Delancy could see. This place should be covered in cobwebs spiders were simply not known to pass up such great accommodations, but there was not a single strand.

“Great to see that somebody cleans up something around this place” Delancy said as he stepped across the thresh hold, “Could use a maid though.”

Once inside Delancy stopped to allow his eyes to adjust to the age created twilight. Once comfortable that he wouldn’t bang his shin on any low table or knock over an expensive lamp Delancy turned to close the door. His shock at finding it already closed and securely latched was minimal at first. When he reached for the knob, however, and found it also locked his ire raised a notch. It seemed that this door would only be opened if it were first unlocked with a key.

“Damned it all,” Delancy said under his breath, “this is getting to be more trouble than it is worth.” For the second time in only a few minutes the cold finger of fear was working its way up his spine and tickling his neck. This was getting to be more trouble than it was worth and the warnings of his publisher and the old super hero lady were beginning to make sense to him. Unfortunately Delancy was already in further than he thought he would ever have to really get. He began to make his way towards the back of the house his foot steps and the motion of his passage combined to create a thick cloud of dust in his wake. Delancy headed for the back hall shouting for Michael Mallory.

“Michael? I have come to return your camera lens.” Delancy held the lens out in front of him like an offering to a notoriously angry god.

“Go away from this place. Leave this old house be.” The voice of Michael Mallory stopped Delancy dead in his tracks. Not because it came from directly behind him where it could not have been only moments ago, or even that that voice wafted across his neck in an icy breath that chilled him to the bones. It was the quality of that voice that froze Delancy and caused his slight fear to blossom into unbridled terror. He held the lens tight enough to cause a hairline fracture to run along the glass like a rat scurrying for the safety of a dark corner. Delancy opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for a life giving breath that can be seen but not reached from the bank of a rocky river.

The voice that had answered his call was as dry and dusty as this old house. It had a rasp to it that sounded like it came from the throat of someone who had just swallowed sand. It sounded to Delancy’s ears like a Hollywood rendition of the mummy’s voice only all the more realistic because that cold dead sound had been in Delancy’s ears. Up close and in person. Delancy felt that the owner of that voice was not just speaking from the screen of a horror movie but was instead standing directly behind him, strips of rotted, dried flesh hanging from its bones like so many dirty rags.

At the thought of turning around to face this supposed monster Delancy Purdue’s body rebelled. His balls sack shriveled up and retracted into his gut creating a small cold lump in his lower belly. His shoulders tensed and rounded, and his hands balled into fists, the camera lens cracked and fell away in pieces at his feet. He ground his teeth together painfully and strangely enough his nose began to bleed. His mind began to run through visions of violent death at the hands of an imagined demon direct from the pits of his own imagined hell. Those thoughts got his feet in motion. They both felt as if they had been set in concrete but the speed with witch Delancy Purdue fled down the hall was almost supernatural. He blazed past doors on each side of him never noticing their presence or noting the things that watched him pass and reached out to his warm living flesh. In the course of his passage he knocked over an antique telephone desk splintering it, the collision almost sent him sprawling to the floor but maybe it was some sense of what awaited him should he fall that helped him keep his footing, maybe it was some forgotten athletic ability. Whatever it was it was a thing that only delayed the inevitable.

At the end of the hall was a single wooden door. It was the only one along the corridor that was closed and the only one Delancy even noticed. It appeared to him to be a beacon in a place of darkness and impending death. That door in the few seconds it took to reach it seemed to Delancy an un-reachable savior, the one thing that could save his mind, his soul, and his life from certain damnation. The feel of the knob in his hand was like that of the first breast he had ever touched, it felt like a precious jewel to be cherished and savored. The thought gave him an erection and he breathed a sigh of relief when the knob turned easily in his hand. Feeling sure of his escape, Delancy turned and looked over his shoulder at the interior of the house. The hall behind him was filled floor to ceiling with large worm like creatures. Each was at least six feet long and pulled itself along the floor or the backs of its brother with long black tentacles. None had a single eye with which to see Delancy yet they pulled themselves along toward him as unerringly as if he were lit by powerful halogen lamps. None had a mouth that Delancy could see but he was sure that they would devour him as surely as if they had mouths full of razor sharp teeth.

The sight of them caused Delancy to loose control of his bodily functions and the stench of human waste wafted up to his nostrils. The feeling of his own feces felt like something was crawling along his leg, something with black tentacles and a warm alien body. As they caught the scent of his fear the creatures began to move faster. This again galvanized Delancy into motion. He opened the door and flung himself through.



This is the tale as I know it from speaking to the town’s people in that small burg in north Texas. They all told me about the same thing, Michael Mallory was a well respected, even loved man, and Delancy Purdue was a loony who ended up where he and his whole family belonged. I think that the people of that town knew what I later found out and what Delancy had no clue of. Michael Mallory was a fugitive of sorts, a man hunted by beings that could be known as demons, or devils, beings who worked their wickedry not in the land of the living but amongst the dead. These are the Lurkers at the Threshold, the Dwellers between the Angles, The Hounds of Tindalos and they will mark you and bring you down for they are ever hungry for your soul.

When Delancy Purdue crossed that threshold his way of seeing the world was forever changed. He had heard before of the places that lie between our world and others, places of unspeakable evils and horrors that defied description. The first thing that Delancy found out was that these places were only unspeakable because to speak aloud of such things and believe in them would surely make a man crazy. The horrors there only defied description because the mind of a rational man could not bring itself to place such things in perspective on such a descriptive medium. Delancy Purdue was not a rational man and he did not go crazy seeing what he saw in that place. He spoke the truth when he told his tale and the things he described therein are real.

Here then is the account of Delancy Purdue…



There in the middle of the room stood Michael Mallory. I know it was him, I know it even though he had to be forty years younger standing there. They say I am crazy for saying the things I have said yet I know them to be the truth…Oh Dear God help me! I know them to be reality… Does not man judge his reality by what he can perceive with his own sense? Can not a man see and believe… (Here the account becomes a little muddy, I think Delancy goes on a Religious and scientific diatribe all at once. ED.) I saw there the old woman from the street. She was the same but different. As she stood there in her summer dress I could perceive strange motions coming from underneath. It was as if she wore an undergarment made of living serpents. They curled around her in a faithful embrace and only once in a while struck out at the fabric confining them as if trying to strike Michael and bring him his death. She stood there in front of Michael swaying in a sort of strange rhythm, her hands and head dangling as the weight of them were too much to bear. I heard then her voice, that strange voice that seemed a lovers whisper in your ear, that noise you know you should not be hearing at all. And in reply to her I heard Michaels voice, but not the voice of the mean old bastard at the paper, instead it was the voice of the mummy who had haunted me in that house. They spoke a language which I did not understand, the very sound of it hurt my ears and I cried out for it to stop. They heard me scream, both of them. She turned toward me but Michael stared past her at the closet door that was opening behind her. The next events happened almost all at once and were so overwhelming that I don’t know how to put them all down here. The old woman was the same as I said, but when she turned towards me I saw in her the dog that had attacked me on the walk outside. Its head sprouted up from her shoulder like some gross tumor that had chewed its way out of her body. The eyes in its head were the same eyes that once lived in the old woman’s face but now stared out at me with an odd feral intelligence. The woman’s face was empty of anything at all. Nothing but a thin sheet of skin stretched over bone and cartilage her mouth became a death-head, laughing at the plight of the living, one day we would all be dead and in that death this horror our only companion. She spoke to me in that whispering voice a language that could have only been born in Hell, this time the words did not thrust me into torment but instead sent me into the deepest, darkest corner of my fear there to cower and await my last breaths. I would rather have followed Michael Mallory into that place than to have seen my own hell first hand. Michael Mallory? That closet door opened behind that old woman and out came a tangible darkness like an oil spill spreading over the Atlantic coast. That blackness carried with it an odor like an uncovered mass grave where many of the dead lived on and shat, and vomited, and ate those who were too week to eat them. (that is the vision I had from that darkness, and that smell). And the screams, it also brought the screaming that started that day in my head and has not stopped one second since. Like a beacon to them the screaming continues in my head and by it they have marked me and when my time comes they will find me by it and take me away with them. To where Michael went into that closet with that woman. She turned from me then, the darkness from that closet fondling her like a teenage lover, opening her dress to expose the most beautiful breast I have ever seen, lifting her skirt and entering itself into her pussy with a savage lust. She leaned into it giving herself to it enjoying the touch, savoring it. Her belly began to ripple and twist, it burst open and all these tentacles, like the ones on the creatures in the hall came bursting out of her. They wrapped them selves around Michael Mallory and crushed a scream out of him. I could hear his bones breaking and grinding against one another. His eyes popped and ran down his cheeks like grape jelly, he bit his own tongue off and left it laying there on the floor. The darkness from that closet pulled them both inside slowly as if willing me to see everything, I was to bear witness to its power, understand and bring it all back to you. Michael Mallory was the last to vanish into that blackness, but, before he disappeared into its depths and that door closed, he looked at me. It was not the face of Michael Mallory that I saw then. It was my father.
The End
D. L. Kimble
Saturday, March 09, 2002

© Davin Kimble
2002