Tamboroke--Brandon

About three months ago, while I travelled to visit some relatives, my car broke down as I was passing through a small village named Tamboroke in South Carolina. The village was extremely run-down: all of the buildings were stained with rainwater and the signs on the shops were barely hanging on. There was also a strange and strong smell of formaldehyde, as if I was standing inside a pyramid in ancient Egypt. There was something else about this village as I walked through… Something that made me feel as if I stood next to a great God or Goddess, but no beautiful goddess like Isis. No. This was something far more sinister and beyond my comprehension.

After searching for a few minutes, I found an auto repair shop. Moby’s Repair Shop. Compared to the rest of the village, the garage was in good condition. I walked up to whom I now presume to be Moby. He was a shifty, rat-like man, with spectacles topping his long, crooked nose. One would imagine him to be a car salesman over a car repairman. “What do ya need help with?” he asked before I could get a word in. “My ‘78 Honda Prelude broke down about half a mile from here. I think something is wrong with carburetor.” I replied. Something did not feel right while I talked to Moby and his obviously fake smile. Regrettably, I shook the feeling off and carried about the conversation. “Do you know if there is somewhere I can stay the night while you fix my car?”

“There is a Motel 6 down the road. I can holler at you when the car’s done. I can’t promise when it’ll be done but I think it should be good to go in a couple of days.”

I nodded and adjourned to the motel as the sun started to set behind the trees encompassing the village. I settled into the room and started to drift to sleep in the hard and uncomforting bed. In the other room next to mine, I heard rhythmic thumping. It went thump, thump thump, thump thump thump in that repeated pattern. I thought at first that it was the neighbor doing his laundry. Even if it was not, I did not want to be rude and stop a local resident from doing God knows what. That night I dreamt of the most horrendous nightmares that anyone could dream of. Half of it I could not even comprehend but one image stood out to me; A hooded figure the size of a planet, donned in a deep purple robe and tentacles spewing from the bottom of the void hood where a face should be, whispered inconceivable words into my head.

The next morning I woke up in a cold sweat, shaken by the terrifying nightmare, trying to make sense of the ungodly whispers forced into my mind. After pondering, I went to the local diner to eat some breakfast. Similar to the appearance on the outside, the inside felt completely abandoned; no one dined except for me. The solitude waitress wore a fake smile, similar to Moby’s but with a more sinister intention. After the awkward meal, the day went on without much importance. While I drowsed, the absurd pattern started yet again. Thump, thump thump, thump thump thump. It was worse that night, though; it got louder and louder. It felt as if my neighbor was banging against the inside of my skull. I could not sleep with the incessant banging. So, I left my bed of springs and went to the neighbor’s door.

I tapped the door with the ends of my fingers as to not disturb any of the neighbors, but that light tapping transitioned into a hard knock. No one answered the door, yet the thumping did not stop. In fact, it grew louder; I did not know whether it was coming from my mind or my neighbor’s room. I tried the doorknob and to my luck, it was unlocked. I traipsed into the formaldehyde smelling room as the thumps turned to thunder. There I saw a scrawny man sitting on a chair, tapping the armrest in sync with the booming sounds. I yelled at him to stop but he ignored my presence. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of clutching the man’s arm. Although the thumps stopped, they became the violent whispers that I cannot shed the memory of, no matter how hard I try. My vision faded to white as the whispers possessed my body and before I lapsed, the last image that burns my memory is that of the man. His decomposing head tilted back behind the chair in an inhuman matter while the tentacles from my nightmare spewed from the lipless mouth.

I awoke in a ditch off the side of the road near the border of North Carolina beside my intact Prelude. Dazed and confused, I continued my journey to my relatives. Not knowing whether or not this was all a dream, I decided to go back to Tamboroke on my way home. While travelling home from my relatives, and all later travels, I could never find Tamboroke despite seeing its location on my Atlas. I think I am starting to understand what those ominous whispers meant...