Post by Cuckoo on Jul 3, 2010 9:11:09 GMT
One of my storys in progress. It's lovecraftian horror, but it's easy enough to grasp without having read anymore into the genre. The first couple of chapters aren't as frightening as the last one- which is still a work in progress. I'm not especially pleased with the course of this story, but practise is always needed to improve.
Chapter one: An Invitation
It has been more than three months since I awoke from intensive care in the Brentwood Community Hospital, but I can still find no peace in the everyday pleasures that once contented me. I am still under close observation by psychiatrists, physiotherapists, and the odd police officer or two. I understand my condition has improved, marked only by an acute case of hydrophobia. I am still not allowed far beyond the hospital walls, however as no doubt they expect me to flee their care, and go gallivanting off on another frantic search for my papers; lost in the woods around the Ingatestone parts. More likely than that, they expect me to reattempt my demolition of the closed and abandoned Riverside ice and leisure centre and, perhaps, they would be right. I could not have expected them to understand my intentions when I begged them to destroy that damned building, to cancel any and all investigations into the disappearance of my dear friend and colleague Andrew Whittaker and, above all, burn my papers which- I pray to god- are still scattered somewhere in the woods. None of them would heed my words, which is why it is indeed my plan to revisit that accursed building and level it to the ground myself. I have a friend who owes me a favour; I know he can procure me the necessary explosives. I may indeed have to kill any policeman or the like who attempts to stop me, and for this I am sorry. But I alone know exactly what manner of creature still dwells in the darkened, deserted pools of that establishment’s heart, and I alone must ensure it does not live to kill again.
I recall it was raining that night, four months ago, when I begrudgingly crossed the deserted courtyard towards the library of the Anglo European school. The night had fallen earlier than usual, and the rain thundered down on the gravel like damp bullets. I removed my hat when I entered the building, but continued to shiver as I made two rights and clumsily pushed open the door to the library. The walls were colourfully adorned with this art project, and that technology design, as provided by the children of the lower school. The room was well lit, and I was not surprise to find the room mostly deserted- the school hours had ended a half hour ago, and the only remaining occupants were sixth formers and the occasional child finishing their homework among the books. The librarian scowled as I dripped water onto the carpet, but I nodded an apology as I hurried past her to find Andrew. The librarian rolled her eyes and returned to her work, as I trotted past the rows of computers to find him.
“James!” I heard him call, and turned to see him beckoning me toward a table by the window. It was sheltered on one side by a tall bookcase of tomes of the paranormal, and I momentarily smirked at his choice of positioning. I slumped into the chair opposite him and placed my hat on the table. Andrew certainly had a look of excitement on his well-rounded face, despite the drenched state of his mid-length, brown hair. His dark green eyes were ablaze with purpose, and I adjusted myself into a comfortable position. He certainly seemed to have something important to say.
Andrew hunched over the table, with his hands laid on his book bag. He spoke quietly, but with infinite enthusiasm.
“James, I have just been on the phone with one of my contacts. I may be able to get us some crucial time with one of the books we’ve been looking for.” I raised my eyebrows. It is true that our independent searches into the occult had ground to a halt since the aging Dr Dexter demanded we return his copy of Francois-Honore Balfour’s rare Cultes des Goules to his home in Providence, Rhode Island. I have to admit, I was as interested as Andrew was to forward our studies in this most interesting of fields. I inquired,
“Which book in particular are we talking about?” At this, Andrew’s lip curled into a type of bemused smile he was well known among our group for making. He answered in a hushed voice, soaked in excitement and determination.
“The Necronomicon.” At this, I actually dropped the books I was taking out of my bag. They clattered noisily onto the table, cueing a sharp hush from the Librarian. I froze, looking at Andrew’s face for a few seconds.
My god. He was serious.
Of course, I knew about the Necronomicon. We all did. The dread Al Azif, written by the mad Arab, Abdul Al-Hazred wrote of the great old ones, the outer gods, and all manner of other unearthly things. But the only copy in the entire country was under lock and key in the British Museum. God knows I had sent enough letters to know they weren’t interested in sharing. I finally broke my trance to look discreetly over my shoulder. Nobody was anywhere near us, so I turned back. Matching his enthusiasm, I asked him
“Where the hell did you find it?! How could you-?” It was there that I stopped. I actually knew all to well ‘how’ he could find it. It was clear this wasn’t an item he could gain access to by legal means. My enthusiasm quickly became a sense of disdain and revulsion. Andrew answered my question for me. His voice now became quite solemn and serious.
“My… Contact took it, from the vaults beneath the British museum. You don’t know what it’s cost me to get this information-“ I didn’t let him finish.
“You’re mad! I’m as keen as you are to get some more information on such unnatural things, but will you listen to yourself? Your ‘contact’ stole the Necronomicon from the British Museum! If anyone finds out…” I nervously looked over my shoulder again at the rest of the room behind us.
“Nobody will find out, James. I promise you.” He tried to pat my arm reassuringly, but I sharply stood up, knocking over a chair as I did. Snatching up my things, I turned, and with huge strides started towards the exit. “At least think about it! Call me.”
Some heads turned as I violently pushed the door aside and, pulling my hat back on and swinging my bag onto my shoulders, made my way outside. The rain had stopped, and the moon was out. It seemed blurred and uncertain, and the sky still had remnants of earlier storm clouds. It was dark as I drove myself home.
I was lying in my bed that night. The light was off, but I couldn’t find sleep. I kept thinking about everything Andrew had said. This was the chance we were waiting for- what we had all been waiting for. I drowsily rolled onto my side and turned my glance to the clock by my bed. The red lights flickered 01:12. I had to admit, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested.
My curiosity overpowered me. I couldn’t simply deny this opportunity to examine this most rare of occult tomes. I fumbled on the table for my phone, punched in Andrew Whittaker’s number and lay there, staring at the ceiling. The phone rang four times, and I was about to assume he wasn’t there. There was a ‘click’ on the other end. The call took two minutes, which was more than enough for all details to be provided.
Chapter one: An Invitation
It has been more than three months since I awoke from intensive care in the Brentwood Community Hospital, but I can still find no peace in the everyday pleasures that once contented me. I am still under close observation by psychiatrists, physiotherapists, and the odd police officer or two. I understand my condition has improved, marked only by an acute case of hydrophobia. I am still not allowed far beyond the hospital walls, however as no doubt they expect me to flee their care, and go gallivanting off on another frantic search for my papers; lost in the woods around the Ingatestone parts. More likely than that, they expect me to reattempt my demolition of the closed and abandoned Riverside ice and leisure centre and, perhaps, they would be right. I could not have expected them to understand my intentions when I begged them to destroy that damned building, to cancel any and all investigations into the disappearance of my dear friend and colleague Andrew Whittaker and, above all, burn my papers which- I pray to god- are still scattered somewhere in the woods. None of them would heed my words, which is why it is indeed my plan to revisit that accursed building and level it to the ground myself. I have a friend who owes me a favour; I know he can procure me the necessary explosives. I may indeed have to kill any policeman or the like who attempts to stop me, and for this I am sorry. But I alone know exactly what manner of creature still dwells in the darkened, deserted pools of that establishment’s heart, and I alone must ensure it does not live to kill again.
I recall it was raining that night, four months ago, when I begrudgingly crossed the deserted courtyard towards the library of the Anglo European school. The night had fallen earlier than usual, and the rain thundered down on the gravel like damp bullets. I removed my hat when I entered the building, but continued to shiver as I made two rights and clumsily pushed open the door to the library. The walls were colourfully adorned with this art project, and that technology design, as provided by the children of the lower school. The room was well lit, and I was not surprise to find the room mostly deserted- the school hours had ended a half hour ago, and the only remaining occupants were sixth formers and the occasional child finishing their homework among the books. The librarian scowled as I dripped water onto the carpet, but I nodded an apology as I hurried past her to find Andrew. The librarian rolled her eyes and returned to her work, as I trotted past the rows of computers to find him.
“James!” I heard him call, and turned to see him beckoning me toward a table by the window. It was sheltered on one side by a tall bookcase of tomes of the paranormal, and I momentarily smirked at his choice of positioning. I slumped into the chair opposite him and placed my hat on the table. Andrew certainly had a look of excitement on his well-rounded face, despite the drenched state of his mid-length, brown hair. His dark green eyes were ablaze with purpose, and I adjusted myself into a comfortable position. He certainly seemed to have something important to say.
Andrew hunched over the table, with his hands laid on his book bag. He spoke quietly, but with infinite enthusiasm.
“James, I have just been on the phone with one of my contacts. I may be able to get us some crucial time with one of the books we’ve been looking for.” I raised my eyebrows. It is true that our independent searches into the occult had ground to a halt since the aging Dr Dexter demanded we return his copy of Francois-Honore Balfour’s rare Cultes des Goules to his home in Providence, Rhode Island. I have to admit, I was as interested as Andrew was to forward our studies in this most interesting of fields. I inquired,
“Which book in particular are we talking about?” At this, Andrew’s lip curled into a type of bemused smile he was well known among our group for making. He answered in a hushed voice, soaked in excitement and determination.
“The Necronomicon.” At this, I actually dropped the books I was taking out of my bag. They clattered noisily onto the table, cueing a sharp hush from the Librarian. I froze, looking at Andrew’s face for a few seconds.
My god. He was serious.
Of course, I knew about the Necronomicon. We all did. The dread Al Azif, written by the mad Arab, Abdul Al-Hazred wrote of the great old ones, the outer gods, and all manner of other unearthly things. But the only copy in the entire country was under lock and key in the British Museum. God knows I had sent enough letters to know they weren’t interested in sharing. I finally broke my trance to look discreetly over my shoulder. Nobody was anywhere near us, so I turned back. Matching his enthusiasm, I asked him
“Where the hell did you find it?! How could you-?” It was there that I stopped. I actually knew all to well ‘how’ he could find it. It was clear this wasn’t an item he could gain access to by legal means. My enthusiasm quickly became a sense of disdain and revulsion. Andrew answered my question for me. His voice now became quite solemn and serious.
“My… Contact took it, from the vaults beneath the British museum. You don’t know what it’s cost me to get this information-“ I didn’t let him finish.
“You’re mad! I’m as keen as you are to get some more information on such unnatural things, but will you listen to yourself? Your ‘contact’ stole the Necronomicon from the British Museum! If anyone finds out…” I nervously looked over my shoulder again at the rest of the room behind us.
“Nobody will find out, James. I promise you.” He tried to pat my arm reassuringly, but I sharply stood up, knocking over a chair as I did. Snatching up my things, I turned, and with huge strides started towards the exit. “At least think about it! Call me.”
Some heads turned as I violently pushed the door aside and, pulling my hat back on and swinging my bag onto my shoulders, made my way outside. The rain had stopped, and the moon was out. It seemed blurred and uncertain, and the sky still had remnants of earlier storm clouds. It was dark as I drove myself home.
I was lying in my bed that night. The light was off, but I couldn’t find sleep. I kept thinking about everything Andrew had said. This was the chance we were waiting for- what we had all been waiting for. I drowsily rolled onto my side and turned my glance to the clock by my bed. The red lights flickered 01:12. I had to admit, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested.
My curiosity overpowered me. I couldn’t simply deny this opportunity to examine this most rare of occult tomes. I fumbled on the table for my phone, punched in Andrew Whittaker’s number and lay there, staring at the ceiling. The phone rang four times, and I was about to assume he wasn’t there. There was a ‘click’ on the other end. The call took two minutes, which was more than enough for all details to be provided.
