NaNoWriMo 2012

[wyntir_knight]

So, yeah, I'm taking part in NaNo again, and it's going okay so far (crosses fingers) even though my plot decided to change about halfway through. I'm attempting to write a Lovecraftian Gothic Horror with some mystery and romance elements thrown in. I'm viewing it as Lovecraft meets Hammer Horror meets Mickey Spillane. So so far at the halfway mark I'm sitting at just over 25K so, yeah, it's going apace.

I've decided to be completely insane and post the first chapter here, since it can kind of stand alone. I mean, Lovecraft's stuff never had a resolution other than death and insanity, so I figure I can have a similar non-ending. Right?

As always, comments, critiques, et cetera are always welcome. Assuming I get this done, I'll be posting the story in a serialized format rather than aiming at publication. I'm not going to kid myself into believing that it's that easy to get published and read ... regardless of the Fifty Shades thing.


A Ghost From The Past

Cold winds blew in from the coast promising an early winter storm that would sweep over the village of Dunwich from the Atlantic. Thankfully, the village was far enough from the coast to avoid the full fury of the coming Nor’Easter, but Poseidon would still be able to stretch his fingers out to swat at the small huddle of houses. Dry autumn leaves spun in wild dervishes through the deserted streets and the trees creaked and moaned as the air moved through them, causing branches to rub together violently. In the distance the church bell began to ring in the steeple as the winds picked up enough to send the massive brass bell swinging. The villagers were all inside, safely hidden away from the oncoming storm. Even the famous Dunwich Dairy cows had sought shelter in the warmth of their barn. Only an idiot would be out risking the wrath of the coming storm.

The relative silence was broken as a tired and nervous looking grey mare came up the road pulling an antiquated hansom cab. The driver bent down low over his reins, pulling his blanket tight around him as he did. He was far too old to be out in the weather the skies were promising and only the promise of a large sum had encouraged him out of the station house. Flicking the reins slightly, he encouraged the mare to turn into the drive of the old Eldridge Manor house, ignoring that the mare started whinnying and shying as soon as they approached the cursed place. As soon as the cab stopped, the door opened and the fare, Mister Robert Sinclair, Esquire, exited carefully, looking as if he was fearful of tripping or stepping into something foul. As soon as the man’s feet were on the ground, he pulled his grey wool great coat around himself tightly against the wind and handed a large bill to the cab driver.

“This here’s only half of what you owe me,” the driver grit out, glaring at his passenger.

“Yes, it is,” Sinclair replied, looking up at the house rather than at the cabbie. “And you’ll get the other half plus a substantial tip when you bring me to the hotel once I’m done here.”

The cabbie leaned over and spat derisively, the gob of saliva landing on the hard packed driveway. “There’s a storm comin’ an’ I know better than to be out in a Nor’easter,” he said, his New England accent heavy.

At that, Sinclair dragged his eyes away from the ancient building at the top of the lane and looked directly at the cab driver.

“I grasp that and I do not intend to keep you here any longer than required. I will simply go in, look around momentarily, and return. It should be no longer than 30 minutes at the most. You will be well compensated for your time.”

The cab driver looked uncertainly at Sinclair, clearly debating the chance that this obviously wealthy man was telling the truth and if what the lawyer considered to be good compensation was what the cabbie considered good.

“The other option is that you take me back to the hotel now and I find someone else in the morning. Someone who isn’t out to waste my time,” Sinclair said, irritation lacing his voice and bringing out more than a hint of Boston and the Mayflower, revealing his pedigree better than anything his clothes could have said.

The cabbie’s lips thinned.

“Fine.” He pulled out a battered old pocket watch. “Thirty minutes and then I’m out of here, with or without you, Mister Sinclair.”

With that the cab driver tossed off his blanket and jumped off his seat far more lithely than would be expected from a man of his advanced age. As he moved to care for his horse, patting the animal’s flank in an attempt to calm her, he spat on the ground again – a subtle rebellion against this demanding Outsider.

Robert Sinclair turned away, ignoring the driver, and faced the house. The building was old, but was holding up surprisingly well for all the years it had stood empty. The blank windows stared down at him, looking as if they were leering out at the world. Observing everything, taking in everything, without giving anything away.

He was suddenly filled with a deep sense of unease. Every primal instinct in his body told him to run from this place before he was set upon. By what he didn’t know, and since there was only him, the driver, and the horse, he shook off the sensation, filing it away as something childish. He started up the path, the gravel crunching under his boots, sounding in a sharp counter rhythm to the creaking of the trees surrounding the lot. Robert had no memory of living here, even though he was six when he and his father had moved out. He knew he should remember at least something but the memories just weren’t there. Only a blank hole where the knowledge should be.

And yet, he had always felt ill at ease in this place. In both the house and the village itself. Maybe it was the fact that his father refused to return to the property even while he attempted to rent the house out ... not that they were ever able to get a tenant once they saw Dunwich and the house itself. Now that his father was dead he saw no point in keeping the property. It wasn’t making him any money as it was and even if it was, it would never bring in enough revenue to counter the rising costs of maintenance. Not in a backwater like Dunwich. Not when the Neo-Puritan locals looked at all outsiders like they were Satan spawn there to corrupt and defile them. Even the owner of the dairy rarely came here, leaving the business to the locals and trusting that their allegedly incorruptible natures would keep his business safe and his milk pure.

Robert climbed the front steps, trying hard not to react to the sound of them creaking under his weight. The wood was old, but hardly rotten and there was no sign of any of the normal wood eaters here. He paused as he reached the porch proper. It was strange, there was no sign of nests or attempts by animals to gain entrance. Even the yard, as overgrown as it was, contained none of the trees and vines that one would expect around an abandoned property. He was again filled with that amorphous sense of dread and again he dismissed it. He was over-thinking things and allowing the fears of a six year old boy and the paranoia of backwater town affect him. There was a logical explanation for all of this and there was no reason to give in to hysterical fears. After all, there was nothing in the dark that wasn’t also there in the light.

He pulled out an old brass key, allowing the weight to sit comfortably in his hand for a moment. It slipped easily into the lock with no hint of decay or rust in the mechanism. With a quick turn and a small click the door unlocked easily. He reached out one gloved hand to take hold of the door handle when a sudden wind came up from behind him and the heavy oak door was yanked out of his hand, blown open as if by an unseen force. He heard the horse scream out in terror and the harsh yells of the cabbie as he tried to calm the animal, but Robert focused on none of this. Instead his eyes were transfixed to the leaves that danced and swirled around the front hall, moving like a living thing across the floors until they finally collided with the base of the wide staircase leading up to the second floor.

He entered the house and closed the door behind him, plunging the house hall into darkness. He reached out for the light switch. The house was wired for gaslight and yet it refused to work tonight. Rather than risk an accident, Robert turned off the switch and pulled a small electrical torch from his pocket. After a moment he was able to light it and the room was lit by the frail light of the device.

He turned to do a quick walkthrough of the main floor when he heard ... something from the second floor. He paused and peered up the stairs. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded almost like music.

“... hello?” he called out to the house. It was ridiculous. He knew there was no one in the house other than him. He knew that the house was completely empty save for the furniture, and none of that should be producing the sound he was now sure he was hearing.

All around the mulberry bush ...

“Who’s up there?” Robert demanded as he started to climb the stairs.

The monkey chased the weasel ...

A cool breeze seemed to come from the second floor surrounding him with a scent that stirred a memory. He knew he should recognize it. It was like lilies and something else that was far less identifiable.

The monkey thought it was all in fun ...

An icy cold ball formed in the pit of his stomach, and his steps faltered as he stopped climbing the stairs.

“Who’s up there?” Robert whispered.

The song began again, but faster this time.

All around the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel
The monkey thought it was all in fun ...

Robert stepped back, nearly losing his balance as his heel caught on a riser. He looked away as he grabbed for the railing to catch himself.

When he looked up he felt his breath catch in his throat and his mouth became instantly dry.

There, sitting at the top of the stairs was the ghostly, transparent image of a girl dressed in a white dress and blue pinafore. She looked up, met his eyes, and suddenly Robert was hit with an overwhelming memory.

His sister, two years his senior, sitting at the top of those stairs playing with a jack-in-the-box, her small hand turning the crank and making the toy sing. But it never got to the end and the jack never popped up. The song kept going and going. On and on and on until his mother finally stormed out of the kitchen and yelled at Carol in a rage.

His mother who spent his entire life institutionalized until she took her own life.

The memories came flooding back to him and as they did, the spirit of his long-dead sister - only eight years old when she died in this house - came walking down the stairs toward him, holding the jack in the box loosely in one hand, the song still playing.

“... carol ...?” Robert whispered, unable to move away from the stairs.

“... get out ...” Carol whispered, her voice sounding like a memory in his mind. “... she’ll come after you too ... get out ....”

Robert took a single step back and suddenly the thing in front of him that wore Carol’s face rushed him, a mask of rage written across the once sweet visage.

“GET OUT!” she screamed and Robert found himself cast down the stairs, tumbling head over heels as he fell.

His feet were under him and he was out the door when before he knew what he was doing. He bounded down the path and was in the hansom cab in an instant. He never bothered to shut the door of the house behind him in his mad dash away,

“Go! Now!” Sinclair ordered of the cabbie. “Triple your fare if you get me out of here NOW!”