Hello everybody. I'm new here and would like to put up my first post
This is a story I wrote just off the top of my head. So it isn't that great haha
Edward Pilgin was a man of eccentricities. As a fellow scholar of Squier University, we would usually relay our newly-found information to each other. Though where my skill and interest lay mostly in the English arts, his were of a more sinister background. And now and then he would confide with me strange and bizarre artifacts found near the many backwood cemeteries and century-old mansions of the surrounding area.
Surely, one would find repulsion in these things. Hideous leather-bound books of ancient knowledge and rituals, oddly shaped stones of undescribable shape, these were the kinds of things that Edward would insist on showing me. Though where I found horror and disgust in the terrible monstrositys, he seemed to exhibit an odd fascination, a look upon his eyes of both longing and something else. And it was that same look that was upon his face as he showed me that fearful, loathesome book.
'Danse Macabre' was the name of that ancient thing. And in it were words all too obscure to find any literal meaning as it contained strange poems and riddles that befuddled even my well-tuned eye for fanciful writings. Though one need not know the exact meaning to see that the overall theme was of evil and decadance.
As I would sit, writing, Edward would throw at me just newly translated texts from that ancient book.
"Behind the mask/ contrast of light-dark"
"Follower of identity knownth"
To such things I would just sit, puzzled. Looking back, any interpretation may have been given to such ambigious sentances, though my mind would always point to sinister messages being given. Then Ed informed me of a passage that immediatally gave an impression of veiled horror.
"Moonless undisturbed. It stalks abroad. Awakened and with host to guide"
Soon afterwards, Edward began showing signs of extremely odd behaviour. And I noticed that he winced whenever curtains were drawn further. To his ever-expanding favour of seclusion, one may attribute to his eccentric personality. Though no one can't explain his now-preferred nocturnal ventures into the backwood cemetary where he found the Danse Macabre. And it was on a particularlly moonless night when Edward asked me to accompany him on his journey into the decayed lot. The night is easily remembered by the horror that was to be the outcome.
Of how exactly Edward Pilgin came across such a site, I am not sure. Though I'm thankful to be spared the details. Near Squier to the west there's a dark patch of forrested land, whos dense trees provide an exceptional cover for countless unspeakable horrors and secrets. After nearly 30 minutes of walking through this ever-thickening path of trees, one found that it seemed to clear in almost too sudden of a way to be natural. With each step came some unknown fear. As though someone or thing stood just beyond, waiting. Soon we were looking upon rows and rows of old tombstones, damp and ancient. Of it's age, i could give no clue, as the many names of the departed were all too time-eaten to find coherant. Some even looked as though they were not decayed, but scratched out beyond recognition.
Edward started his oil lamp and the sudden circular glare from his glasses startled me, as his expression, of which I can't quite explain, but was of great menace and loathesome quality. At that moment I regretted ever following him into this accursed place. And he spoke with an uneasy calmness that seemed to raise even more fear into me.
"This place, I've come across it while exploring this fascinating area. Ruins can be sought out for artifacts and antiques of noteworthy imformation. But this place..."
He continued on to where the cemetary rose slightly uphill, and I soon spotted where our destination lie. As I gazed at it, the appearance alone was enough for me to have to supress a gasp of shock.
The shear look of the thing was a horror onto itself. A large tomb of, though its age, pure white stone which stood high and obnoxious, with a doorway that was arched in such a groatesque fasion, as though its sole purpose was to instill fear upon the looker. Beside it stood two 10 foot high statues of hooded figures that were barely standing in their incredible age. Their faces, though one could barely make them out, were of a hidious expression, and my mind immediatly thought of the expression that Edward Pilgin constantly displayed. Why I follwed him into the crypt, I do not know. My curiousity and scholarly thirst for knowledge seemed to overshadow that lurking fear. Even blotting out the sensation that some unspeakable horror lie waiting just beyond.
Inside was a pungent odour of decades, maybe even centuries, of neglect and old growth, and cobwebs seemed to entangle you in their twisted design, only lending to the fear. I asked Ed why he would need me in such a place, yet he said nothing and continued onward. I soon saw that just ahead was a staircase to a lower floor, and I witnessed Edward make the fearful flight down. I soon followed feeling that to want to stay in such a place alone was beyond questioning, and I'm glad the descent was a mere 12 feet. Though being at the bottom brought, if possible, an even greater sense of uncertainty and dread. Ahead was an insanely arched hallway that stretched 50 feet across, upon which led to a room that seemed to house some statue that was difficult to discern in the darkness.
Edward was nearly halfway into the room with his oil lamp, and I quickly followed. As he entered it I was maybe 30 feet away. He then stopped suddenly and gave an odd jerk as though responding to some unknown horror. I remember those fearsome, panick-ridden words that he spoke to me as he looked down into an unknown source.
"Dear god. Such unholy monstrosity! What have I led us to?" Then he turned to me and I saw undescribable horror across his face.
"Run! Get out of here, please! It's almost here! My god if I only knew. GET OUT OF HERE NOW!"
But fear seemed to cement me to the ground. And I witnessed Edward's stricken figure falter to his knees, grabbing his hair in insanity and mania. looking closer, I saw that he stood before a wide gaping mouth of darkness in the center of that aweful room. What he saw down there I do not know, and I'm glad I was spared the unutterable sight.
Finally, I was able to move. The fear holding me had somewhat lessoned and I was able to make my escape. As I reached the staircase though, I turned to look back for a quick moment. The image that I looked upon seems too much for words. And even alluding to it calls up an unbearable fear. As I caught that last glimpse back, consciousness, it seems, had failed soon after; for the only image I can recall is of a tall, hooded horror standing over the kneeled Edward Pilgin. Descending upon his figure for some unknown purpose. And I can barely remember that frantic journey through the dense forrest and into Squier University.
Though what of Eward? Was he at least spared the existence one must suffer after witnessing such a thing? I stood in my heavily-lit room and racked my brain for what became of him and, hours later, it was an absolute need for sleep which finally allowed me to do so. Though not without the nightmarish image of that figure standing before Edward Pilgin, and the hopeless look of anguish across Edwards face.
Kind of more style than substance, but I guess it kinda works?
