Just a horror story.

[Holister]

Chapter I: Dark Heritage

Like an ancient god upon Olympus staring down upon humanity, its presence could be felt throughout every darkened corner of the town, every farm, every field, and even into the woods that seemed to stretch on forever. For over three centuries it has remained, a grim reminder of the town’s dark past, a dark heritage that the people would rather see buried and forgotten. Though the town’s folk deny the sinister reality you can sense their fear as its name is spoken with whispered tones. As it is said by the elders in town to frighten the children in their beds,

Though almost several miles outside of town, its lifeless eyes of glass still stare upon the town and its weathered wooden neck outstretched as if to lord over those who dare to look with icy fear.

Along a dark, forbidden road,
Stands a stark and grim abode.
And just beyond the wrought iron gate,
A thousand nightmares lie in wait.
Be warned about this place of fear,
For none but the dead dare trespass here.

It is now November. The fiery leaves of autumn have turned and fallen from their branches now. The still warm gentle breezes have given away to the icy chill of the winter to come. Soon the darkness within it will awaken once more. Already as the sun begins to set, the old manor house moans with hunger. Soon it will be time to feed.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/30919952@N08/5180120574

[Lord Z]

I don't get it.

[Holister]

Chapter II: Into The Storm


The young journalist cursed under his breath as he tried to navigate the twisted back roads of this god forsaken place. “ Why on earth would his editor send him here of all places “, he kept muttering to himself over and over, “ Why not Salem or Arkham, or even that Serpent’s Mound in Ohio would be better than this. “

The storm that had crept in that night did not help the young man’s plight either. What started as a mere drizzle soon became a torrential down pour with cold northeastern winds. His windshield wipers were barely keeping up the water washing over his car, his headlights even on the hi-beam setting were no better against the surrounding darkness that seemed to engulf his car.

Perhaps it was the storm’s fury of the howling winds against the old tree that caused it to topple across the road, or maybe it was something else that night; some unseen, intangible force that forced the tree to uproot and fall across the road that night. Who knows for certain….

It was not long before his headlights suddenly glared upon the tree in the road. Between swears the young man slammed on his brakes and cut his wheel hard. The slick muddy road did not help as he lost control and spun out into a near by ditch. All went black after that.

As consciousness began to return, the throb in his wounded forehead let him know he was alive. After several moments he had managed to regain his composure and count his blessings. After several swears and a demeaning diatribe about his editor he got out of his car with not so much as an umbrella to shield him against the biting rain and bitter wind. He was no mechanic but from the damage and smoke he knew that he was not going anywhere anytime soon.

He drew he cell phone from his pocket and attempted a call, but alas there was no signal at all. It was as if the phone itself was completely dead. All the young man could do was swear under his breath some more and survey his surroundings, “ Surely there must be someone who lives out in this god forsaken place. “ That is when his gaze met with the tower of the manor house in the distance.

“ Finally some luck, “ he said as he trudged his way as quickly as possible to the old dark house in the distance. It was not before long he arrived at the old wrought iron gate. The house stood like some gothic beacon that almost seemed appropriate for a night like this. He pushed open the gate and entered. He quickly made his way up the drive toward the house. He could help but feel chilled to the bone. He blamed the weather, but he gut knew better as the hairs on the back of his head stood erect and the eerie sensation that eyes watched his every step as he drew closer to the front door.

As he looked around, a flash of lightning illuminated the visage of a stone gargoyle staring at him with a sinister gaze. He shuddered and then darkness once again. He quickly stepped onto the front porch and shook himself off. Silently hoping the owner was awake and perhaps had a phone he could use, he knocked upon the old wooden door. He paused for a moment at the devilish head that was the knocker, the iron it was cast from black as pitch. There was no answer even though he could hear the echo of the knocker clearly through the door. He knocked once more, but this time the heavy wooden door creaked open. The young man gazed inside into the darkness, and gulped heavily.

“Its just an old house in the middle of nowhere, of course the door wouldn’t be locked,” he said to himself as he entered into the darkened manor. He called out once, the twice. He stepped further into the darkness of the foyer shaking himself off as he went. Once more he called out loudly. All there was in response was silence, dead silence.

As he entered into what could only be the main hall the door suddenly slammed shut behind him. He jumped, his heart racing. “ Its only the wind, ” he thought, “ that’s all, just the wind. “ That is when he heard the door lock, not once, but all four locks, one by one. His blood ran cold as the darkness that was not so dense before consumed the foyer. His heart pounding as cold sweat poured down his back, he stood frozen in terror as he gazed into those eyes in the darkness.

From outside you could have heard those final screams echo from the old manor house. The storm that night saw to that. The next morning, all that remained of the young journalist was his car in a ditch down the road, with his bloodied press pass on the front seat.

[Lord Z]

Better, but it is still a little rough. The narrator switches back and forth between an omniscient narrator and an ignorant narrator. The addressing of the reader directly in the last paragraph is another break in pattern. I liked the part about the four locks closing in sequence.