Hiatus

For a couple more weeks anyway, at least till the exams are over.

Chapter 3 : Dream a Little Dream

27th October 1822, Expedition to Hollow's Hill, Day 3

Last night, I walked through a landscape of oblivion.

As I moved blindly across the dreamscape, there was only darkness; a black curtain which shrouded every inch of the plane, weighing down on me as I stumbled down the roads of Nothing. I walked for hours without end, searching desperately for something to validate my existence. For in this darkness, my tongue could form no words, nor my throat a single scream.

Then there was sound.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

A regular cadence of water, falling from an unseen source and splashing vibrantly on the floor. The sound resonated across my dead senses, and I turned slowly to the right, seeking the reverberation which ran so daringly in contrast to the darkness.

As I turned, my eyes met a speck of colour in the distance, growing larger with each resounding drop of water. As it approached, the splashing grew louder, inching into a crashing concerto, until I had to shield my ears from the deafening splash.

Then the it disappeared, replaced again by the mellow dripping from before.

Looking up again, I could now see the speck of colour clearly; indeed, it was a speck no longer. Only a few meters away, my eyes now rested upon a little girl, head lowered, the corners of her lips betraying the smile on her face.

"Mister," she said, in a voice suppressing a giggle, "would you like to hear a song?"

I looked on, unsure of what was about to happen. Alas, I had no answer for her, as my throat remained frozen and unresponsive. However, she took my silence as consent, and with a cherubic smile began singing, following the tempo of the water falling gently to the floor.

These walls were made to house, contain
A hundredfold, at least
A slew of servants, cooks and maids
To entertain a beast

The riches, they will matter not
With one foot in the grave
With each, we search for what we lack
And so for life he craves

The servants decked in livery
Were made to stand in line
Their master's wish, to serve the beast
Until the end of time

A hunger that shall never fill
To those who do endeavour
A man dies thrice on Hollow's Hill
And so shall live forever.

I stood ensnared until the girl sang her last note, forced to hear every word, every note in the song. As her chilling rendition came to a close, she laughed cheerfully, looking up to meet my eyes.

I found the source of the dripping.

Two festering wounds had replaced her eyes, a shifting mass of maggots and worms, silently crying tears of blood. She stared at me with her unseeing eyes, blood forming a deathly mask over her face, dripping down the curve of her lips.

"Mister, how did you like my song?"

I screamed. I screamed till my voice broke through my frozen throat, and burst past my stilled tongue. I screamed as the damned, for in the dreamscape, I was damned. I screamed till I tore my throat ragged, till I tasted blood in my mouth.

Blood.

I was awake, alone in my room, the walls echoing with howls. A trickle of blood dripped from my mouth, pooling on the bed in a rapidly darkening stain.

"A dream," I told myself, "it was just a dream."

By Jove, I was terrified.

I am ashamed to admit it, but I still am.

It was hours before I dared venture out of my room, and for good reason. The obsidian walls and obsidian floors of the corridor bear too much semblance to the darkened plane in my dream, and the continuous echoes from Reynolds's insanity do not help either. Unlike yesterday, Reynolds seems to have lost all traces of his sanity, spending hours speaking incoherently to himself. I count it a great blessing that he is no longer screaming, though. It makes it bearable to spend time with him.

My current aversion to isolation overcomes my annoyance towards his inanities, for the moment.

I have moved back to my previous room, now that Reynolds is no longer as loud in his madness. I daresay my shift was in part motivated by my desire for a companion, even an insane one. However, the main reason is by far a more sensible one; my new room is by far closer to the front door.

I am beginning to believe there is something dreadfully wrong with this house.

Chapter 2 : First Blood

26th October 1822, Expedition to Hollow's Hill, Day 2

I woke today to the howls of the damned.

Even with several inches of solid stone wall between us, Reynolds's tortured cry tore raggedly through my room, hurling me forcibly out of restful slumber. I have to admit, even muffled as it was, I literally started out of bed, falling insensate on the floor from the raw anguish in his voice. Never have I experienced a scream so dreadful, so utterly horrified.

To call it fear would be putting it lightly; he was howling in what could only be abject terror.

That was not the end of it. Almost as soon as they began, Reynolds's screams were punctuated by the crack of a rifle, shattering the silence that was present only moments before. Fearing the worst, I seized my revolver from bedside and rushed out of my room, into the cavernous corridor. The door to his room was open, and with only a second of hesitation, I plunged forward to meet his attacker.

Only to find Reynolds, alone, mouth still agape in an unfinished scream. His rifle was gripped in shaking hands, barrel smoking from recent discharge. A small, ugly scratch marring the obsidian walls marked the target of his shot. However, what caught my breath was neither intruder nor beast, but Reynolds himself.

His hard brown eyes were sunken and crazed, gaze darting wildly from each unoccupied wall to the next. In an almost feral manner, his dilated pupils whipped frantically from corner to corner, searching desperately for an unseen phantasm. However, what scared me most was his face, skin tightened into a death's head grimace, lips pulled back and teeth bared. He swung frantically from side to side, howling still, before his eyes came to rest on me.

"The walls! The faces in the walls!" He screamed, gesturing with his rifle, "They're watching me! Waiting for me! I... I can't kill them! I can't..."

Then he broke down in tears, rifle falling uselessly from his hands. I stood there for a moment, not comprehending, as he cried.

"I... can't even see them anymore."

I glanced up at the barren walls, and at the mercenary huddled piteously on the floor. It was obvious then; Reynolds was losing his mind.

Throughout the rest of the day, Reynolds lapsed between lucidity and delusion; in between his cries of madness, of the 'faces in the walls', he told me in full detail what he had seen. A legion disembodied faces, each frozen in anguish, physically manifesting themselves from the walls of his room.

He's completely addled.

I would leave this house and him behind immediately, if the reward were any less. I am sure my own sanity would leave me if I were forced to spend another day in his madness. His fits of delusion are increasing in frequency, and before long he'll be screaming without rest. Fortunately, this is a big house; I have moved to a distant corner of the estate, where I will not be forced to endure his insane babbling.

The only consolation I have today is that the house is fully stocked. It seems the Duke arranged the pantry to be filled with proper perishables before issuing the challenge, and the next few days here will not be intolerable.

As long as Reynolds keeps his madness to himself, I will be fine.

As I was packing to shift rooms, I noticed something queer about the portrait of Reynolds. It seems that the paint had not dried sufficiently when it was thrown down to us, and a long streak now runs down the length of his face. Such a shame, it was a beautiful portrait.

Odd though, I don't remember anything on the painting with quite such a blood-red hue.

Chapter 1 : The Portrait

25th October 1822, Expedition to Hollow's Hill, Day 1

It is evening now in Alfred Hollow's estate, and I must say I'm rather disappointed. When Reynolds and I set out this morning, I was brimming with excitement, hoping to see an abode fitting for such a great explorer. Instead, scaling the hill, I laid eyes what must be the largest eyesore in the entire British empire. Oh, the estate on Hollow's Hill must have cost a fortune to construct, I'll give it that.

It takes no small sum to build a prison of this magnitude, after all.

Instead of a grand example of Classical English architecture, the entire mansion seems to be whittled out of solid obsidian; no mean feat, I'll admit, but it is a far cry from aesthetic beauty. The whole mansion looks bloody well like a box; ten meter high walls framing an equally rigid structure. By Jove, I can't imagine how a great man like Alfred Hollow lived in such a monstrosity; it looks more suited for keeping felons locked in! If not for the lack of bars across the windows, I would have sworn that the last resident was a prisoner.

The hill is nothing to proud of, either. For the love of God, I haven't seen a land so barren since the deserts of India. I've seen neither rodent nor weed since beginning this expedition, and I would be willing to bet that the land is poisoned, unable to support life. Alfred Hollow must have been as eccentric as he was rich.

Regardless, I'll endure this mess for a week, and claim the prize that is rightfully mine. Reynolds has scoured both hill and house, and found nobody as of yet. Strange, but definitely in my favour. He has taken a room on the top floor, with a view outside to ensure he can spot anyone coming.

So as to... prepare for them.

Still, this day has not been a complete disappointment. I daresay the Duke is making things interesting for the participants of his dare. On entering the house, Reynolds by my side, I was startled by a ghastly clattering, something ringing metallically against the stone floor. Looking around, I made a most intriguing discovery; a pair of miniature portraits, depicting Reynolds and myself, lying unattended on the floor. I must say, they are most remarkable, with almost immaculate attention to detail. Why, they even picked up the slightest discolouration on my face, a birthmark which passes all but the most attentive eye.

Astounding.

Reynolds threw his away dismissively, but I have decided to keep the pair. After all, it is a marvel how the Duke has managed to capture our likenesses with such accuracy, and in such a short period of time. A skillful artisan indeed, to paint with such clarity, and with uncannily vivid colour. Even the wrought iron frames are tastefully inked, and the archaic design does wonders in setting off the soft colours in the portrait.

It is odd though, I have not yet come to an explanation on how the portraits came to fall on the ground. The stairway to the second floor lies several stretches away, and it certainly would be a difficult throw. Also, the paint on the portraits is very much fresh; I wonder how their completion was timed so perfectly with our arrival.

Questions I shall certainly pose to the duke, when I claim the reward.

It is getting late, and I'd better turn in. I've taken up residence in a room next to Reynolds, just in case. Although Reynolds was unable to find anyone in his comprehensive search, I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me. Several times, while exploring the area, I caught sight of a wan, emaciated face, staring down in sharp contrast with the obsidian walls. Always in the corner of my eye, and gone in the instant I turn for a clearer look. It may well just be a reflection off the walls, but I'd rather err on the side of caution.

I am, after all, a man of science.

Prologue

And now for something completely different;

H.P. Lovecraft wrote horror stories based on his vivid dreams, and today, I feel inspired to do the same.

The telling of this story will take place over 8 posts, each representing a day in a journal log. I hope it amuses you as much as it does me.

Enjoy ^^

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24th October 1822, Expedition to Hollow's Hill, Day 0

By Jove, I have to say, Duke Asterfield is quite a queer fellow.

Since succeeding his father a few years ago, he has said and done nothing of import, almost as if he wished to fade into the background of our political landscape. Frankly, until last week, I never even knew he existed! Now suddenly, out of the blue, he announces the massive reward of a million pounds, and for the oddest deed ever; the sum goes to any man who is willing to spend a week in the former estate of Alfred Hollow on Hollow's Hill. Imagine that!

From what I've read, Alfred Hollow was a reclusive millionaire, who made his fortune exporting rare and wondrous goods from Africa. A true explorer, or so they say. However, he vanished mysteriously many years ago, along with all his household, leaving his expansive mansion on Hollow's Hill completely deserted.

A million pounds for a week of residence in grandeur? If I didn't know better, I'd say the Duke has gone quite mad! Then again, it's not for me to second guess nobility.

The challenge was issued a week ago, and I daresay I expected many people to have claimed the reward by now. If nothing else, a scoundrel should have tried fibbing his way into the prize, but apparently our Duke is wary for such tricksters; the rewards stands, and I intend to claim it! Why, with a million pounds, I could very well fund my own expedition to Africa, and discover what no civilised man has seen before. The money, of course, does not concern me, for I am a man of science.

Still, I have to be wary; if this were an honest contest, someone would no doubt have claimed the prize by now. I suspect someone is bumping off his competition within the house, in order to obtain the money. By Jove, I will not let that happen to me. I have hired a mercenary of the highest caliber, a Reynolds Marlin, to protect me for the duration of my expedition. He seems oddly blind to the potential rewards of this journey, and agreed for a paltry hundred pounds. The fool.

He will keep anyone but me from claiming the reward.

I have spent the delay in setting off fruitfully, though. I'm certain the cretins who rushed off immediately did not account for the availability of supplies in the estate; a mistake I surely will not make. Tomorrow, I will set off with Reynolds along the fastest route to the estate, avoiding all potential pitfalls, and in a week, the reward will be mine.

I did come across an odd rumour though, a superstition spread fearfully amidst the locals. An old man proclaimed it to me;

A hunger that shall never fill
To those who do endeavour
A man dies thrice on Hollow's Hill
And so shall live forever.

Poetic, I suppose, but wholly absurd. The locals must all be daft to adhere to such a ridiculous superstition. I shall not falter, though.

I am, after all, a man of science.

Pre-emptive

What will you regret in ten, twenty years?

What can you do today to change it?

Surreal

It's about to rain.

For some reason, I'm giggling inside.

Thunder thunder, noisy rumble
Just as children groan and gripe
His stomach heaves and insides tumble
This his cue to clear the pipes

The thunderous thunder, light'ning light
Will fill the mellow souls with fear
But we can stay this awesome fright
For rain is merely diarrhea

:X

The sand and shore

The sand and shore

In shadowed twilight, evening's dawn
along the sodden soil I stride
where darkness blinds my sight beyond
the sand and shore on either side
The point where sand and solvent meet
and both doth flow beneath my feet

Oh Ocean, temptress softly croon
to lure my path to her embrace
and shimmers gently with the moon
to steath'ly slip a sensuous taste
Of water's chaos, swimming free
unbound by earthly gravity

The earthbound mistress cautions me
against the song the Ocean sounds
'Reside in Sand's security
for thralls of Ocean surely drown
Although my path be dry and bland
thy will find safety in the Sand'

To reckless risk, or safely save;
I glance at each, to hear their plea
the tempest passion of the wave
or sandy rationality?
I'll stand where sand and water twist
the sodden ground where both exist

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I thread the line between emotion and reason; to live, to...
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