Post by Annalise Thergo on Feb 8, 2019 5:07:47 GMT
The scene of my excavations would alone have been enough to unnerve any ordinary man. Baleful primal trees of unholy size, age, and grotesqueness leered above me like the pillars of some hellish Druidic temple; muffling the thunder, hushing the clawing wind, and admitting but little rain. Beyond the scarred trunks in the background, illumined by faint flashes of filtered lightning, rose the damp ivied stones of the deserted mansion...
Annalise hooked a finger and pulled out one of her earbuds, tore open a sandwich bag from Subway, bit into it voraciously, chewed, and glanced at her surroundings. The woman had chosen to partake in her late dinner at an abandoned park so as not to be disturbed. There was the occasional homeless man or woman shuffling along, late-night goers that took a wrong turn, some wildlife, and the passing of a vehicle, but save for those short bursts of disturbances, the park was quiet. That was how she preferred things.
History, indeed, was all I had after everything else ended in mocking Satanism. I now believed that the lurking fear was no material thing, but a wolf-fanged ghost that rode the midnight lightning.
She mouthed along with the narrator in between bites, and before long, she had devoured--some would say, "inhaled"-- the footlong sub that had been packed with meat and veggies that could scarce be contained by the cheese-topped bread. The girl behind the counter looked ill when she informed her that she could eat two of these and still feel hungry. "Good genetics," she would say, "Got them from my father. He would eat three meals for breakfast and do it again if he had the time before work." People always bought it, of course. Annalise had plenty of time to come up with a plausible backstory for her eating habits.
Annalise stuffed the garbage into the plastic bag, left the park bench to toss it into a bin, walked to the swingset, sat down, and idly moved to and fro with her feet firmly planted on the sand. The hinges squeaked from the motions, and a metallic scent rubbed off onto her palms when she held onto the chains.
Their life was exceedingly secluded, and people declared that their isolation had made them heavy of speech and comprehension. In appearance all were marked by a peculiar inherited dissimilarity of eyes; one generally being blue and the other brown.
It was cold tonight. Each exhale curled away from her mouth and nostrils in white clouds before matching the temperature and disappearing into the night. The chill stung her exposed hands and nostrils and reddened her nose and cheeks, but a quick tug at her scarf concealed them. She had gloves in her pockets, which she would don in due time, but for now, she allowed the discomfort to continue.
Most of this information reached the outside world through young Jan Martense, who from some kind of restlessness joined the colonial army when news of the Albany Convention reached Tempest Mountain.
The woman's brow furrowed when she heard something cut through the narration of "The Lurking Fear." It was probably more people getting lost after spending an early evening at one of the many bars, but Annalise was not one to take chances of letting her guard down. It was a universal agreement that sticking around at parks in the evening would spell bad news for some even if a neighborhood was considered safe. It was no concern to her, but she disliked the notion of her evening being disturbed, especially after having such a fantastic sandwich. A glance over her shoulder revealed a group of men too immersed in their conversation walking down the sidewalk across the patched lawn and the two-way street. They didn't notice her--they were having too much fun to include anyone else.
A sliver of envy pricked at her thoughts, but as soon as the feeling began to creep into her awareness, it was dismissed. Jealousy was not a healthy mindset.
He had, they insisted, been struck by lightning the autumn before; and now lay buried behind the neglected sunken gardens. They shewed the visitor the grave, barren and devoid of markers.
Annalise paused the audiobook, plucked the last earbud free, and draped the cord around her neck. That was enough Lovecraft for now.
Annalise hooked a finger and pulled out one of her earbuds, tore open a sandwich bag from Subway, bit into it voraciously, chewed, and glanced at her surroundings. The woman had chosen to partake in her late dinner at an abandoned park so as not to be disturbed. There was the occasional homeless man or woman shuffling along, late-night goers that took a wrong turn, some wildlife, and the passing of a vehicle, but save for those short bursts of disturbances, the park was quiet. That was how she preferred things.
History, indeed, was all I had after everything else ended in mocking Satanism. I now believed that the lurking fear was no material thing, but a wolf-fanged ghost that rode the midnight lightning.
She mouthed along with the narrator in between bites, and before long, she had devoured--some would say, "inhaled"-- the footlong sub that had been packed with meat and veggies that could scarce be contained by the cheese-topped bread. The girl behind the counter looked ill when she informed her that she could eat two of these and still feel hungry. "Good genetics," she would say, "Got them from my father. He would eat three meals for breakfast and do it again if he had the time before work." People always bought it, of course. Annalise had plenty of time to come up with a plausible backstory for her eating habits.
Annalise stuffed the garbage into the plastic bag, left the park bench to toss it into a bin, walked to the swingset, sat down, and idly moved to and fro with her feet firmly planted on the sand. The hinges squeaked from the motions, and a metallic scent rubbed off onto her palms when she held onto the chains.
Their life was exceedingly secluded, and people declared that their isolation had made them heavy of speech and comprehension. In appearance all were marked by a peculiar inherited dissimilarity of eyes; one generally being blue and the other brown.
It was cold tonight. Each exhale curled away from her mouth and nostrils in white clouds before matching the temperature and disappearing into the night. The chill stung her exposed hands and nostrils and reddened her nose and cheeks, but a quick tug at her scarf concealed them. She had gloves in her pockets, which she would don in due time, but for now, she allowed the discomfort to continue.
Most of this information reached the outside world through young Jan Martense, who from some kind of restlessness joined the colonial army when news of the Albany Convention reached Tempest Mountain.
The woman's brow furrowed when she heard something cut through the narration of "The Lurking Fear." It was probably more people getting lost after spending an early evening at one of the many bars, but Annalise was not one to take chances of letting her guard down. It was a universal agreement that sticking around at parks in the evening would spell bad news for some even if a neighborhood was considered safe. It was no concern to her, but she disliked the notion of her evening being disturbed, especially after having such a fantastic sandwich. A glance over her shoulder revealed a group of men too immersed in their conversation walking down the sidewalk across the patched lawn and the two-way street. They didn't notice her--they were having too much fun to include anyone else.
A sliver of envy pricked at her thoughts, but as soon as the feeling began to creep into her awareness, it was dismissed. Jealousy was not a healthy mindset.
He had, they insisted, been struck by lightning the autumn before; and now lay buried behind the neglected sunken gardens. They shewed the visitor the grave, barren and devoid of markers.
Annalise paused the audiobook, plucked the last earbud free, and draped the cord around her neck. That was enough Lovecraft for now.
