Archive for the ‘hp lovecraft’ Tag

First attempt at Lovecraft story   Leave a comment

The bones of the stage is a fixed set, currently set up to resemble an old house of the 1690s. The inhabitants, however, are dressed in distinctly 1920s clothing. There are two levels of this old house. On the bottom floor is the room of JUDY MAZUREWICZ. The door is open, and she is praying audibly. MRS. DOMBROSKI, the landlady, is in the common area, running a spinner. The prayer and the spinning are in time with each other. Up a half-flight of stairs is the room of WALTER GILMAN, a student lodger. The door is currently shut, and purple light is beaming out from the old wooden door.

There is a knock on the front door, pert and energetic. Ms. Mazurewicz and Mrs. Dombroski continue their work unabated. Another knock, louder and faster than before. Ms. Mazurewicz pauses. She steps out of her room and looks upstairs at Walter Gilman’s room. The knocks occur again, louder and harder. They are coming from the front door.

Ms. Mazurewicz: Mrs. Dombroski. Mrs. Dombroski! The door!

She eventually shakes Mrs. Dombroski from her spinning reverie. Mrs. Dombroski goes to answer the door while Ms. Mazurewicz picks up a frying pan as a weapon.

Mrs. Dombroski opens the door to reveal WINNIE GILMAN, a pretty, energetic, very modern girl, clutching a few papers.

Winnie: Is this the witch house?

Mrs. Dombroski shuts the door.

Winnie bangs on the door again.

Winnie: Mrs. Dombroski! Mrs. Dombroski! Let me in! My brother is in there!

Mrs. Dombroski opens the door. Winnie walks right in.

Winnie: Good god this house is old. I can’t imagine why Walter would want to live here. Mrs. Dombroski, my brother is very ill.
Mrs. Dombroski: Drunk I should say.
Winnie: Not Walter.
Ms. Mazurewicz: There have been ill omens of late.
Winnie: Yes, I know. Are you another tenant? I’m Winifred Gilman, I’m Walter’s sister. My friends call me Winnie.
Ms. Mazurewicz: Miss Gilman. Your brother is not well.
Winnie: Where is he? I must see him. Oh I came all this way, I do hope he’ll be alright.
Ms. Mazurewicz: It is almost time for Walpurgis-Night.
Winnie: What?
Ms. Mazurewicz: When hell’s blackest evil roams the earth and all the slaves of Satan gather for nameless rites and deeds. It is always a very bad time in Arkham, even though the fine folks up in Miskatonic Avenue and High and Saltonstall Streets pretend to know nothing about it. I know such things, for my grandmother in the old country had her tales from her grandmother. This time of year it is wise to pray and count one’s beads.
Winnie: Well that can’t be true. Nothing can be nameless. Everything has a name. How could anyone plan anything if they didn’t name it? “Oh you know that rite we do every year, let’s never name it ever” how silly. Oh Mrs. Dombroski please let me see my brother, do you know where he is?
Mrs. Dombroski: Last night I saw him go upstairs to his room, and I have not seen him come back down.
Winnie: Then I’ll go check his room. (she begins heading upstairs)
Ms. Mazurewicz: He may not be there. It is nearly Walpurgis-Night. There will be bad things. A child or two will go missing, and the authorities will do naught. For three months Keziah Mason and Brown Jenkin have not been near this house, nor anywhere else.
Winnie: Well that’s good.
Ms. Mazurewicz: They must be up to something.
Winnie: For Pete’s sake.

Winnie opens the door. A stinger. Winnie shrieks. Then laughs and enters the room.

Winnie: Oh, oh good he is still here. Walter? Walter? Walter, oh, you’re burning up. What strange light! Walter?

She leaves the room.

Winnie: He is very ill. I must fetch a doctor right away. Is there any water, Mrs. Dombroski?

Walter sits up and screams. He is fully-dressed, including shoes, despite having been in a deep sleep.

Ms. Mazurewicz: W imie Ojca I Syna I Ducha Swietego. (In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit)
Winnie: Walter?
Walter: What? Where am I? Where am I? Oh – I’m – here.
Winnie: Walter?
Walter: Winnie! What the blazes are you – I don’t feel well – my head –
Winnie: Walter, it’s alright. I’m here. You’re always taking care of me, now I get to take care of you.
Walter: But how did I get here? I was…the sun was very hot…there was an iridescent kaldeiscope little polyhedron…a shift and vast as converging plans of slippery looking…yellow, carmine, indigo were madly and inextricably blended…a fantastic balustraded terrace above a boundless jungle of outlandish, incredible peaks, balances planes, domes, minarets, horizontal discs poised on pinnacles, and numberless forms of still greater wilderness—some of stone and some of metal—glittering gloriously in the mixed, almost blistering glare from a polychromatic sky. The city below stretched away to the limits of vision, and–

He picks up an item off of his bed and screams. The item is a metal knob, somewhat resembling a starfish, somewhat resembling a barrel.

Walter: I must go with them, I must meet the Black Man, and go with them all to the throne of Azathoth at the center of Ultimate Chaos. I must sign in my own blood the book of Azathoth and take a new secret name.
Winnie: I am making an executive decision and taking you home.
Walter: But Winnie. I know. I know why I cannot go.
Winnie: You have to come with me. Please, Walter.
Walter: I cannot go to where the thin flute pipe mindlessly.
Winnie: Good. Come home with me.
Walter: I have seen the name Azathoth in the Necronomicon. It stands for a primal evil too horrible for humans to comprehend.
Winnie: Just come home, Walter.

Posted August 29, 2017 by agentksilver in writing

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What it’s like reading HP Lovecraft   Leave a comment

Something like fear chilled me as I sat there in the small hours alone–I say alone, for one who sits by a sleeper is indeed alone, perhaps more alone than he can realise. My uncle breathed heavily, his deep inhalations and exhalations accompanied by the rain outside, and punctuated by another nerve-racking sound of dripping water within–for the house was repulsively damp even in dry weather, and in this storm positively swamp-like. I studied the loose, antique masonry of the walls in the fungus-light and the feeble rays which stole in from the street through the screened windows; and once, when the noisome atmosphere of the place seemed to sicken me, I opened the door and looked up and down the street, feasting my eyes on familiar sights and my nostrils on the wholesome air. Still nothing occurred to reward my watching; and I yawned repeatedly, fatigue getting the better of apprehension.

Then the stirring of my uncle in his sleep attracted my notice. He had turned restlessly on the cot several times during the latter half of the first hour, but now he was breathing with unusual irregularity, occasionaly heaving a sigh which held more than a few of the qualities of a choking moan. I turned my electric flashlight on him and found his face averted, so rising and crossing to the other side of the cot–

Oh god don’t do that.

I again flashed the light to see if he seemed in any pain.


What I saw unnerved me most surprisingly, considering its relative triviality.


It must have been merely the association of any odd circumstance with the sinister nature of our location and mission, for surely the circumstance


was not itself frightful or unnatural.


It was merely that my uncle’s facial expression, disturbed no doubt by the strange dreams which our situation prompted, betrayed considerable agitation, and seemed not at all characteristic of him. His habitual expression was one of kindly and well-bred calm, whereas now a variety of emotions seemed struggling within him.

Well that’s disappointing.

I think, on the whole, that it was this variety which chiefly disturbed me. My uncle, as he gasped and tossed in increasing perturbation and with eyes that had now started open, seemed not one but many men, and suggested a curious quality of alienage from himself.

Oh no.

All at once he commenced to mutter, and I did not like the look of his mouth and teeth as he spoke.

You’re going to kill your uncle with the flashlight, aren’t you? DON’T KILL YOUR UNCLE WITH THE FLASHLIGHT.

The words were at first indistinguishable, and then–with a tremendous start–I recognised something about them which filled with me icy fear

He’s speaking French, isn’t he?

till I recalled the breadth of my uncle’s education and the interminable translations he had made from anthropological and antiquarian articles in the Revue des Deux Mondes. For the venerable Elihu Whipple was muttering in French


and the few phrases


I could distinguish seemed


connected with the darkest myths


he had ever adapted from the famous Paris magazine


Posted November 1, 2014 by agentksilver in Personal

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