Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

At 9/15/12 03:23 PM, mhzinski wrote: If one were to write in a style that is purposefully ineffective as a writing style they should first establish they can write. Introduce how awesome one can be before they start making a mess of things for art's sake. One can't sit down at a piano and slam it and call it free jazz. They need a reputation to call it free jazz. One can't start off without a ground measurement and expect mistakes to bee seen as genius instead of mistakes.

A parabolic arc with the writing getting the most destructive at the climax looks more intentional that a straight line of occasionally misfiring.

Hey, you know what? I completely understand that. Really, you're right that I must make a name for myself before I begin doing what I did with this story. Too bad I didn't realize that before. But I am glad you noticed my purposeful mistakes. It makes me feel that I've accomplished at least a couple of my original goals.

At 9/15/12 02:34 AM, mhzinski wrote: There is a frustrating lack of control on the focal point of the writing. Everything that could be used to be suspenseful or dramatic is introduced too early and too clumsily for it to truly evoke any terror or empathy. It works well for comedic effect kind of like a play with characters entering, realizing they weren't called for, and then disappointingly turning off-stage.

Don't introduce the reader to nightmares and blood-stains and the terrors only to not use them immediately. Attention is generated through a solid flow, and though one could argue more suspense is made by making the reader wait for those details to be implemented while the character is unaware, that needs to be done very carefully and with better pacing.

There are also a few sentences that are not, and misused words that could be fixed if it were edited more carefully.

For future reference, beginning all of a narrator's sentences with I and it becomes boring much more quickly than proper sentence variation. It reads as amateurish and mundane instead of refined and organized writing.

4/10 writing.

You should know that the chaotic organization of the story is meant to represent the downfall of the main character's sanity. Yes, there are broken sentences and misused words, but they are there for emphasis on how hard his disease is becoming to control. This was almost what I was expecting to hear, however egotistical that sounds, because I was interested to see what I was able to do without any outline and plot guide.

However, I can agree with you on the overused "I" and "it" beginnings, along with the introduction of nightmares, etc. too early in the story. Looking through your past posts, and seeing that you are not exactly the easiest human being to please, I will take your criticism with the utmost attention. Anyway, thanks for reading the story, at least :)

Alright, so this one was kind of a disaster on the formatting front between transferring the story from Word to Newgrounds. However, I hope that you looked past my noob-like mistake and enjoyed the story. Aside from the quotation/apostrophe glitch, please give me your most constructive criticism.

Also, any help or tips on how to format a story correctly for this website, so I don't end up with a glitched out piece of shit copy like my first post, would be very much appreciated as a PM.

Again, sorry for the noob mistake. I will do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again.

Cool Draft Part 3

Curious, I began shuttling the ashes aside with my hands. About half of the remnants were gone before the puddle of dark water began to emit an eerie black smoke of its own. It was as if a shadow was creeping out of the fluid. As I neared it, beginning to sweat, I heard the distinct sound of radio static. I tried to back away, tried to escape, but a force too powerful to be human kept reeling my helpless body in. As my struggle continued, the day passed within seconds, and night began to emerge. The sky became painted with reds and blues and greens, like a monstrous reenactment of the Aurora Borealis. All the while, my vision began to fade. Then, out of the blackness of the water (was it even still water?), emerged the shadow-figure of the nightmare previous. With my faded vision, it was the only thing that I could see clearly. Trying with all my might to back away from the hideous abomination before me, I partially succeeded, and began to sprint towards the road. I witnessed the trees closing in upon me, becoming a tunnel only fit for a car. And still, I ran. I ran without looking back, with no use. The image of the eyeless creature, smoke emitting from its thin frame, static coming from its unseen mouth, was burned into my mind. And still, I ran. I ran until my veins pumped battery acid, until I could barely see the multiplying hallucinations before me. All of them, cast in shadow, every one resembling a demon in Hell. All of this, against me, for where the road should have been was placed a depression, a drop off, miles down. At last, I looked back. All of the demons were before me, now just staring. Towards me, through the crowd of hallucinations, came the shadow. It wanted me to give up. Like everyone else, it wanted me to give up. No! I can't take the pills, my friends! Never in my life will I succumb to medication. Never in my existence will I be defeated by this terrible disease, for it plagued me for five years of my life! But it shall plague me no more. I throw away my clozapine, my burdens, my doubts! Sheer willpower is what brings victory against enemies such as these! I do it for you, my wife, my Rose! For you, father, my mentor! For you, mother, my hope! I will sacrifice all to ensure that I live as a normal man, to not fear waking up the next morning, believing it to be my last in my home. Tempus fugit, shadow, time flies. And it has been many years that I have lived with you, endured the suffering you had laid upon me with a wicked hand. I turn to face the shadow, the hallucinations. And I run. I run until my disease no longer makes my wife tear up every night. I run until I no longer have to force down a pill a day just to ensure I will not go insane. I run until I reach the figure. And I ram my fist, my anger, my sadness, into its vicious jaw. Then I wake up.
Epilogue

This was the last of my hallucinations.

Five years ago, to this day, I had a panic attack. Well, more than that. I...lost all touch with reality, went into a coma running down a flight of stairs. Funny thing, how all of your dreams feature one common thing. Hallucinations are the same for most people. In mine, things were always chasing me, running me down. I had no choice but to go with the "flow" and run with my disease. My wife, poor thing, was horrified. We agreed to go to a psychologist after I had killed the dog in one of my attacks. Dr. Lee prescribed me medication, temporarily, until we could get to the root of the problem. She, along with my wife, assisted me in becoming like I once was. I was normal for a few months, until I had the last attack. After this one, I couldn't stand it anymore. I...I overdosed on my clozapine, the medicine I was given to treat the disease. Waking up in the hospital, I held my wife, Rose, until we ran dry of tears. I love her more than life itself because after the hospital, she never gave up on me, never backed down. And neither did I. I learned to control my attacks until they were no more. It took years of pain, years of hardships. But we defeated it.

We now live in an apartment in Chicago. SheâEUTMs having our first baby this fall, a boy. We couldn't be happier with what we have now. My name is Robert Locksley. I was afflicted with schizophrenia. But every disease has a cure. And every nightmare has hope.

For you will always wake up.

OK, sorry about any other copy and paste Word mistakes I make along here. Trying my best.

Cool Draft Part 2

The voices outside must have been the causes of the inferno that raged in my bedroom. They had obviously broken in through the window without my hearing them because there was an abundance of glass shards sprawled out on the floor. My possessions were already gone. I could smell the leather of my travel bag burning. At first, I had attempted to quiet the blaze by using the carpet to snuff it out, all the while breathing endless gusts of smoke. All of my efforts failed, so I made a break for the shattered window. I jumped through it, cutting myself in the process, and distanced myself from the cabin enough for an ironically comfortable heat to emit from the disaster before me. I watched the cabin burn down until resembled one of the buildings at Hiroshima, then left it behind as I used my phone for a flashlight to illuminate my way, hoping to find the trail that lead to the reservation office.

When I found my way to the offices, shuddering in terror and freezing to death, I found them uninhabited and closed. Now that I thought about it, I hadn't seen any lights, signs of life, nothing for the past half an hour. I assumed the worst; the possibility that the locals burned me out of my house and left the reservation, hoping to scare me out of their property. Only later did I learn the assumption I made should have been a hope. Someone was there with me, watching me. Paying close attention to my every move. Waiting for me to fuck up, trip on a stick or rock, so they could ambush me, perform atrocities that no human being should do. That wasn't going to happen, I said. Not ever.

I decided to explore the office before trying to find my way out of the reservation. The door wasn't locked, oddly enough. I cautiously took a step inside, shining my phone's LED light as far as it could reach into the cabin. I saw nothing of interest, so I stepped inside and shut the door about halfway. As silently as I could, crouching, I crept around every nook and cranny of that office until there was nothing left to be uncovered. I turned around to leave, when I then saw a shadow dart across the moonlight shining through the crack in the front door. My heart leapt out of my chest as I quickly slid myself into the tightest corner in the room. I shut my phone off, for fear that if the shadow saw it, my position would be made obvious. Holding my phone against my chest, (in these situation, you hold on to whatever you happen to be nearest to at the time) I waited in silence. After five minutes of nothing, the door opened ever so slightly. The moonlight was blocked by a tall figure standing in the doorway. It looked around the room. I know this because the only feature that I could make out were its ears. Then, as if it knew someone was thinking of it, it took three long strides inside, keeping the door open. I couldn't breathe, not just because it was a dangerous act to do so, but because fear had me in its tightest grip at that moment. Footsteps coming closer, not changing pace, always with the same speed and volume, as if walking to a slow rhythm. Yards. Feet. When the dark figure arrived inches from me, I nearly fainted. It was just around the corner that I had been peeping out from behind. In an act of complete rashness, I retrieved my phone from my pocket. Pointing it in front of me, I turned it on. The ensuing illumination revealed the figure just millimeters away from my faceâEU¦I was so racked with fear I could not possibly move. It was staring at me, although I cannot be sure because the abominable shadow before me appeared to have no eyes. Yet, despite this horrid feature, it continued to stare at me, bending down to reach my pathetic fetal position height. I heard a sound that resembled radio static, smelled ashes. Then, the horrible figure began to back away, still bending down, walking backwards, and still...staring at me. The static became quieter as it got farther away, until I heard the door shut, and then it stopped. I sat there, unable to move, to speak, to scream, for ten minutes. As I drifted into sleep, I swear I heard the sound of the door opening once more.

I awoke with a start to the bitter smell of burning leaves. The thing was gone, and sunlight poured through the windows in solid rays. My vision was mildly blurred for a few seconds before it returned to normal. I checked my pants for my wallet and phone. They had not been touched, nor had the rest of me. However, when I got up, I nearly passed out due to a splitting pain in my head. The feeling was akin to someone forcing a metal rod into my skull and then melting it. Wincing as I stood up, I had a look about my environment. The office was as it had been that night. At least, I assumed it was the previous night, since no one had arrived to assist me. Looking back at the ground, I saw a dried area of blood, about a foot in diameter. How much had I lost? Walking out of the office, the reservation was as desolate as it was the night before, not a damn soul in sight. A few minutes passed. Then hours. It never became dark, so I could only assume I had woken in the early morning. All that was possible now was to try and comprehend my situation. What was it that I had laid my eyes upon? Still, I could see its face, though every time I thought of it my heart skipped a beat. I took a walk through the reservation, figuring the only rational thing to do was to follow the smell of smoke I had encountered a few hours previous.

About another hour passed before I reached a mound of smoldering leaves, still hot. In a way, despite my predicament, I was comforted by it. Probably due to the fact that my father and I used to spend time together burning leaves in autumn. After minutes spend reminiscing, I noticed a distinct dark puddle from underneath the leaves. Nearing it, I was relieved to see that it was not blood, but water.

Wait.

Water?

Let's try that again, without copy and pasting from Word like a jackass.

Cool Draft Part 1

The leaves of oaks in the silent woods of Indiana shift once more, for it is October. The oaks, standing high. The branches swaying as the heavy breeze sails over, under, around them. That night, the oaks and the leaves and the songs of others lost, became parts of my dreams. However, I have to escape them, the sinister visions of what others call illusion. For they also populate my vivid nightmares.

I needed to relax. My nerves... a tangled mess of cautiousness. Or anxiety. I have never had the chance or the patience to find out which. My wife had recommended a stay at a luxurious inn at the peak of some overrated Californian mountain, mostly inhabited by wealthy men and women who took great advantage of the alcohol and cocaine provide on the house by the manager (certainly not the cocaine, though. But to those who begged...) to rid themselves of their furious guilt. Guilt of their ridiculous piles of money. Guilt of their undeniable success. Fuck it, I said. I needed a real retreat, not a simple vacation. Browsing the Internet, I found nothing. However, a local gas station attendant gave me information on Moss Creek, an off-the-map reservation the Native Americans of the area occasionally rented out to guests. They had several cabins available, and although you would gain better views of the river in most areas, I made haste to rent No. 6, the quaint cabin at the very edge of the reservation, just beyond view of the numerous tourist attractions. This was the place, I exclaimed to my wife, that I needed to visit to get my career back on track. What? Yes, of course IâEUTMll be alone, I told her. She said to "be safe" and to "come back soon". It was as far from safe as possible. But I had come back, alright. I came back. Dammit, my love, my Rose, I came back!

Why can't you realize that?

I packed a change of clothes, my notebook, and my clozapine. When I arrived at the reservation, I was hopelessly lost. The locals didnâEUTMt help much, never paid any attention to me, even when I yelled at them. However, I couldn't help but to wholeheartedly agree with them. After all, I did happen to be an unfamiliar white guy in a black sedan, my tire tracks churning their ancestors' soil.

After several hours and a few headache pills later, I pulled up alongside cabin No. 6. It was a small log cabin, about the size of an average garage, definitely not much of anything at first glance. I chuckled as I walked up the steps, thinking about Abraham Lincoln as a young man living in a cabin akin to this. When I walked inside, I was shocked at the massive bookcases lining the walls. So thoroughly did they take up the perimeter of the inside of the cabin, one may mistake them for wallpaper if they were two-dimensional. In all honesty, the damn place resembled a library, complete with period chairs, sofas, etc. This cabin surprised me that so many things could fit into such an inferior residence. I was so awestruck with the interior of the cabin, my senses failed to alert me to the blood stain that crept out from underneath the large Persian carpet in the middle of the dining area. Aside from that, the cabin seemed to be fitted to my standards and wishes, perfectly organized into the dwelling that I hoped it would be.

At exactly five in the evening, I decided to take a calm stroll through one of the many trails in the woods that surrounded the reservation. With my hands warmly stuck in my pockets, I absorbed everything my senses brought me. The rustic patterns of red and yellow in the trees. The fresh, crisp taste of the autumn air. The smell of wet soil and distant smoke. All of it like ecstasy for my mood. My soul. My heart. My nightmares.

My walk lasted for about three hours, and as soon as I arrived back at my lincoln-log home, I began browsing the dozens of bookshelves it had to offer. In these cornucopias of literature, there was not a single language absent from their collection. English, French, Dutch, Russian, German, Italian, and Spanish writings graced the crevices of the shelves. Even the ancient tongues of our ancestors adorned this library. Gaelic and Latin, Old English, some African lyric poems from eons ago stuffed in a notebook. However, even with the vast number of dialects that frequented the shelves, it was not they that roused my attention the most. It was the creators of these works that sent my mind reeling. Lovecraft, a personal favorite, appearing to have a special foothold on the collection, dominated an entire shelf. Dante's Comedy stood out with a binding of soft tan leather of which I had never seen before. This was my sweet paradise. This was the salvation I've needed since I began writing five years ago. The tender embrace my mind craved from the harshness of reality. All of that...

Until I laid eyes on the very thing that set my nerves on edge.

Perusing the selection before I settled in for the night, a certain name exposed itself to me between two Lovecraft works. Abdul Alhazred. Mad creator of the Necronomicon. My nerves sailed like they never had before, not because of the author of the book I now held in my hands, nor the actual appearance of such vile literature. What sent me into terror was the simple fact that Alhazred and his Necronomicon were made up by Lovecraft himself to fuel some of his stories. They were fictional entities. So why were they here, physically here, bearing down on my thoughts.

Until midnight I pondered this sequence of unfortunate events, arriving at no rational explanation. Several coffees were downed on the subject before I felt the weight of sleep upon my eyes.

One A.M. Not long after this time, I was awoken by the near inaudible sound of voices outside of my bedroom wall. Silently, I sat up in bed, still dressed in the outfit I had worn during the day, and crept slowly over to the wall. Cupping my now sweaty hands over my left ear, I could still not recognize what was being said. But it was definitely being said fast. Damn fast. And was that...was that gurgling? Yes. Oh God, yes, there was no reason for it not to be. It had to be gurgling. It had to be. It had to be. It had to be. It...

The voices stopped as soon as a swift knock against my door awoke me. It was 2:00 A.M.

I hoped that my night owl visitor was someone I would recognize. My beautiful wife, come here worried. However, no such luck came my way, for when I opened the door, just a crack, I could make out the beginnings of a puddle of dark crimson staining the welcome mat. I let the door swing itself open to the sight of what I pleaded to Christ was a tipped-over bottle of red wine. Before I experienced the displeasure of witnessing the unknown scene in front of me, however, the cabin began to feel warm. I hurried to my bedroom, towards the unfamiliar heat, all the while, the scent of smoke becoming stronger.

So, this is my first time on Newgrounds in a very long time. A few weeks back, I started writing again to get rid of stress, and I figured this wonderful place would be a great place to launch my career as a writer, something I've always wanted to do.

Now, I know this one might be really bad, seeing as it's the first I've written since being out of practice for about a year. This is why I'm looking for constructive, respectful criticism. If you do that , I'm sure we'll get along just fine :)

So, here goes....

Cool Draft Part 1

The leaves of oaks in the silent woods of Indiana shift once more, for it is October. Although I have lost my ability to see all that is beautiful, this picturesque setting will be forever my only companion. For although the people who visit me daily may call themselves my friends, try to snuggle up to me, get to know me, all they will ever be are hollowed souls of illusionistic comfort for which I would have never met had it not been for the leaves, paper-like. The oaks, standing high. The branches swaying as the heavy breeze sails over, under, around them. That night, the oaks and the leaves and the songs of others lost, became parts of my dreams. However, I have to escape them, the sinister visions of what others call illusion. For they also populate my vivid nightmares.

I needed to relax. My nervesâEU¦ a tangled mess of cautiousness. Or anxiety. IâEUTMve never had the chance or the patience to find out which. My wife had recommended a stay at a luxurious inn at the peak of some overrated Californian mountain, mostly inhabited by wealthy men and women who took great advantage of the alcohol and cocaine provide on the house by the manager (certainly not the cocaine, though. But to those who beggedâEU¦) to rid themselves of their furious guilt. Guilt of their ridiculous piles of money. Guilt of their undeniable success. Fuck it, I said. I needed a real retreat, not a simple vacation. Browsing the Internet, I found nothing. However, a local gas station attendant gave me information on Moss Creek, an off-the-map reservation the Native Americans of the area occasionally rented out to guests. They had several cabins available, and although you would gain better views of the river in most areas, I made haste to rent No. 6, the quaint cabin at the very edge of the reservation, just beyond view of the numerous tourist attractions. This was the place, I exclaimed to my wife, that I needed to visit to get my career back on track. What? Yes, of course IâEUTMll be alone, I told her. She said to âEUoebe safeâEU and to âEUoecome back soonâEU. It was as far from safe as possible. But I had come back, alright. I came back. Dammit, my love, my Rose, I came back!

Why canâEUTMt you realize that?

I packed a change of clothes, my notebook, and my clozapine. When I arrived at the reservation, I was hopelessly lost. The locals didnâEUTMt help much, never paid any attention to me, even when I yelled at them. However, I couldnâEUTMt help but to wholeheartedly agree with them. After all, I did happen to be an unfamiliar white guy in a black sedan, my tire tracks churning their ancestorsâEUTM soil.

After several hours and a few headache pills later, I pulled up alongside cabin No. 6. It was a small log cabin, about the size of an average garage, definitely not much of anything at first glance. I chuckled as I walked up the steps, thinking about Abraham Lincoln as a young man living in a cabin akin to this. When I walked inside, I was shocked at the massive bookcases lining the walls. So thoroughly did they take up the perimeter of the inside of the cabin, one may mistake them for wallpaper if they were two-dimensional. In all honesty, the damn place resembled a library, complete with period chairs, sofas, etc. This cabin surprised me that so many things could fit into such an inferior residence. I was so awestruck with the interior of the cabin, my senses failed to alert me to the blood stain that crept out from underneath the large Persian carpet in the middle of the dining area. Aside from that, the cabin seemed to be fitted to my standards and wishes, perfectly organized into the dwelling that I hoped it would be.

At exactly five in the evening, I decided to take a calm stroll through one of the many trails in the woods that surrounded the reservation. With my hands warmly stuck in my pockets, I absorbed everything my senses brought me. The rustic patterns of red and yellow in the trees. The fresh, crisp taste of the autumn air. The smell of wet soil and distant smoke. All of it like ecstasy for my mood. My soul. My heart. My nightmares.

My walk lasted for about three hours, and as soon as I arrived back at my lincoln-log home, I began browsing the dozens of bookshelves it had to offer. In these cornucopias of literature, there was not a single language absent from their collection. English, French, Dutch, Russian, German, Italian, and Spanish writings graced the crevices of the shelves. Even the ancient tongues of our ancestors adorned this library. Gaelic and Latin, Old English, some African lyric poems from eons ago stuffed in a notebook. However, even with the vast number of dialects that frequented the shelves, it was not they that roused my attention the most. It was the creators of these works that sent my mind reeling. Lovecraft, a personal favorite, appearing to have a special foothold on the collection, dominated an entire shelf. DanteâEUTMs Comedy stood out with a binding of soft tan leather of which I had never seen before. This was my sweet paradise. This was the salvation IâEUTMve needed since I began writing five years ago. The tender embrace my mind craved from the harshness of reality. All of thatâEU¦.

Until I laid eyes on the very thing that set my nerves on edge.

Perusing the selection before I settled in for the night, a certain name exposed itself to me between two Lovecraft works. Abdul Alhazred. Mad creator of the Necronomicon. My nerves sailed like they never had before, not because of the author of the book I now held in my hands, nor the actual appearance of such vile literature. What sent me into terror was the simple fact that Alhazred and his Necronomicon were made up by Lovecraft himself to fuel some of his stories. They were fictional entities. So why were they here, physically here, bearing down on my thoughts.

Until midnight I pondered this sequence of unfortunate events, arriving at no rational explanation. Several coffees were downed on the subject before I felt the weight of sleep upon my eyes.

One A.M. Not long after this time, I was awoken by the near inaudible sound of voices outside of my bedroom wall. Silently, I sat up in bed, still dressed in the outfit I had worn during the day, and crept slowly over to the wall. Cupping my now sweaty hands over my left ear, I could still not recognize what was being said. But it was definitely being said fast. Damn fast. And was thatâEU¦was that gurgling? Yes. Oh God, yes, there was no reason for it not to be. It had to be gurgling. It had to be. It had to be. It had to be. ItâEU¦.

The voices stopped as soon as a swift knock against my door awoke me. It was 2:00 A.M.

I hoped that my night owl visitor was someone I would recognize. My beautiful wife, come here worried. However, no such luck came my way, for when I opened the door, just a crack, I could make out the beginnings of a puddle of dark crimson staining the welcome mat. I let the door swing itself open to the sight of what I pleaded to Christ was a tipped-over bottle of red wine. Before I experienced the displeasure of witnessing the unknown scene in front of me, however, the cabin began to feel warm. I hurried to my bedroom, towards the unfamiliar heat, all the while, the scent of smoke becoming stronger.

Hi Deft,
If you don't mind, I love the way you critique the submissions and was wondering if you could take a gander at my own. By the way, good luck on your story. Sounds like it's going to be a top contender!

Part 2 of Strangers

The time on my watch read 5:30... A.M.? No... that cannot possibly be correct! It was 7:00 in the dawn hours when I had left! How could.... I set off that last thought on the possible fact that my old watch may be broken. Right now, my focus should be on getting the girl out of this hellish nightmare.
I looked around for a weapon or tool of a sort that I may be able to defend myself with during a moment of combat. After several minutes I discovered a large crowbar lying in the back of the house. I figured that this would be the best tool to use in case I wanted to get into any rooms or, God forbid, smash someone's skull in. Now that I had a means of defense, I began searching for other means of entrance. My search thankfully found me a cellar door that was locked with an iron padlock. Trying to be as quiet as possible as to not attract any unwanted attention from the neighbors or Necrose, I had inserted the flat edge of the crowbar into the space between the lock and the door and gave it a strong push. The lock cracked open as though it was nothing. I kept the crowbar in hand at all times as I entered the cellar into the dark audient void of the Conry Hotel.
When I stepped into the darkness, out of the quaint light of outside, I could instantly tell that this particular area of the house was the basement. It was cold and damp, dark as the void that keeps me coming back, like positive and negative forces. I managed to find one book of matches in my right pocket and lit one. The completeness of the darkness was enough so that my match illuminated an area of about one to two feet in front of me. I clambered about, searching for a door leading upstairs, to the kitchen. For what seemed like an eternity, I had discovered a small, thin line of light, which must be coming out of the crack on the bottom of the door. Carefully, I made my way up the steps, trying not to make as much as a creak. I put my match out before entering the kitchen, in which a single light swung above the cooking counter. Next to the counter, to the right, there should have been butcher knives. All of them were missing; no doubt the work of Necrose.
As I made my way into the lobby, however, a horror struck me like no other blow, harder than a club to the head, faster than horse at full sprint. I was paralyzed by what lay before me. For what purpose it served, I still have not found. What lay there, in the middle of the lobby, was a twenty foot tall crucifix, pinned onto it; the lifeless body of the receptionist, nails swiftly entered into her wrists and ankles, a crown of despising thorns atop her skull, of which had been scalped for some unknown, sinister reason. And oh, the inferno! The area around the cross was littered with broiling flames, of which I swear I had heard the howls of the suffered upon.
Out of the shadows, out of the flames that engulfed the lifeless hotel, came Necrose, doer of all the damning evil in this cursed place, this Hell. As he came close, drenched in the stink of blood, axe of hatred in his cold grip, running, I raised my crowbar high to the heavens...

Night Six Hundred and Seventy-Nine

Cyrus had released me from the Arkam Institution today, on account of good behavior. After the incident at the former Conry Hotel, the old Victorian structure had been torn down, the pieces disposed of. It has been replaced by a local bakery, of which I understand has been doing considerably good business. As for the receptionist, of whose name is... was... Mary, her body had been buried in a spot of fertile ground overlooking the countryside. After the incident, the police found me in the morning swinging a crowbar wildly inside a burning building, of which everyone thought was just under destruction by the fire department. When they found me, I was out of breath, cut up, and burned. Inside my jacket they had found two items; a small book of matches, and a set of butcher knives. Whenever I think of that incident, I always see Robert Necrose, standing before me, with a confused look on his face. Then, as I reach out to touch him, he reaches out to me. And instead of touching his cold, unyielding hands,

I touch a smooth surface of polished glass...
and then I remember.

Here's one of my first stories for you guys. Enjoy!

Strangers
The inane vocat me ... Mors et infernalis ... capto ... occiditis et immatura falce ... muriresponsum est fabula ... speculis... Et fabula.
When I had woken from my dreams into the sight of England, knowing that I would be traveling by foot to Penn Street (the legendary home of my ancestors, Howard Phillips Conry and his housewife, Sarah Conry), I had a sickly feeling that as I stepped onto the walkway off of the train's rust-infested steps, rain would most certainly be drizzling onto my coat. My hypothesis turned out to be correct, seeing as this is England. However, the precipitation did not bother me much, due to my lack of being outdoors since the trip from Paris. I longed for the familiar feeling of the wind on my cheeks when I followed my peers off of the sleeper car.
I had only ever seen pictures of the historic Victorian dwelling that my family had bought in the month of September, 1822 by my father, eager to view the property that his great-grandfather had owned in the years 1783-1812. In that time span, both of my great-great-grandparents had passed away of tuberculosis, which seemed to run in the family, seeing as my father died of the disease a few years ago. The home had been standing ever since then, unoccupied, yet not empty, or so the locals say. Legend has it that in the forty-something years that it had been abandoned, the souls of horrific and deathly things lurked in the dark void of corners. I had hired what must be particularly brave men, then, as I had received news of the home's completion of remodeling about two weeks ago. Since then, I had been traveling from my Paris home to this one to spend a few nights there. I had previously thought of turning it into a house for my brothers, of which all of them had been homeless in America for twelve years, but due to their lack of caring about its aesthetic, I am now directing the business of making a nice hotel of it. After all, I had not a well-paying job in a week, and in order to receive a steady income from this place, I very well do not even have to be present. My good friend Cyrus had been assigned the task of running the hotel in my absence, the job of which he seems eager to begin.
After my five-mile journey to the Conry Hotel (quaint name, don't you think?), Cyrus greeted me with open arms and gave me a tour of the establishment. In total, there are exactly fifty rooms, all of which were previously used as offices for my father's colleagues. The main lobby was nicely decorated, and I was given the Master Suite to the left corner of the second floor.
Something I found odd about the place was the complete absence of any living being aside from myself and Cyrus. I was expecting the laborers to be still at work finishing up any last minute touches, or at least a few taking a break on the lobby sofa. However, the place looked like it was in good hands, and my worries disappeared as soon as we finished the tour. The time was 8:30 in the night, and Cyrus soon left me to my ancestors' home, alone.

Night One

I figured that the first order of business was to open the hotel, seeing as the receptionist would not be in England for another week, leaving me with the task. Two hours went by, of which I spent time familiarizing myself with the surrounding lobby and kitchen. At 11:43, I heard a knock on the front door. At the time, I was in the lobby, reading a book. I opened the door, seeing as it was locked, and saw what was to be my first and last customer.
The individual in which I speak so ominously of had a unique physical appearance. In the darkness, I could make out a shape of a man in a long trench coat of German origin. He stepped inside, where I could get a better view of him. His face was tan, with a small moustache. His accent, as far as I can tell, was German. He spoke only a limited amount of speech to me that night, and the last that I saw of him was the sight of him walking up the steps to the room opposite mine. Afterword's, after a long night of reading and study, I drifted off to sleep.

Night Two

The following morning, when I had awoken, the sun was rising up over the dark horizon. I guessed that the time was somewhere between 6:30 and 7:00 in the early hours of the morning. When I was fully dressed and moved downstairs to the lobby, the odd sight of the receptionist startled me. She greeted me warmly, and explained that her plans were cut short and she had decided to return to the hotel to begin her new job. As we were conversing, I noticed that the key to room 404 was still missing from its hook. I thought nothing of it, as most people don't wake up at the break of dawn on weekends. I walked outside to the brisk autumn air caressed my body. What a wonderful season to open a hotel!
Quite a large number of people were out and about on this particular morning as I walked over to the local coffee shop, where I was strongly expecting Cyrus to be. Yet again, my predictions were correct, as he was sitting reading a newspaper at the far left corner of the shop. I made my order, and then proceeded to where my friend was seated. We quickly started up conversation about the hotel. He was very curious about how my evening there went, and I told him that I never got a chance to sleep in my own bed, but as it stands, the floor is very comfortable. We laughed and joked about my night until I brought up the facts concerning my first guest. As I described him, however, his facial expressions took the form of grotesque horror. When I finished, he looked shocked beyond anything I had ever viewed. Was there something wrong about the character that had checked in last night? After all, if that was true, Cyrus would be the one to know. He had been living in England his entire life, and had grown up around the area. He nervously took a sip from his coffee. Eventually, he told me about the man that I had met last night.
The man's name was Robert Necrose. He had apparently been working at the local steel mill for forty years before he had retired later last year. He had always been a happy and quite cheerful man until his wife had died soon after his retirement. Soon after, he fell into a void of never ending depression. The final part of Cyrus's explanation shook me to the very core of my soul. Just last week, he had committed suicide by hanging himself in his sister's basement. Yet it wasn't a full suicide. The sister heard the noise of his body dropping from upstairs and had come to rescue him. Later, he was locked away in an asylum all the way in Devonshire. Legend has it, however new the legend may be, is that he had escaped due to explicit voices and chants in his troubled mind. Cyrus informed me that it was possible, although totally unlikely, that the voices told him to go to the hotel.
Our conversation had ended immediately afterwards, and I figured it best to run back to the hotel and confront this "Robert" man on whom so many fears were set upon. Once I got back, however, the door to the structure was tightly locked and possibly barred with some sort of unusually strong object. Christ! I should have told that young girl to stay inside and watch over that man! I pondered in the empty streets for a moment or two when I proposed my next plan of action should be to attempt to make my way inside, find the receptionist, and get us out of there before Necrose is aware of our presence.

End of part 1. Part 2 will be continued in next post.