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The imposing fifteenth century church has been left to decay by the inhabitants of Clophill in favour of a new, more convenient building. The church, which is set over a mile away from the village, has grown soundless and, as the hour of midnight draws close, appears menacing towards the outside world. Two very large perpendicular windows make up the north and south facings of the building, graves pre-dating the surrounding trees themselves litter the hill the church sits upon and rubble from acts of vandalism has already begun to collect around the base. Despite the slow decay engulfing the church you are not looking at a pathetic figure of the late nineteenth century British landscape. Instead we are witnessed to the slow death of a monster, the gradual wilting of the black flower on this otherwise picturesque, rural landscape. And it is this bleak night in 1896 that we are to meet our villain.
He is only ever referred to as Samuel; he has no surname, or at least none I can recall and a strong believer in the power of ancient artifacts. And tonight he shows all the vigor and energy of a man in his mid-twenties, moving at a blistering pace along the dirt road, his face flushed with colour and wearing a long black coat and top hat, looking almost as dark as the night that surrounds him. Despite Samuel’s pitch black eyes and cold behavior, his general chubby appearance create a far more friendly and approachable characteristic. Yet the dim moonlight, displaying his vague movements towards the church, make him seem far more dangerous tonight. For tonight, like many nights before it, Samuel had an experiment to conduct.
His fellow villagers often saw Samuel as an oddity, no one knew where he obtained his surprising amount of wealth, nor could that conclude why he was so obsessed with collecting seemingly worthless objects. They do not know because they would not understand. The obsession surrounding these objects is down to Samuel’s strong belief in magic. He believes that the world was once filled with those that had the ability to harness specialist powers, he also believed that in order to pass these powers down to further generations they were incased in various objects. This is why he was the laughing stock of the village; this is why he was mocked by his neighbours and retained no friends. And yet he was not alone in his belief. For another resident of Clophill, a mister Joe Mitchell also believed in talismans. And he had been watching Samuel intently, for Samuel had visited multiple countries in the past year and Joe had reason for concern.
Joe was moving at a far more leisurely pace down the same dirt track that Samuel had come crashing along moments before. He appeared far older than Samuel, sporting a small grey beard and similar black attire; his facial features indicates a calm sedateness about him, he stood erect and made large strides as he approached the church. He may appear older but that’s not to say he seemed weaker or more vulnerable in anyway, in fact he looked almost as healthy and even stronger than our chubbier villain. Speaking of which Samuel has since entered the Church and stood towards the far wall, sitting his top hat on the floor whilst maneuvering a set of unintelligible objects on a large flat, cracked stone. At this point Joe had silently positioned himself near the huge door, which was at the opposing wall to where Samuel stood. Samuel had not seen Joe enter, or at least we presume he hadn’t, he was bent over his work and faced away from Joe who had still not moved from his position.
A lesser man would have fled from this church; it had been (near enough) deserted and was therefore intimidating towards any visitors. Bar these two men, the church was empty, the walls are featureless, darkness has since devoured the place where God once lived. The only light within the church was that of a single candle by Samuel’s side, the soft but persistent wind caused the candle to flicker and casts its illusions of ghouls and daemons across the emotionless walls. But these daemons would not dare move from their sidelined position, for even they were not fearless enough to challenge these two dark figures of humanity.
“Hello Joe.” Samuel said softly but confidently, still bent over his work as if the presence of the aged man had not affected him in anyway. Joe had previously assumed he had evaded Samuel’s gaze and was both surprised and disappointed to discover that was not the case. Joe opted to mask his disappointment with a cold response.
“Hello Samuel.” His words were spoken softly but with level of bitter contempt in order to provoke his foe. And yet Samuel continued with his work without any physical sign that Joe had managed to unnerve him. This of course unnerved Joe and it was at this point that he realised any mind games, which were erupting between the two men, would be drawn out and ultimately pointless.
“I’ll have to insist you stop what you are doing,” Joe said with a veil of calm being used to hide his threat.
Samuel looked up briefly before lowering his head again, “You know I cannot do that.”
Joe paused a moment, “what you are doing…” he said hesitantly, “I cannot let you do it Samuel, it is far too dangerous, even for you.” The cold air thickened, the candle grew smaller, the daemons dimmed with it and Joe tried to resist a shudder, well aware the cold air would not be the only reason for it. Samuel perhaps agreed with Joe but it was notwithstanding, he hesitated above what appeared to be a small marble figure before continuing his dark task.
Joe slowly edged from the door, closer to the center of the church; the wind was no longer soft and persistent but erratic, biting and hard. The silence was almost deafening and filled with hate, but Samuel did his best to ignore it. Joe meanwhile could not. This tension had been accumulating for sometime between them and, for Joe at least, it was time to release it. This once room of society now only reeked of death and destruction and Joe’s heart turned to ice as he produced a pistol from the inside of his coat. The pistol was the most eloquent instrument present during this scene; it had been handmade with some bird of prey carved into the silver handle, complimented with gold around the eyes of one of nature’s most beautiful killers. Joe cocked the gun and, at last, a small ‘click’ broke that silence.
Samuel stopped. He clenched his fists and dug them into the cold stone and considered his next action, knowing full well what that simple noise meant. Samuel turned around casually and said, “Joe…” before Joe fired. The bullet tore into Samuel’s neck; blood flowed down his black coat as he attempted in vain to staunch the flow. He fell back onto the stone platform where his peculiar objects stood; he knocked them all aside and fell there, dead. Joe did not move as Samuel fell, the wind grew violent, the candle flickered madly and the daemons leaped across the wall in panic and fear before the candle was finally blown out.
It is 107 years later before we get to meet our hero.
He is only ever referred to as Samuel; he has no surname, or at least none I can recall and a strong believer in the power of ancient artifacts. And tonight he shows all the vigor and energy of a man in his mid-twenties, moving at a blistering pace along the dirt road, his face flushed with colour and wearing a long black coat and top hat, looking almost as dark as the night that surrounds him. Despite Samuel’s pitch black eyes and cold behavior, his general chubby appearance create a far more friendly and approachable characteristic. Yet the dim moonlight, displaying his vague movements towards the church, make him seem far more dangerous tonight. For tonight, like many nights before it, Samuel had an experiment to conduct.
His fellow villagers often saw Samuel as an oddity, no one knew where he obtained his surprising amount of wealth, nor could that conclude why he was so obsessed with collecting seemingly worthless objects. They do not know because they would not understand. The obsession surrounding these objects is down to Samuel’s strong belief in magic. He believes that the world was once filled with those that had the ability to harness specialist powers, he also believed that in order to pass these powers down to further generations they were incased in various objects. This is why he was the laughing stock of the village; this is why he was mocked by his neighbours and retained no friends. And yet he was not alone in his belief. For another resident of Clophill, a mister Joe Mitchell also believed in talismans. And he had been watching Samuel intently, for Samuel had visited multiple countries in the past year and Joe had reason for concern.
Joe was moving at a far more leisurely pace down the same dirt track that Samuel had come crashing along moments before. He appeared far older than Samuel, sporting a small grey beard and similar black attire; his facial features indicates a calm sedateness about him, he stood erect and made large strides as he approached the church. He may appear older but that’s not to say he seemed weaker or more vulnerable in anyway, in fact he looked almost as healthy and even stronger than our chubbier villain. Speaking of which Samuel has since entered the Church and stood towards the far wall, sitting his top hat on the floor whilst maneuvering a set of unintelligible objects on a large flat, cracked stone. At this point Joe had silently positioned himself near the huge door, which was at the opposing wall to where Samuel stood. Samuel had not seen Joe enter, or at least we presume he hadn’t, he was bent over his work and faced away from Joe who had still not moved from his position.
A lesser man would have fled from this church; it had been (near enough) deserted and was therefore intimidating towards any visitors. Bar these two men, the church was empty, the walls are featureless, darkness has since devoured the place where God once lived. The only light within the church was that of a single candle by Samuel’s side, the soft but persistent wind caused the candle to flicker and casts its illusions of ghouls and daemons across the emotionless walls. But these daemons would not dare move from their sidelined position, for even they were not fearless enough to challenge these two dark figures of humanity.
“Hello Joe.” Samuel said softly but confidently, still bent over his work as if the presence of the aged man had not affected him in anyway. Joe had previously assumed he had evaded Samuel’s gaze and was both surprised and disappointed to discover that was not the case. Joe opted to mask his disappointment with a cold response.
“Hello Samuel.” His words were spoken softly but with level of bitter contempt in order to provoke his foe. And yet Samuel continued with his work without any physical sign that Joe had managed to unnerve him. This of course unnerved Joe and it was at this point that he realised any mind games, which were erupting between the two men, would be drawn out and ultimately pointless.
“I’ll have to insist you stop what you are doing,” Joe said with a veil of calm being used to hide his threat.
Samuel looked up briefly before lowering his head again, “You know I cannot do that.”
Joe paused a moment, “what you are doing…” he said hesitantly, “I cannot let you do it Samuel, it is far too dangerous, even for you.” The cold air thickened, the candle grew smaller, the daemons dimmed with it and Joe tried to resist a shudder, well aware the cold air would not be the only reason for it. Samuel perhaps agreed with Joe but it was notwithstanding, he hesitated above what appeared to be a small marble figure before continuing his dark task.
Joe slowly edged from the door, closer to the center of the church; the wind was no longer soft and persistent but erratic, biting and hard. The silence was almost deafening and filled with hate, but Samuel did his best to ignore it. Joe meanwhile could not. This tension had been accumulating for sometime between them and, for Joe at least, it was time to release it. This once room of society now only reeked of death and destruction and Joe’s heart turned to ice as he produced a pistol from the inside of his coat. The pistol was the most eloquent instrument present during this scene; it had been handmade with some bird of prey carved into the silver handle, complimented with gold around the eyes of one of nature’s most beautiful killers. Joe cocked the gun and, at last, a small ‘click’ broke that silence.
Samuel stopped. He clenched his fists and dug them into the cold stone and considered his next action, knowing full well what that simple noise meant. Samuel turned around casually and said, “Joe…” before Joe fired. The bullet tore into Samuel’s neck; blood flowed down his black coat as he attempted in vain to staunch the flow. He fell back onto the stone platform where his peculiar objects stood; he knocked them all aside and fell there, dead. Joe did not move as Samuel fell, the wind grew violent, the candle flickered madly and the daemons leaped across the wall in panic and fear before the candle was finally blown out.
It is 107 years later before we get to meet our hero.
Panting as they climb mole hills.
monkey_man wrote:
> Did someone say 'most Haunted'!? That show's more like 'Least
> Haunted'. The 'most' they are of anything is insane.
I wish they were the UK's "most hunted". Then we'd see geniune terror as they run through the woods being chased by some angry badgers.
> Did someone say 'most Haunted'!? That show's more like 'Least
> Haunted'. The 'most' they are of anything is insane.
I wish they were the UK's "most hunted". Then we'd see geniune terror as they run through the woods being chased by some angry badgers.
It's my prologue for my story.
Did someone say 'most Haunted'!? That show's more like 'Least Haunted'. The 'most' they are of anything is insane.
Is that 'Ye Most Haunted'?
:D
:D
My cat's breath smells like cat food.
The imposing fifteenth century church has been left to decay by the inhabitants of Clophill in favour of a new, more convenient building. The church, which is set over a mile away from the village, has grown soundless and, as the hour of midnight draws close, appears menacing towards the outside world. Two very large perpendicular windows make up the north and south facings of the building, graves pre-dating the surrounding trees themselves litter the hill the church sits upon and rubble from acts of vandalism has already begun to collect around the base. Despite the slow decay engulfing the church you are not looking at a pathetic figure of the late nineteenth century British landscape. Instead we are witnessed to the slow death of a monster, the gradual wilting of the black flower on this otherwise picturesque, rural landscape. And it is this bleak night in 1896 that we are to meet our villain.
He is only ever referred to as Samuel; he has no surname, or at least none I can recall and a strong believer in the power of ancient artifacts. And tonight he shows all the vigor and energy of a man in his mid-twenties, moving at a blistering pace along the dirt road, his face flushed with colour and wearing a long black coat and top hat, looking almost as dark as the night that surrounds him. Despite Samuel’s pitch black eyes and cold behavior, his general chubby appearance create a far more friendly and approachable characteristic. Yet the dim moonlight, displaying his vague movements towards the church, make him seem far more dangerous tonight. For tonight, like many nights before it, Samuel had an experiment to conduct.
His fellow villagers often saw Samuel as an oddity, no one knew where he obtained his surprising amount of wealth, nor could that conclude why he was so obsessed with collecting seemingly worthless objects. They do not know because they would not understand. The obsession surrounding these objects is down to Samuel’s strong belief in magic. He believes that the world was once filled with those that had the ability to harness specialist powers, he also believed that in order to pass these powers down to further generations they were incased in various objects. This is why he was the laughing stock of the village; this is why he was mocked by his neighbours and retained no friends. And yet he was not alone in his belief. For another resident of Clophill, a mister Joe Mitchell also believed in talismans. And he had been watching Samuel intently, for Samuel had visited multiple countries in the past year and Joe had reason for concern.
Joe was moving at a far more leisurely pace down the same dirt track that Samuel had come crashing along moments before. He appeared far older than Samuel, sporting a small grey beard and similar black attire; his facial features indicates a calm sedateness about him, he stood erect and made large strides as he approached the church. He may appear older but that’s not to say he seemed weaker or more vulnerable in anyway, in fact he looked almost as healthy and even stronger than our chubbier villain. Speaking of which Samuel has since entered the Church and stood towards the far wall, sitting his top hat on the floor whilst maneuvering a set of unintelligible objects on a large flat, cracked stone. At this point Joe had silently positioned himself near the huge door, which was at the opposing wall to where Samuel stood. Samuel had not seen Joe enter, or at least we presume he hadn’t, he was bent over his work and faced away from Joe who had still not moved from his position.
A lesser man would have fled from this church; it had been (near enough) deserted and was therefore intimidating towards any visitors. Bar these two men, the church was empty, the walls are featureless, darkness has since devoured the place where God once lived. The only light within the church was that of a single candle by Samuel’s side, the soft but persistent wind caused the candle to flicker and casts its illusions of ghouls and daemons across the emotionless walls. But these daemons would not dare move from their sidelined position, for even they were not fearless enough to challenge these two dark figures of humanity.
“Hello Joe.” Samuel said softly but confidently, still bent over his work as if the presence of the aged man had not affected him in anyway. Joe had previously assumed he had evaded Samuel’s gaze and was both surprised and disappointed to discover that was not the case. Joe opted to mask his disappointment with a cold response.
“Hello Samuel.” His words were spoken softly but with level of bitter contempt in order to provoke his foe. And yet Samuel continued with his work without any physical sign that Joe had managed to unnerve him. This of course unnerved Joe and it was at this point that he realised any mind games, which were erupting between the two men, would be drawn out and ultimately pointless.
“I’ll have to insist you stop what you are doing,” Joe said with a veil of calm being used to hide his threat.
Samuel looked up briefly before lowering his head again, “You know I cannot do that.”
Joe paused a moment, “what you are doing…” he said hesitantly, “I cannot let you do it Samuel, it is far too dangerous, even for you.” The cold air thickened, the candle grew smaller, the daemons dimmed with it and Joe tried to resist a shudder, well aware the cold air would not be the only reason for it. Samuel perhaps agreed with Joe but it was notwithstanding, he hesitated above what appeared to be a small marble figure before continuing his dark task.
Joe slowly edged from the door, closer to the center of the church; the wind was no longer soft and persistent but erratic, biting and hard. The silence was almost deafening and filled with hate, but Samuel did his best to ignore it. Joe meanwhile could not. This tension had been accumulating for sometime between them and, for Joe at least, it was time to release it. This once room of society now only reeked of death and destruction and Joe’s heart turned to ice as he produced a pistol from the inside of his coat. The pistol was the most eloquent instrument present during this scene; it had been handmade with some bird of prey carved into the silver handle, complimented with gold around the eyes of one of nature’s most beautiful killers. Joe cocked the gun and, at last, a small ‘click’ broke that silence.
Samuel stopped. He clenched his fists and dug them into the cold stone and considered his next action, knowing full well what that simple noise meant. Samuel turned around casually and said, “Joe…” before Joe fired. The bullet tore into Samuel’s neck; blood flowed down his black coat as he attempted in vain to staunch the flow. He fell back onto the stone platform where his peculiar objects stood; he knocked them all aside and fell there, dead. Joe did not move as Samuel fell, the wind grew violent, the candle flickered madly and the daemons leaped across the wall in panic and fear before the candle was finally blown out.
It is 107 years later before we get to meet our hero.
He is only ever referred to as Samuel; he has no surname, or at least none I can recall and a strong believer in the power of ancient artifacts. And tonight he shows all the vigor and energy of a man in his mid-twenties, moving at a blistering pace along the dirt road, his face flushed with colour and wearing a long black coat and top hat, looking almost as dark as the night that surrounds him. Despite Samuel’s pitch black eyes and cold behavior, his general chubby appearance create a far more friendly and approachable characteristic. Yet the dim moonlight, displaying his vague movements towards the church, make him seem far more dangerous tonight. For tonight, like many nights before it, Samuel had an experiment to conduct.
His fellow villagers often saw Samuel as an oddity, no one knew where he obtained his surprising amount of wealth, nor could that conclude why he was so obsessed with collecting seemingly worthless objects. They do not know because they would not understand. The obsession surrounding these objects is down to Samuel’s strong belief in magic. He believes that the world was once filled with those that had the ability to harness specialist powers, he also believed that in order to pass these powers down to further generations they were incased in various objects. This is why he was the laughing stock of the village; this is why he was mocked by his neighbours and retained no friends. And yet he was not alone in his belief. For another resident of Clophill, a mister Joe Mitchell also believed in talismans. And he had been watching Samuel intently, for Samuel had visited multiple countries in the past year and Joe had reason for concern.
Joe was moving at a far more leisurely pace down the same dirt track that Samuel had come crashing along moments before. He appeared far older than Samuel, sporting a small grey beard and similar black attire; his facial features indicates a calm sedateness about him, he stood erect and made large strides as he approached the church. He may appear older but that’s not to say he seemed weaker or more vulnerable in anyway, in fact he looked almost as healthy and even stronger than our chubbier villain. Speaking of which Samuel has since entered the Church and stood towards the far wall, sitting his top hat on the floor whilst maneuvering a set of unintelligible objects on a large flat, cracked stone. At this point Joe had silently positioned himself near the huge door, which was at the opposing wall to where Samuel stood. Samuel had not seen Joe enter, or at least we presume he hadn’t, he was bent over his work and faced away from Joe who had still not moved from his position.
A lesser man would have fled from this church; it had been (near enough) deserted and was therefore intimidating towards any visitors. Bar these two men, the church was empty, the walls are featureless, darkness has since devoured the place where God once lived. The only light within the church was that of a single candle by Samuel’s side, the soft but persistent wind caused the candle to flicker and casts its illusions of ghouls and daemons across the emotionless walls. But these daemons would not dare move from their sidelined position, for even they were not fearless enough to challenge these two dark figures of humanity.
“Hello Joe.” Samuel said softly but confidently, still bent over his work as if the presence of the aged man had not affected him in anyway. Joe had previously assumed he had evaded Samuel’s gaze and was both surprised and disappointed to discover that was not the case. Joe opted to mask his disappointment with a cold response.
“Hello Samuel.” His words were spoken softly but with level of bitter contempt in order to provoke his foe. And yet Samuel continued with his work without any physical sign that Joe had managed to unnerve him. This of course unnerved Joe and it was at this point that he realised any mind games, which were erupting between the two men, would be drawn out and ultimately pointless.
“I’ll have to insist you stop what you are doing,” Joe said with a veil of calm being used to hide his threat.
Samuel looked up briefly before lowering his head again, “You know I cannot do that.”
Joe paused a moment, “what you are doing…” he said hesitantly, “I cannot let you do it Samuel, it is far too dangerous, even for you.” The cold air thickened, the candle grew smaller, the daemons dimmed with it and Joe tried to resist a shudder, well aware the cold air would not be the only reason for it. Samuel perhaps agreed with Joe but it was notwithstanding, he hesitated above what appeared to be a small marble figure before continuing his dark task.
Joe slowly edged from the door, closer to the center of the church; the wind was no longer soft and persistent but erratic, biting and hard. The silence was almost deafening and filled with hate, but Samuel did his best to ignore it. Joe meanwhile could not. This tension had been accumulating for sometime between them and, for Joe at least, it was time to release it. This once room of society now only reeked of death and destruction and Joe’s heart turned to ice as he produced a pistol from the inside of his coat. The pistol was the most eloquent instrument present during this scene; it had been handmade with some bird of prey carved into the silver handle, complimented with gold around the eyes of one of nature’s most beautiful killers. Joe cocked the gun and, at last, a small ‘click’ broke that silence.
Samuel stopped. He clenched his fists and dug them into the cold stone and considered his next action, knowing full well what that simple noise meant. Samuel turned around casually and said, “Joe…” before Joe fired. The bullet tore into Samuel’s neck; blood flowed down his black coat as he attempted in vain to staunch the flow. He fell back onto the stone platform where his peculiar objects stood; he knocked them all aside and fell there, dead. Joe did not move as Samuel fell, the wind grew violent, the candle flickered madly and the daemons leaped across the wall in panic and fear before the candle was finally blown out.
It is 107 years later before we get to meet our hero.