Dlsharrock
First Post
Remember remember the first of November.
A cold fog slithers across the Miskatonic river, tumbling over the broadwalk and rolling slowly into town, covering everything it touches with an icy glitter of damp, veiling mist, cloaking late night walkers and roving motorcars in a grey twilight shroud. The date is November 1st 1941, the location is Arkham, a small town north of Kingsport and south of Innsmouth in the New England province of Massachusetts.
Here on the corner of Garrison and Main, looming out of the night, stands an imposing monolith; a keystone to both roads, though its official address is number one, Garrison Street. Rendered in spectral cream and standing three storeys high, the structure is of typical New England design, possessing three angular faces framed with a cornice of vivid yellow, one gazing onto Main Street, one onto Garrison and the last, gently curved and topped with a turret of miniature crenulations, facing the crossroads itself.
The flat roof of the building is crowned with a motley crew of face-ache gargoyles, crouching and gurning in a variety of gruesome poses, sneering down on the roads below and clutching at the brickwork with hooked claws. Telegraph cables splay from each corner of the roof, reaching across the junction to poles and other buildings. The whole is explicated from the dark shadow and fog by harsh flourescent light cast by two flickering street lamps on either side of the crossroad's southwest corner.
A main entrance stands in the narrow corner of the building and, above this, two bay windows framed by a baroque stonework painted yellow again and chiselled to resemble nests of entwined serpents. Above the door hangs a painted inn-sign. The design, a silhouette fixed against a blazing red background which could infer a sunset or the roaring flames of a fire, shows three witches dressed in robes and crooked hats, each dangling by their necks from the gnarled branch of an old tree. Above this macabre portrayal, scribed in a ghoulish font, are the words
WITCHING HOUR
This is the Witching Hour, once a museum of strange antiquities, and before that an infirmary for the clinically insane, it is now a late night haunt for barflies seeking solace from the chill November fog and the bustle of central Arkham.
Just two blocks away, rising out of the mist like the cyclopean eyed mast of some alien vessel, is the tower of Miskatonic University, its four clock faces shining a pale ochre, describing the passage of time to all four districts of the town. And opposite this, aligned along the wide passage of Church street and overlooking the various annexes and halls of the faculty, are Arkham's more prestigious town houses and department stores. The road is a sea of streaming headlights, the sidewalk awash with a fashionable mix of sophisticants and students enjoying late night revelry.
North of the bar runs the winding course of the Miskatonic river, an artery of muddy green ranging from west to east and passing beneath three bridges connecting north Arkham to the south bay area. The warehouses, dockside bars and jetis stand enshrouded in fog and this night an eery silence prevails. The only sounds to be heard are the gentle lapping of the river against the stone bank and the mournful creak and groan of wooden boats at rest on the undulating water.
Inside the Witching Hour and the frigid clutch of the November mists are banished. The air is thick with cigarette smoke which curls around the dark panelled wood, rich laquered tables and polished chairs populating the bar. Thick pillars support a low slung ceiling which droops in the middle, evidence of failing rafters. The whitewash is flaking and long cracks run from wall to wall.
Upon the walls are many paintings in gilt edged frames. They depict all manner of morbidity and are placed with inexpert care, either in order to cover some liverish stain or one of the larger cracks. Here the cadaverous face of some ancient Arkham founder, dressed in severe black and wearing a stove pipe hat glowers out at couples drinking quietly in one of the darker corners. There a large black and white photograph of an ancient mill, all crumbling stone and creeping lichen, decorates the bare brick wall behind two soldiers sharing a pack of Lucky Charms. Other pictures there are, both wierd and perplexing. An oil depiction of a disembodied head, flesh black as midnight, eyes red like two burning coals. A raven perched upon an upturned foot. An inverted cross dripping blood onto a squirming nest of festering maggots. A black and white sketch of a thousand limbs intertwined and locked together, the head of a bloated octopus emerging from the heart of the image. A scarecrow face in watercolour, head covered in a white sheet with two black holes cut for the eyes and a crooked straw hat to finish. Wherever the eye roves a new oddity appears.
There are ornaments too, both stranger than fiction and unexpected to the eye. Standing by a pillar is a bronze Indian with six arms, each clutching a shrunken head. A pair of students on a break from the dorms and high with the heady atmosphere of liquor and smokes have pushed a cigarette stub between the lips of one head and are contemplating additional jokes to play on the other five.
A stuffed crow stands as the centrepiece on a hat stand laden with coats, hats and canes. On one wall hangs an ancient shield onto which is painted a single eye surrounded by fire. And a few feet to the left a medical skeleton on a stand, dressed in a tie and tuxedo, leaning on a wooden banister in a casual fashion. Elsewhere a deck of Tarot cards have been arranged on the wall. And upon the bar, where bowls of complimentary nuts would usually be found, are metal dishes containing wax drooling candles.
The bar itself is a grand, gothic affair, positioned dead centre like a black island rising from the sea of drinkers and shadow. Made entirely of ebony, the sides have been carved with an eye-twisting design so intricate and complex that to study it completely would require a good day at least. For the most part the light is too dim and the patrons too interested in their drinks and conversation to pay the designs much heed. If they did look in any great detail they would see, amid the tangled lines and curlicules, a devilish host presiding over a screaming multitude burning in fire so exquisitely chiselled the bodies are barely discernible from the flames. As it is, the carved flames act as good foot rests, while the etched sections closer to the bar are good for the fidgety fingers and idle inspection of lone drinkers.
Above the bar is a wooden canopy glittering with an array of tumblers, shot glasses and goblets. Lights set into the canopy cast an atmospheric radiance onto the bar staff as they chat casually with barflies, clean glasses and prepare orders.
Alone in the far corner of the room, shining like a small beacon of garish modernity in the midst of all this gothic grotesque, stands a juke box out of which drifts the crooning voice of Glen Miller singing Chatanooga Choo Choo.
--
Seated on one side of the bar, in their usual places, on their favourite stools, are four friends. Three men and one woman, all talking animatedly with the female owner of this impressive establishment who herself seems so intent on the subject matter being discussed that the rest of the bar might not exist at all. Indeed the lion's share of the work tonight falls to the other bar maid, a gum chewing dame in high heels and short skirt, and an older woman dressed in the style of a Spanish grandmother, her grey eyes piercing the gloom of the bar like twin spotlights.
--
A cold fog slithers across the Miskatonic river, tumbling over the broadwalk and rolling slowly into town, covering everything it touches with an icy glitter of damp, veiling mist, cloaking late night walkers and roving motorcars in a grey twilight shroud. The date is November 1st 1941, the location is Arkham, a small town north of Kingsport and south of Innsmouth in the New England province of Massachusetts.
Here on the corner of Garrison and Main, looming out of the night, stands an imposing monolith; a keystone to both roads, though its official address is number one, Garrison Street. Rendered in spectral cream and standing three storeys high, the structure is of typical New England design, possessing three angular faces framed with a cornice of vivid yellow, one gazing onto Main Street, one onto Garrison and the last, gently curved and topped with a turret of miniature crenulations, facing the crossroads itself.
The flat roof of the building is crowned with a motley crew of face-ache gargoyles, crouching and gurning in a variety of gruesome poses, sneering down on the roads below and clutching at the brickwork with hooked claws. Telegraph cables splay from each corner of the roof, reaching across the junction to poles and other buildings. The whole is explicated from the dark shadow and fog by harsh flourescent light cast by two flickering street lamps on either side of the crossroad's southwest corner.
A main entrance stands in the narrow corner of the building and, above this, two bay windows framed by a baroque stonework painted yellow again and chiselled to resemble nests of entwined serpents. Above the door hangs a painted inn-sign. The design, a silhouette fixed against a blazing red background which could infer a sunset or the roaring flames of a fire, shows three witches dressed in robes and crooked hats, each dangling by their necks from the gnarled branch of an old tree. Above this macabre portrayal, scribed in a ghoulish font, are the words
WITCHING HOUR
This is the Witching Hour, once a museum of strange antiquities, and before that an infirmary for the clinically insane, it is now a late night haunt for barflies seeking solace from the chill November fog and the bustle of central Arkham.
Just two blocks away, rising out of the mist like the cyclopean eyed mast of some alien vessel, is the tower of Miskatonic University, its four clock faces shining a pale ochre, describing the passage of time to all four districts of the town. And opposite this, aligned along the wide passage of Church street and overlooking the various annexes and halls of the faculty, are Arkham's more prestigious town houses and department stores. The road is a sea of streaming headlights, the sidewalk awash with a fashionable mix of sophisticants and students enjoying late night revelry.
North of the bar runs the winding course of the Miskatonic river, an artery of muddy green ranging from west to east and passing beneath three bridges connecting north Arkham to the south bay area. The warehouses, dockside bars and jetis stand enshrouded in fog and this night an eery silence prevails. The only sounds to be heard are the gentle lapping of the river against the stone bank and the mournful creak and groan of wooden boats at rest on the undulating water.
Inside the Witching Hour and the frigid clutch of the November mists are banished. The air is thick with cigarette smoke which curls around the dark panelled wood, rich laquered tables and polished chairs populating the bar. Thick pillars support a low slung ceiling which droops in the middle, evidence of failing rafters. The whitewash is flaking and long cracks run from wall to wall.
Upon the walls are many paintings in gilt edged frames. They depict all manner of morbidity and are placed with inexpert care, either in order to cover some liverish stain or one of the larger cracks. Here the cadaverous face of some ancient Arkham founder, dressed in severe black and wearing a stove pipe hat glowers out at couples drinking quietly in one of the darker corners. There a large black and white photograph of an ancient mill, all crumbling stone and creeping lichen, decorates the bare brick wall behind two soldiers sharing a pack of Lucky Charms. Other pictures there are, both wierd and perplexing. An oil depiction of a disembodied head, flesh black as midnight, eyes red like two burning coals. A raven perched upon an upturned foot. An inverted cross dripping blood onto a squirming nest of festering maggots. A black and white sketch of a thousand limbs intertwined and locked together, the head of a bloated octopus emerging from the heart of the image. A scarecrow face in watercolour, head covered in a white sheet with two black holes cut for the eyes and a crooked straw hat to finish. Wherever the eye roves a new oddity appears.
There are ornaments too, both stranger than fiction and unexpected to the eye. Standing by a pillar is a bronze Indian with six arms, each clutching a shrunken head. A pair of students on a break from the dorms and high with the heady atmosphere of liquor and smokes have pushed a cigarette stub between the lips of one head and are contemplating additional jokes to play on the other five.
A stuffed crow stands as the centrepiece on a hat stand laden with coats, hats and canes. On one wall hangs an ancient shield onto which is painted a single eye surrounded by fire. And a few feet to the left a medical skeleton on a stand, dressed in a tie and tuxedo, leaning on a wooden banister in a casual fashion. Elsewhere a deck of Tarot cards have been arranged on the wall. And upon the bar, where bowls of complimentary nuts would usually be found, are metal dishes containing wax drooling candles.
The bar itself is a grand, gothic affair, positioned dead centre like a black island rising from the sea of drinkers and shadow. Made entirely of ebony, the sides have been carved with an eye-twisting design so intricate and complex that to study it completely would require a good day at least. For the most part the light is too dim and the patrons too interested in their drinks and conversation to pay the designs much heed. If they did look in any great detail they would see, amid the tangled lines and curlicules, a devilish host presiding over a screaming multitude burning in fire so exquisitely chiselled the bodies are barely discernible from the flames. As it is, the carved flames act as good foot rests, while the etched sections closer to the bar are good for the fidgety fingers and idle inspection of lone drinkers.
Above the bar is a wooden canopy glittering with an array of tumblers, shot glasses and goblets. Lights set into the canopy cast an atmospheric radiance onto the bar staff as they chat casually with barflies, clean glasses and prepare orders.
Alone in the far corner of the room, shining like a small beacon of garish modernity in the midst of all this gothic grotesque, stands a juke box out of which drifts the crooning voice of Glen Miller singing Chatanooga Choo Choo.
--
Seated on one side of the bar, in their usual places, on their favourite stools, are four friends. Three men and one woman, all talking animatedly with the female owner of this impressive establishment who herself seems so intent on the subject matter being discussed that the rest of the bar might not exist at all. Indeed the lion's share of the work tonight falls to the other bar maid, a gum chewing dame in high heels and short skirt, and an older woman dressed in the style of a Spanish grandmother, her grey eyes piercing the gloom of the bar like twin spotlights.
--
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