Joined: 7/18/2014
Posts: 121
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- This is just something I've been thinking about for a long time. It's supposed to be horror. I've got the beginning and about 14K words done in the 1st draft, working on it sporadically as ideas come to me. I'm curious what others think of this short piece.
A late 17th Century village appears somewhere in New England every three years, remains for three days and then vanishes. My character stumbles on it while driving to Rutland, Vermont. He arrives at what should be Sherburn Center, a few miles from Rutland and finds it gone, replaced by a town called Danielsford. Later, a business acquaintance and he go back and find a wooden coffin in the out of place church. They open it and unleash a curse. Below is the opening of the book, into the 1st chapter. Hopefully, by the time I'm deeper in I'll figure out an ending.
Prologue
She
came at me with a shrill scream that rang in my ears. I met her charge,
fighting as hard as I could. Her long nails raked me and she began ripping the
skin and flesh from my face.
I
awoke with a start, bathed in sweat. My heart hammered wildly against my chest
wall. It was the same dream every night, robbing me of much needed sleep and
wearing me down by inches.
Sliding
out of bed, I walked numbly into the kitchen. There would be no more sleep,
just as there was no sleep after the dream the night before or the night before
that. Willing myself to relax, I slumped into a chair, rested my elbows on the
table top and buried my head in my hands.
I
knew who she was. What I didn’t know or understand was why she had begun stalking
us.
The
dream didn’t have the feel of a dream. The woman in the dream was coming for
me. I knew it and I had no idea how to stop her. One night my dream would
become reality, just as it had been a reality for a friend.
Of
course, nobody believed me. I finally gave up trying to tell people. The looks
I received; the comments and whispers I heard, forced me to stop. It was to be
my fight. Alone. Afterwards they would believe, but it would be too late for me
unless I could find a solution.
Chapter One
Seeing
the little town when I topped the hill on the twisting, two-lane road wasn’t a
surprise. It was where it should be. That is, Sherburn Center was where it was
supposed to be. In the years I had traveled the highway, Sherburn Center was
always right at the bottom of the hill.
From
the top of the hill the scene was typical New England meaning, in the eyes of
many photographers and visitors, a typically Vermont scene. The tall, white
spire of the church reaching above the green trees that surrounded it was
picture postcard perfect. Here and there, partly hidden by the trees, I could
see a rooftop or side of a building.
The
road passed through town, and it was at the edge of Sherburn Center that I
noticed that something was wrong. It wasn’t Sherburn Center. A sign, ancient
and worn looking, proclaimed that I was entering Danielsford, founded in 1693.
I shrugged and slowed to thirty miles per hour as I rolled into the village
proper. Obviously, I thought, I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, although I
couldn’t understand how since the road was a straight shot from west to east
through the state.
Entering
Danielsford was as if driving into the past. That isn’t unusual in Vermont, but
the feeling was even more pronounced in Danielsford. Everything bespoke age. The
paved road seemed out of place. Neither did the white church fit the
surrounding buildings.
The
houses were large, drab looking affairs, painted in dull browns or lifeless
reds. They looked old and tired. For the size of the homes, the windows were
oddly small and few in number.
Similar
houses exist, but not in Vermont. The buildings could be from any of several
Massachusetts coastal communities. My speed fell to fifteen as I crept into the
village. I felt just as out of place in my slacks, light blue shirt, and
wearing my Rockport shoes.
Mine
was the only car on the road. I hadn’t seen any on the few side streets in town
but I hadn’t actually been looking. For a change, I was ahead of schedule when
I reached the Green, as they call town squares and parks in Vermont, and
couldn’t resist stopping.
Rutland,
my destination, lay only a few miles farther. I pulled to the edge of the road
and shut off the engine. Several people eyed me with what seemed to be
suspicion or curiosity. I guessed that not many people stopped in Danielsford.
The
people were dressed similar to me, which made me feel a bit less uncomfortable.
I wondered for a moment why I thought they should be clothed any other way.
Climbing
out of the car, I gazed at the modest sized Green, the white church I had
passed, and the Seventeenth Century atmosphere of the town. The impression I
got was that I had driven into the middle of a living history museum. Any
moment, I expected to see somebody dressed like a Puritan rush from one of the
houses and tell me to move my car. As far as I knew, the Puritans never got to
Vermont, but I was no more familiar with Vermont history than was anyone who
didn’t live there.
The
Green was an untended space with high grass and four or five large maple trees
shading it. Cows and sheep grazed placidly in the middle. Clustered around it
were several homes and, I guess, what passed for businesses. The buildings
seemed to squat on their foundations, looking dark and plain but also, in their
archaic way, interesting.
Either
the businesses in Danielsford did not believe in lighted signs to identify
their establishments, or they preferred authenticity. The signs were made of
wood and the names were either painted on or carved into the wooden boards.
One
stood out from the rest. It was white in color, in stark contrast to the dark,
bland colors of the rest. I walked across the road and peered in the window.
“Goody
Bradbury be closed, sir. She is passed,” said a young lady pleasantly as she
walked by. I had not seen her on the street and assumed she came from one of
the other shops.
“Thank
you,” I said, puzzled. The word ‘Goody’ struck me as strange, and the way the
woman pronounced ‘closed’ was especially strange. She pronounced every vowel,
so it sounded like close and ed. The young woman continued without a backward
glance.
Goody
Bradbury appeared to sell pharmaceuticals and elixirs, none of which I expected
to ever see in a modern pharmacy. I studied the jars and bottles, all with
names handwritten on the jars. The writing style was archaic, and the spelling
was lax by today’s lax standards.
Turning
from Bradbury’s store, I scanned the street for a grocery, interested to see
what it offered. If one existed, I didn’t see it. Nor did I see a bank, a
clothing store, or a restaurant.
I
wanted to ask the young woman if there was a grocery store, but she had
disappeared. Everybody was gone. I stood alone in the middle of town, and my
time was up. I had an appointment to keep. When my business was done in Rutland
and in the other towns on my route, I made a mental note to return via
Danielsford on my way home.
--edited by ChuckB on 9/10/2014, 2:09 AM--
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Joined: 7/18/2014
Posts: 121
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Danielsford is new, something that's been rattling around in my head for awhile. I do plan to put it out for review and thinking on it, I think it would be a good idea to put the several chapters I've got up, bearing in mind that it's completely unedited and pretty rough. I've got to ditch the last approximately 4K words to rein in my characters, who are trying to take the thing into an utterly ridiculous direction. Those pages won't be a part of the review.
Maybe if anyone reviews it they can give ideas as to a good ending. I haven't a clue, and usually never have a resolution when I begin a story. Sometimes, I don't know what it will be until I'm writing it.
--edited by ChuckB on 9/11/2014, 1:37 AM--
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