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MiniKirk

I'm working on a short story. Very much a first draft, very much me playing with H.P. Lovecraft's settings, because I've wanted to for YEARS. This is just the first draft, and there's quite a few spelling errors, but I'd like to know what you think of what I've got so far. This is of course, assuming there are any of you out there. anyways here goes:

The End of it All, or
The Horror at Hobb's End
By Dustin Rojas

The foyer of the asylum is almost empty, the bright glare of the bare florescent bulbs seeming to sterilize the room.
THe reek of antiseptic and amonia only heighten the illusion. It's a small room, empty save for the receptionist. She gives
me a small curt smile, as I approach her, and holds out a patient form. "No, I'm not checking myself in," I explain quickly,
"I'm here to have a talk with one of your patients. Harvard Phillips, Hobb's End P.D." I pull out my badge, reflexivly, and
show it to her.
"Whats the name of the patient?" She asks, cooly, she probably gets cops in here all the time, this is after all, an
asylum for the criminally insane.
"Allan Derleth," I reply, watching her gaze. I just happend to land on this case, not too long ago. He was committed
after killing his wife, supposedly driven by of all things, a book. She doesn't react to the name, telling me, he's not too
much of a terror here. I smile inwardly, and allow myself to hope this will go smoothly.
"Just a moment, and I'll get the doctor. Please have a seat, untill he comes." I nod my thanks, and take a seat
facing the door. There's a coffee table in front of me, holding a dozen or so, dated magazines. I pick up an issue of time
from the fifties, and begin to flip through it, killing time before the doctor gets to me.
"Detective Phillips?" a jarring voice asked. I was startled out of a slight daze, boredom had overcome me; yet I
looked at the clock, and less than ten minutes had passed. I nodded at the man and stood, as he extended his hand to me "I'm
Doctor West, in charge of the patient in question. If you'll come with me, I'll take you to him." I nodded and shook his
hand.
He led me down a small, dimly lit corridor, lined with rooms, stopping at the last one. The door was stained in
various places, in the light, it looked like a reddish-brown. The color of blood. He unlocked the door, and showed me in,
then left me to my job. I looked at the man, and sat down. "Do you know why I'm here?" I asked him, my eyes locking with his.
He nodded briefly, and I sat down opposite him. "Then tell me what happened."
The other man took a deep breath, and opened his mouth. His voice was eerily calm, contrary to his face, which was
wide-eyed, and full of nervous ticks. "Well," he started, and took a slow, shuddering breath, "I was called by a client, and
asked to find a rare book."
"What was the book?"
"Al Azif. It was some old religious text, I think, I was never quite sure, from the Sumeria region. As old as writing
itself. There was rumoured to be only one English translation in existance. He wanted me to find it." He paused, and I
nodded, briefly taking out a pack of cigarettes, I offered him one, he shook his head no, and I put one in my mouth. I lit it
when he started talking again. "I thought the guy was nuts myself. He was just some rich, old, demented shithead, with
nothing better to do then collect esoteric literature. I didn't think one book could really do much harm, y'know?
"So, I figured there'd be no harm in looking for it. Yeah, famous last words. Thoughts? Maybe I don't think I
actually said that. Anyways,I went through my usual sources, of collectors, vendors, you know, all that shit. Only one of my
sources, a collecter out in California, had even heard of it. He told me it was some evil thing, and that he might know
someone who would know someone who might be able to get it. I told him to go for it, y'know? It was just a book."
"What was the name of this collector?"
"Sorry chief, thats a violation of client confidentiality. Most of my clients are rich, many of them are famous, and
the books I find are rather...bizzare, if you know what I mean." He twitched, almost like he was winking, and the movement
was an unseltting contrast to his smooth, emotionless voice. "It took the collector a couple of weeks to get back to me, but
he gave me an address, it was right there in Hobb's End too. A little bookstore, I don't remember the name, it was something
wierd, I think. A lot of consonants. The place was musty, thick with dust, and the smell of old books. There was a little
man, at the front of the store, at the cash register. 'Are you the owner of this place?' I called out to him. He nodded, and
I approached.
"'Why? What are you looking for?' his voice was raspy, with many years of hard drinking, and filterless cigarettes.
The tip of one dangled from his lip, I remember.
"'I'm looking for a book, Al Azif? Have you heard of it?' The little man looked at me like I had just kicked him the
balls, and then shook his head. No. 'It's not for me.' I told him. He again shook his head. 'I can offer you a hell of a lot
of money' I pleaded. It was true, my client had given me access to 2.3 million dollars, US, to offer up, for the book, if
needed.
"The little man's eyes narrowed, and he sucked on his teeth, mulling it over. Eventually he rasped, 'How much?' I
told him. His cigarette butt fell out of his mouth, and he stared. 'Fine,' he sighed 'come with me.' I grinned, and followed
the man, to a small, damp room, in the very back. The room had only one thing in it, a steel safe. The man hunched over the
door, twisting the knob this way and that, and then finally, with a very audible click, the safe opened.
"I left the store with a bag containing a fine, leather bound book in a briefcase in my hand, and an inexplicable
feeling of dread in my stomach. It would be a week untill I saw my client again, as he was doing business, overseas. Don't
ask me what, because I can't tell you."
"Let me guess, client confidentiality?"
The other man nodded. "You got it. Now where was I? Oh yeah, I had an inexplicable feeling of dread, but wouldn't get
rid of the damned book for another week. Right. When I got home, I stashed the book in the back of my closet, hoping to
forget about it; but that wasn't going to happen. It was that time, that the visions started."
"Visions?"
"Yeah, gruesome things, like when I was washing my face, before bed, and the light flickered, and I looked around and
the whole bathroom was covered in blood. The walls, ceiling, bathtub, toilet, everything. Or when I slept. It was always the
same thing: I'm running down a corridor, being chased by something that I can't see. I didn't sleep for that whole week, you
know. Nor the following weeks."
"I thought you said you got rid of it that week?"
"I wish. The weather was unusually snowy for that time of the year, and he wound up snowed in for two weeks. That
didn't matter. It had me by then."
"What had you?"
"The book. Sounds crazy doesn't it? Some wierd assed book from one billion b.c., and it's got me in its thrawl? Oh
yeah, I'm not insane." He laughed then. It sounded like he wanted to disprove that last statement. "But it did. Over the
first three days, I could hear it calling out to me. Calling my name, telling me to open it, to read it. Eventually, I caved,
and I cracked the book, for the first time. It was bizzare. It was like reading the Bible as written by Stephen King on acid.
Strange shit. And then there were the voices. Constantly nagging at me. Sacrifice an innocent. Thats what they wanted me to
do.
"How long did the voices last?"
"They started after I read the first page, and continue even now."
"Really? What are they saying?"
"Nothing yet, but I can feel them. Shall we move on? Yes. Ok good, let's do so. Voices. And visions, tho at first,
the visions were indistinct, something I might catch out of the corner of my eye. It was almost solid by the last two days,
and it looked...unnatural. I can't quite tell you, but I could see it coming twords me, and my wife. Did I tell you I had a
wife? Well, I had a wife. It was comming twords us, and the voices were screaming at me. 'Do it! Do it!' They screamed. It
was painfull, my head felt like it was going to explode. You have to understand me, I didn't want to kill her. I loved her.
But, I had to. The voices wouldn't let me not. After I did it, the voices stopped. There was nothing. Then I called the
police, went to trial, and wound up here."
"I have a few more questions."
"That's all I want to say. I'm done talking to you." I tried, for a few more minutes, to get more details out of him,
but all he did was smiled. Eventually, I let myself out, wishing I could lock the door behind me, but the doctor had the
keys, and he was nowhere in sight. As I left the building, I shaded my eyes, against the sudden glare of the summer sun, and
I caught a glimpse of something, I couldn't tell you what, it was probably a cat or something, when I tried to focus on it,
it was gone. Just a shadow moving across the reflection in the glass. Maybe that nutbag's story got to me. I put it out of my
mind, and drove back to the precint.
The drive back was pleasent, but short. It was a muggy, hot day, in Hobb's End, not too many people were out. I
pulled into the precint, and walked in, straight to the Sergent. I knew I had to give him a report, but I had to tactfully
leave out little bits. I'm a detective working with the FBI, I moved here, for an undercover assignment. It would seem that
the police are doing very little to solve a series of murders around and in their city.
I mulled this over, and aprehensively approached the man. He was built like a coke machine, and had a personality to
match. To say talking to him was not very interesting, would be an understatement. "Well?" His gruff voice assaulted my ears.
I wasn't really in the mood to deal with him. I had a sudden headache, and the urge to run home and crawl into bed with a
bottle of Jimmy Bean.
"He's nuts." I replied, tersly. The sergant grunted and shuffled off to his office. I went to mine, and lit up
another cigarette, and replayed the tape. Al Azif, the name caught my ear, and wouldn't let go. I had to see this book, so I
called up Evidance, and asked them if they had it. He quickly brought the book to me, and set it down on my desk, gratefully,
telling me to take it home.
"This thing scares the shit out of me. You know, thats not leather binding. I tested. It's human skin." He looked at
me, and leaned in conspiritorily, his voice a harsh whisper, barely loud enough for me to hear "You know," he started,
nervously looking around. There was no one watching "you know, this place is fucking bizzare." I raised an eyebrow,
quizzicaly, silently urging him to go on. "There's a lot of wierd shit that goes down here, not just the murders, but a hell
of a lot of other shit. Occult shit."
He looked around again, and swallowed hard. I watched his adam's apple bounce as he looked around a third time. He
started to say something, but lost his nerve, and took off. I sighed, and examined the book in front of me. It was slightly
larger than I was expecting, and much thicker. I touched it, briefly, and immidiatly regretted it. The book was warm, and
felt unsettlingly like touching a body. I shuddered, and put the book in my bag. I'd examine it when my shift ended.
The rest of the day was boring. Just the same old typing of reports, some kids smoking dope at the local high school,
your usual small town stuff. On the surface this place was boring. But the kid in Evidance, he really threw me. I don't think
he was around here, and I knew I'd have to talk to him later. But still, his words stuck with me. Occult shit. Oh great, I
thought to myself, a buncha fucking wierdos prancing about naked under the full moon. I sighed, and watched the clock. My
mind wandered, and before I knew it I was lost in an alien city.
It was twisted, and terrible. Blood ran in a river, that flowed next to the single footpath. The buildings were
almost hard to look at, using angles I would have thought impossible. I could hear what sounded like thousands of people
screaming in fear and pain. I slowly became aware of something watching me, following me. Something horrifying. Something
maddening. I started to turn, to look at it, involentarily. Before I could see it, I woke up. Startled by some unknown
disturbance, and got up. Grabbing my bag, I checked the clock. Quitting time. Perfect. Avoiding the Sergant, I left for home.
I lived alone, in a studio apartment. The building was run down, but most buildings were. Illegible graffiti marred
the walls, and bars covered the windows. Wonderfull. The musk of countless dead rats, and unwashed tennants had permeated the
room, and attacked my nose, as soon as I opened the door. I flicked the light switch, and a single bare bulb illuminated the
room. A sickly roach scuttered to the saftey of the shadows cast by the stove. Seems I missed one. I grabbed a bottle of
whiskey, and promptly forgot about the roach.
In a single fluid motion, born of many years of practice, I switched on my TV, and lit a cigarette. The arid smoke
filled my lungs as I took a deep pull from the bottle, and I settled into my dirty, torn-apart couch, the only comfort I've
got in this cold, twisted town. I'd only been here for a couple of weeks, but I could already tell there was something
sinister beneath the surface. How far beneath, I could only guess. I tried to focus on the television, but it was all shit,
and I started to drift off to sleep.
Somehow, I managed to find myself on my bed, in my underwear, the window open. It was hot, and muggy, and I had heard
something, downstairs. Dismissing the pounding in my head, I searched out my gun, and pulled it to me. I rolled off my bed,
into a defensive crouch, and glanced at the clock, before heading to the door. Three-thirty in the morning. Burglars then, I
thought to myself, as I quietly started to search my dark, almost squalid apartment. With a yell worthy of Tarzan, I threw on
the lights, hoping to suprise the intruder, but there was no one there.
I growled softly, at my own stupidity, and shuffled back to bed. I had just managed to drift back off to sleep when
the alarm rang, shocking me out of bed. I went through my usual morning routine, brush my teeth, shave, eat breakfast, you
know, the everyman morning. First thing, when I entered the precinct building, I was almost knocked over when Sergant Coke
Machine thrust another case file into my hands. "Go back to the asylum," he gruffly ordered "Doctor went nuts."
With a final grunt, he left, and I checked out a car. The early morning sun was unusually red, making it seem like
the scenery on the drive to the asylum was covered in blood. I blinked, and shook my head, thinking myself to be going
batshit, the color of blood. What was I thinking? I pulled up to the place and parked, this time amongst three other squad
cars. I approached a man who looked like he was in charge, and walked up to him. "Detective Phillips, Hobb's End PD, what's
going on here?"
"Sergant Preston, good to see they actually sent someone this time. Seems one of the doctors in there went mad
scientest, and was...experimenting on the inmates."
"What do you mean by 'actually sent someone'?"
"Usually Hobb's End PD doesn't get involved. Usually it falls on the Arkham County Sheriffs Department. I don't know
how those lazy fuckers keep their jobs."
"Fair enough." I was relieved that it was at least a local problem, and not county wide. "So what kind of
experiments?"
"Come with me, I'll show you." He shuddered, as he led me on, into the main waiting room. He hesitated, waiting for
me, almost as if he were afraid to go back in.
"Well? Why'd you stop?" The tense question made the officer stiffen, and he gave me a look that said 'If you only
knew...' As soon as I was inside, and near him, he pushed open the door, and the metallic stench of blood found my nose, and
threw it around the way a dog throws around a toy. I stiffled the urge to throw up, which only got worse when he opened the
door at the end of the hall. It was the operating room from Hell. People were chained up, and hanging from the ceilings,
their blood dripping into pans on the floor.
I couldn't look for very long, the sight made me sick, but I couldn't look anywhere else. On one table was a
notebook, smeared with dried blood, and something in a jar, attatched to some wierd appliance that looked like it would have
been home in an old B-Movie from the fifties. I moved closer, and immidiatly regretted it. There was a head in the jar, surrounded by a yellow gel. What I thought were scraggles of skin, or meat, turned out to be wires, connecting the head to the B-Movie apparatus, which it turned out had several dials, and a speaker.
I made little sick noises, and the officer looked at me, and put a hand on my shoulder, sympathetically. "This is...disgusting." I managed to whisper, weakly, feeling my stomach clench.

 

FunkySkunky

Hm, very interesting. Nice premise, but it took me a while and a couple of double-takes to get the plot straight. See if you can tighten up the fluidity of the plot especially at the point where the speaker begins the dialogue with the murderer in the asylum. It took me a second to fully understand who the characters were and why they were talking to each other. Secondly, the end is kind of meek. Instead of telling the reader what the speaker is feeling, make them feel what the speaker is feeling. Get real gory and gross, make it real. Make it personal. Overall, a pretty nice little story. Definitely needs a bit of revision. Nice start.

MiniKirk

Thanks, I'm not actually finished yet, just kinda stuck. I appreciate your feedback, and when I finish, and start on the second draft, your comments will be taking priority over my friends (who say "its good" and go off on the good bits, not the bad. To improve, of course, I need to know the bad). Hell, they'll take priority now, while working on the rest of this flight of fantasy.
-The Doc