Hull Story - Chapter 1, Part 1 "Untimely arrival"

Hi, Steemit. Tonight, I’m going to share the first few pages of a novella I’m writing with @ghostfish. Posting this is somewhat inspired by @ezzy after reading a few of his recent creative writing works. In my head, this was to be something @ghostfish would release in it’s finished form, but during the early days of Steemit, I followed an author named @jamielefay. She was releasing her entire novel, Ahe’ey, section by section, chapter by chapter […I believe as she wrote it]. I love that model for Steemit.

So, this is the first look at a dark Lovecraftian horror story I’ve been developing with @ghostfish in tandem with @coppercoins. It takes place in New England [surprise, surprise] in the late 1800’s. Two writers, traveling from New York to Cape Ann. En route, their horse, Hastings, becomes sick, forcing them to stop in the Massachusetts town of Hull. I sketched and inked this illustration of Mr. Denton and Carter Poor, walking Hastings, just for reference.

What a great exercise this has been for me, especially if I continue to do companion illustrations. It gives me a better sense of what these characters “look like”, in my mind. They could also make their way in to the final book whenever it’s completed. My blog here on Steemit is always a mixed bag of photography, comics, Magic: The Gathering, etc. Occasionally entries about this story will probably be added as well going forward. Enjoy.

I awoke to my company, Mr. Denton, cursing under his breath, toiling with his pipe. With the strike of a match, my tired eyes tried to focus on the flame. My head rhythmically bounced against the inside of our carriage. He looked concerned, which I found concerning. “Again?”, I asked. His face lit orange as he inhaled, then disappeared behind a cloud of grey smoke. Under his breath, he grumbled pointed vulgarities at our horse. Still two days travel to Cape Ann, our lead was ill. “Easy. Whoa. WHOA! Back on the road, Hastings!”. Charles coldly looked at me after leading her back to the path. “She’s sick, Carter.”. “Then we must stop.”, I replied.

Our horse ambled from one side of the road to the other. Charles and I walked to her side, struggling to guide the animal to the center. Her skin burned to the touch. Thick, rancid foam coated her mouth and her breath was weak and labored. Every fifty steps or so, her joints seems to lock, momentarily pausing. Our urgency of a byway to the closest town with an able veterinarian grew. My good friend, Mr. Denton’s mood, often sour, had turned worse. His acuteness of our situation set in as the New England ghosts passed through us. He cursed our horse, then me, the God. As we drew Hastings to the top of landing, a distant sign read “Hull — 5 miles”. Our salvation.

The hours that followed were laborious and a testament of our poise. As our horse deteriorated, I attempted to coax Hastings forward with handfuls of nuts and stale oats. Her lack of appetite and uncoordinated gait resulting in my postulation; Equine Sleeping Sickness, I was almost sure. Often fatal, and my partner and I with little money, less food, I lamented our chances to arrive in Cape Anne by Lord’s Day. My eyes wandered in to the endless depths of the forest to our flanks, hypnotized by the melodic psithurism as wind passed through the pine branches. Fatigued by exhaustion, I rehearsing my best negations with the people of Hull. Across the cloud of Hastings’ sick eyes, the equally troubled look on Mr. Denton’s face was apparent, and appropriate.

2:30a.m., we arrived. Hungry, agitated and deprived of sleep, Mr. Denton and I hitched Hastings before the door of Bailey’s Inn. Had it not been for our infirm state, guilt would have consumed me over the horses obvious decline. I shuffled the blistered soles of my feet across the threshold of the Inn. A drink and a bed were my only concern. I hung myself on the edge of the wooden desk, searching for the service bell, customary in altering the proprietor of our arrival. “How now!”, I exclaimed, echoing throughout the dim lobby. Mr. Denton’s glassy eyes explored the timber of the room, then fixed back on me.

“You have travelers in need of lodging!”, I yelled. I spoke just to break the piercing silences of my parters stare, I think. Just then, a faint cough was heard from behind a latibule. A frail figure emerged. His eye pierced as he scooped a mouthful of salted fish from a tin in hand, then spoke whilst chewing. “Pardon?”. “Good sir, we’ve strayed. Fortunate are we to find the glory of Hull. Our mare stands just outside, ill. We are travel-weary and need rest.”. Slow was the Inn keeper’s response and during the silence, he brought a bloated pilchard to his mouth. “This place is a quatervois exile of The Cape. You’d both best move on.