In 500 Words: A Tribute to Lovecraft
I wrote this 500 word short today in honor of H.P. Lovecraft's birthday. It is a tribute to him and his style of writing.
It was shortly after I returned home from college when it happened; the weird and unexplained thing which forced me here. I suppose that it was my own, careless fault. “Schizophrenia” my mother initially screamed, but the doctors say differently. They are still testing me, but are steadfast in their ignorance for deeming me insane.
My mother had renovated the house between my initial departure and return from college. I had kept in touch with her through letters and emails, saving my holidays for travel. I often told her that before I settled down with a career, I wanted to see things. She was most agreeable with my wishes and used some of her inheritance from Father to fund my travels—on one condition—I was not to date or ruin my life by getting myself impregnated. Fulfilling her request was effortless; I had never been interested in that sort of thing.
There were times when I had strayed from the guided tours and ventured into the unknown. That, in part, was my undoing. I liked to visit places with certain histories of unseemly doings…Salem was one such place. I didn’t bother to show up at the guided tour sessions there, and instead, went out at night to find my own tour guides (those of the witching sort). I won’t go into detail about the obvious things which ensued in those not so still hours—of the bonfires, chants, and reckless endangerment to animals.
I came home to a house much different than the one I had remembered leaving. My mother kept a backroom on the second floor locked at all times, even when she was inside. I assumed that the renovation accomplished nothing, and that she was still mourning the loss of my father. The room taunted me that entire summer before I pried answers out of her.
“It’s stuff I found during the renovation; old photos and things from the nineteenth century.” I was not about to let her keep the antiquity to herself! I spent four hours pestering her before she gave me the key.
The room was small, as if she had originally meant it to serve another purpose. A single bookshelf lined the wall opposite the door. Three tattered books rested on its top shelf. I couldn’t make out any of the titles.
In the far right corner was a wooden rocking chair and table. I spotted a book on the table and stepped closer to it, noting that the author’s name, Abdul Alhazred, had been untouched by time. I didn’t get the chance to inspect it. [1]
A black and white photograph on the left wall had distracted me from it. The woman wore a high, stiff collar true to her time, but that wasn’t what diverted me.
She had my face.
When I pulled her down and freed the photograph from its frame to discern my ancestor’s identity, I found my name scribbled on the back in my own handwriting. The year was 1890.
[1] One of Lovecraft's own creations. Abdul Alhazred was the fictitious author of an equally fictitious work, the Necronomicon.
On the Edge of Sanity
It was shortly after I returned home from college when it happened; the weird and unexplained thing which forced me here. I suppose that it was my own, careless fault. “Schizophrenia” my mother initially screamed, but the doctors say differently. They are still testing me, but are steadfast in their ignorance for deeming me insane.
My mother had renovated the house between my initial departure and return from college. I had kept in touch with her through letters and emails, saving my holidays for travel. I often told her that before I settled down with a career, I wanted to see things. She was most agreeable with my wishes and used some of her inheritance from Father to fund my travels—on one condition—I was not to date or ruin my life by getting myself impregnated. Fulfilling her request was effortless; I had never been interested in that sort of thing.
There were times when I had strayed from the guided tours and ventured into the unknown. That, in part, was my undoing. I liked to visit places with certain histories of unseemly doings…Salem was one such place. I didn’t bother to show up at the guided tour sessions there, and instead, went out at night to find my own tour guides (those of the witching sort). I won’t go into detail about the obvious things which ensued in those not so still hours—of the bonfires, chants, and reckless endangerment to animals.
I came home to a house much different than the one I had remembered leaving. My mother kept a backroom on the second floor locked at all times, even when she was inside. I assumed that the renovation accomplished nothing, and that she was still mourning the loss of my father. The room taunted me that entire summer before I pried answers out of her.
“It’s stuff I found during the renovation; old photos and things from the nineteenth century.” I was not about to let her keep the antiquity to herself! I spent four hours pestering her before she gave me the key.
The room was small, as if she had originally meant it to serve another purpose. A single bookshelf lined the wall opposite the door. Three tattered books rested on its top shelf. I couldn’t make out any of the titles.
In the far right corner was a wooden rocking chair and table. I spotted a book on the table and stepped closer to it, noting that the author’s name, Abdul Alhazred, had been untouched by time. I didn’t get the chance to inspect it. [1]
A black and white photograph on the left wall had distracted me from it. The woman wore a high, stiff collar true to her time, but that wasn’t what diverted me.
She had my face.
When I pulled her down and freed the photograph from its frame to discern my ancestor’s identity, I found my name scribbled on the back in my own handwriting. The year was 1890.
***
[1] One of Lovecraft's own creations. Abdul Alhazred was the fictitious author of an equally fictitious work, the Necronomicon.
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