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ᴍᴀʀᴛʏʀɪᴀ | ʟᴀᴠɪɴɪᴀ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇʟᴇʏ
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Genre: Horror/GothicGenre: Supernatural/Occult/ParanormalWriting - MSL
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H.P. LovecraftThe Dunwich Horror
Sunday, April 30, 1916.
Something was amiss. Sunrise bathed the rocky hilltops in warmth and color for the first time since the 1800s. Dunwich was never meant to behold beauty of such scale. The sins of its townsfolk and their pacts with forces beyond their understanding had forever cursed their land, tarnished their souls and banished anything pure from their hearts. They shut the windows to shield their homes from what their own superstitions had deemed a dark omen; a threat. They feared sunlight more than any tentacle that descended from the sky whenever the Whateleys opened a spell book. Decaying minds, bound in feeble bodies, trapped in a prison of their own making.
A pale figure could be seen ascending Sentinel Hill, like a lone witch on her way to a crowdless sabbat. Cold fists lifted the torn skirts of a worn-out dress, boots crushing skulls and bones beneath them to get to the haunted summit where Lavinia Whateley had committed her own sins. She felt just as guilty to witness something so fair, yet so hostile. It burned her skin, hurt her eyes, left her susceptible to hope. That Dunwich could be redeemed. That better days awaited its folk. That she would be forgiven for what she had unleashed upon this world. Then a flock of whippoorwills cried... and the dream was gone.
Something was amiss. Sunrise bathed the rocky hilltops in warmth and color for the first time since the 1800s. Dunwich was never meant to behold beauty of such scale. The sins of its townsfolk and their pacts with forces beyond their understanding had forever cursed their land, tarnished their souls and banished anything pure from their hearts. They shut the windows to shield their homes from what their own superstitions had deemed a dark omen; a threat. They feared sunlight more than any tentacle that descended from the sky whenever the Whateleys opened a spell book. Decaying minds, bound in feeble bodies, trapped in a prison of their own making.
A pale figure could be seen ascending Sentinel Hill, like a lone witch on her way to a crowdless sabbat. Cold fists lifted the torn skirts of a worn-out dress, boots crushing skulls and bones beneath them to get to the haunted summit where Lavinia Whateley had committed her own sins. She felt just as guilty to witness something so fair, yet so hostile. It burned her skin, hurt her eyes, left her susceptible to hope. That Dunwich could be redeemed. That better days awaited its folk. That she would be forgiven for what she had unleashed upon this world. Then a flock of whippoorwills cried... and the dream was gone.