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Title: Whispers
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: Do not call up that which you cannot put down.
Rating: 15/R
Warning: Character death
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse. I don't own the works of H.P. Lovecraft, either. I did pull out the ouija board and try and contact Mr. Lovecraft to see if he was okay with it, but all I managed to summon up was someone calling himself "Uncle Harry" who asked if he could possess my body and "squeeze my knockers"...
Note: Response to the October fic challenge. This is my attempt to write a scary story in the style of H.P. Lovecraft, taking inspiration from the likes of "The Thing on the Doorstep," "The Dunwich Horror," "The Rats in the Walls," "The Case of Charles Dexter Ward" and many more.
The following is a number of extracts from the journal of Matthew James Bellamy
1st July 1920
I have never been much of a writer. Paint and canvas have always been my preferred mode of expression. But, as I am about to embark on what promises to be an exciting new chapter of my life, I will record the my experiences in this journal.
I shall begin with some family history. I was born in the town of Arkham, in the house my grandfather built. My grandfather was a gentleman of considerable means and a well respected scholar. Other worlds and the beings said to reside in them comprised the main part of his study. His interest in such things became an obsession and this obsession did destroy him. My grandmother died under mysterious circumstances. This unfortunate incident, and the bitter quarrel which followed, prompted my father to gather my mother and my infant self and quit Arkham forever.
My gandfather soon lost his tenuous grip on reality. The people of Arkham finally grew sick of his ravings and strange behaviour. They broke his door down and carried him off to Arkham Asylum. He expired there some years later, a madman to the end.
He left his fortune and his house to me and, now that I am of age, I go forth to claim my inheritance. I have never cared much for Providence and I have never been as close to my parents as a son should. I will not miss them. As for friends, I have only one, a youth of my own age, Dominic Howard. The seed of our friendship has grown from childhood but, in recent times, the fruit of that friendship has grown sour and a certain cool distance has sprung up between us and [smudged, illegible]
3rd July
I arrived at the house late yesterday evening. Things got off to a rather bad start when I cut my hand on a door latch. I staunched the flow with a pocket handkerchief, but not before spilling a copious amount of my precious life fluid all over the floor of the front hall. But, as I surveyed my new lodgings (and oh, how wonderful the idea a house of my own is after so many years under my father's roof!), my dark mood soon brightened. The house is remarkable well preserved, with none of the foul odours one would expected in a dwelling that has been abandoned for decades. Only one thing troubles me: I found it difficult to sleep, I could swear I heard strange sounds, coming from inside the walls, almost as if the house were whispering to me.
4th August
I have neglected this journal in the last month, too engaged in exploring my house and new surroundings. The house rests on a hill. I stand at my front door and look down at the town and the Miskatonic river. The view is spectacular, and has already inspired me to fill two sketchbooks.
The townspeople are polite, but wary. I have received no invitations and my attempts to invite people to spend an evening in my company have been politely, but firmly, declined. I spend my evenings alone, reading, drawing and listening to the whispers in the walls.
8th September
Dominic has come to Arkham. His arrival was unexpected, a bolt of lightning from a clear, blue sky and it has shaken me out of my calm, well-ordered existence.
I must confess that I have not beeen entirely honest in my previous entries (and if a man cannot be honest in the pages of his own journal what, then, does that say of his character?). Dominic and I were childhood friends, that much is true, and our friendship was pure. But it did not remain so. As we grew to maturity we began to desire each other, in a most unnatural way. I should have rebuffed his advances, but I did not. I was weak, unable to stop it, unable to refuse him. And so it was until I finally stole away like a thief in the night.
My abrupt departure taught Dominic nothing. He turned his attentions to some of the local boys and this led to discovery and disgrace. Disowned by his family, he has fled to Arkham and thrown himself on my mercy. I should throw him out, but I cannot. I have allowed him to stay, on one condition: our relationship must remain platonic. He has agreed to this.
15th September
Dominic remains true to his word. We are friends again, nothing more. That lust, the black and unnatural craving that so soured our relationship, infects us no longer. Dominic does not hear this whispers in the walls. He thinks they are all in my mind. He may be right. I have always possessed a most vivid imagination.
20th September
Oh, black day! I thought we had conquered our lustul demons. We have not. Dominic came to my bed tonight, all soft touches and honeyed words. I could not stop it. I did not want to. Damn me and damn my weak flesh! I hate him for breaking his promise and I hate myself for giving in.
Lay awake all night. The whispers are getting louder.
26th September
I thought I had made a thorough exploration of this house and found nothing unusual, no remnant of my grandfather or his strange interests. But today we stumbled upon a trapdoor in the cellar and followed it down to some kind of subterranean cavern. I found books strewn in a corner, tomes of forbidden lore and some journals, my grandfather's I presume. Dominic found strange twisted tools. At the far end of the cavern was a crudely constructed altar and, scrawled above it in either blood or excrement or some foul mixture of both, this phrase: DO NOT CALL UP THAT WHICH YOU CANNOT PUT DOWN. Below that, a word: NYARLATHOTEP.
[smudged, illegible]
1st October
I am still deciphering my grandfather's journals. His small, painfully cramped handwriting and the archaic nature of the language he employs makes it a slow and frustrating process.
Dominic is uneasy. He will not return to the sub-cellar. He senses a presence in this house, some black and nameless thing. He wants to leave. I have refused. There is nothing in this house. As for the whispers, they [smudged, illegible]
10th October
Looking through the books in the sub-cellar again, I made the most marvellous discovery: the Necronomicon. Written by the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred in the fifteenth century, it is the rarrst book in existence [smudged, illegible]
16th October
My grandfather's journals are cast aside as I devote all my time to the Necronomicon. The language is alien to me but the pictures ... hideous beings, foul alien geometries, things that sear the eyeball and claw at the mind. And familiar to me, as familiar as the shaoe of my face in a looing glass, for I have been dreaming of these foul creatures and sketching their unnatual proportions for months [smudged, illegible]
... things took a most unpleasant turn tonight. I hurt Dominic. I did not mean to, oh God, I did not mean to. Something took hold of me, I cannot explain it...
31 October
Dominic still keeps his distance. He has accepted my apology, but has not come to mt bed for over two weeks.
9pm
At 7pm or thereabouts, standing in the kitchen, I heard something upstairs, something crashing against a wall. I rushed upstairs and found Dominic on the floor, senseless. I left him there and went to fetch help. Dominic had recovered his senses when I returned with a doctor. He claims to have been manhandled by some supernatural force. But the doctor found no marks, no signs of distress. I have dismissed Dominic's story as either an act of petty revenge or an All-Hallow's prank. It might even be both.
[date unknown]
Oh Lord, where do I begin? I should have gone upstairs when he called me ... but I did not go, I would not go ... that scream ... I found him ... half on floor, half on bed .... his face, his eyes ... sorry, Dominic, I am so sorry ....
[date unknown]
Something is loose in this house. I hear it, feel it, it flickers in the corner of my eye [smudged, illegible]
... I see it all now ... my grandfather's journal ... he was raising something .... something from outside time and space ... the mob carried him away before he could finish ... final ingredient ... human blood, my grandfather's blood .... I cut myself that first night ... I brought it forth ...
[date unknown]
Blood calls to blood ... blood calls to blood ... blood calls to blood ... what is done cannot be undone ... do not call up that which you cannot put down ... do not call up that which you cannot put down ... do not call up that which you cannot put down ...
[date unknown]
Cannot get out ... cannot summon help ... it comes ... IT COMES ...
INCIDENT REPORT
DATE: 22nd November
OFFICER IN CHARGE: Christopher Wolstenholme
Locals report strange sounds and lights coming from the Bellamy place up on the hill. I took three men up to investigate and speak to the new tennant, the grandson of the first owner.
We found his body in the front bedroom. His throat was cut and his journal, the scribblings of a madman, lay on the floor beside him. We followed the stench of decay to the second bedroom, where we found what must be the remains of Mr. Bellamy's companion, Dominic Howard. It appears that Mr. Bellamy went insane, butchered his companion and then cut his own throat. An open and shut case.
But there are many unanswered questions:
If Mr. Bellamy cut his own throat, where is the knife?
How could he hold a knife when all his fingers were broken?
Where are this missing pages of his journal? Why did he tear them out?
He claims to be an artist and refers to sketches he made - where are they?
11pm
I left Hopkins up at the house, searching for this sub-cellar Bellamy speaks of. He should have been back hours ago. What could be keeping him?
Author: hannah_chapter
Pairing: Belldom
Summary: Do not call up that which you cannot put down.
Rating: 15/R
Warning: Character death
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse. I don't own the works of H.P. Lovecraft, either. I did pull out the ouija board and try and contact Mr. Lovecraft to see if he was okay with it, but all I managed to summon up was someone calling himself "Uncle Harry" who asked if he could possess my body and "squeeze my knockers"...
Note: Response to the October fic challenge. This is my attempt to write a scary story in the style of H.P. Lovecraft, taking inspiration from the likes of "The Thing on the Doorstep," "The Dunwich Horror," "The Rats in the Walls," "The Case of Charles Dexter Ward" and many more.
The following is a number of extracts from the journal of Matthew James Bellamy
1st July 1920
I have never been much of a writer. Paint and canvas have always been my preferred mode of expression. But, as I am about to embark on what promises to be an exciting new chapter of my life, I will record the my experiences in this journal.
I shall begin with some family history. I was born in the town of Arkham, in the house my grandfather built. My grandfather was a gentleman of considerable means and a well respected scholar. Other worlds and the beings said to reside in them comprised the main part of his study. His interest in such things became an obsession and this obsession did destroy him. My grandmother died under mysterious circumstances. This unfortunate incident, and the bitter quarrel which followed, prompted my father to gather my mother and my infant self and quit Arkham forever.
My gandfather soon lost his tenuous grip on reality. The people of Arkham finally grew sick of his ravings and strange behaviour. They broke his door down and carried him off to Arkham Asylum. He expired there some years later, a madman to the end.
He left his fortune and his house to me and, now that I am of age, I go forth to claim my inheritance. I have never cared much for Providence and I have never been as close to my parents as a son should. I will not miss them. As for friends, I have only one, a youth of my own age, Dominic Howard. The seed of our friendship has grown from childhood but, in recent times, the fruit of that friendship has grown sour and a certain cool distance has sprung up between us and [smudged, illegible]
3rd July
I arrived at the house late yesterday evening. Things got off to a rather bad start when I cut my hand on a door latch. I staunched the flow with a pocket handkerchief, but not before spilling a copious amount of my precious life fluid all over the floor of the front hall. But, as I surveyed my new lodgings (and oh, how wonderful the idea a house of my own is after so many years under my father's roof!), my dark mood soon brightened. The house is remarkable well preserved, with none of the foul odours one would expected in a dwelling that has been abandoned for decades. Only one thing troubles me: I found it difficult to sleep, I could swear I heard strange sounds, coming from inside the walls, almost as if the house were whispering to me.
4th August
I have neglected this journal in the last month, too engaged in exploring my house and new surroundings. The house rests on a hill. I stand at my front door and look down at the town and the Miskatonic river. The view is spectacular, and has already inspired me to fill two sketchbooks.
The townspeople are polite, but wary. I have received no invitations and my attempts to invite people to spend an evening in my company have been politely, but firmly, declined. I spend my evenings alone, reading, drawing and listening to the whispers in the walls.
8th September
Dominic has come to Arkham. His arrival was unexpected, a bolt of lightning from a clear, blue sky and it has shaken me out of my calm, well-ordered existence.
I must confess that I have not beeen entirely honest in my previous entries (and if a man cannot be honest in the pages of his own journal what, then, does that say of his character?). Dominic and I were childhood friends, that much is true, and our friendship was pure. But it did not remain so. As we grew to maturity we began to desire each other, in a most unnatural way. I should have rebuffed his advances, but I did not. I was weak, unable to stop it, unable to refuse him. And so it was until I finally stole away like a thief in the night.
My abrupt departure taught Dominic nothing. He turned his attentions to some of the local boys and this led to discovery and disgrace. Disowned by his family, he has fled to Arkham and thrown himself on my mercy. I should throw him out, but I cannot. I have allowed him to stay, on one condition: our relationship must remain platonic. He has agreed to this.
15th September
Dominic remains true to his word. We are friends again, nothing more. That lust, the black and unnatural craving that so soured our relationship, infects us no longer. Dominic does not hear this whispers in the walls. He thinks they are all in my mind. He may be right. I have always possessed a most vivid imagination.
20th September
Oh, black day! I thought we had conquered our lustul demons. We have not. Dominic came to my bed tonight, all soft touches and honeyed words. I could not stop it. I did not want to. Damn me and damn my weak flesh! I hate him for breaking his promise and I hate myself for giving in.
Lay awake all night. The whispers are getting louder.
26th September
I thought I had made a thorough exploration of this house and found nothing unusual, no remnant of my grandfather or his strange interests. But today we stumbled upon a trapdoor in the cellar and followed it down to some kind of subterranean cavern. I found books strewn in a corner, tomes of forbidden lore and some journals, my grandfather's I presume. Dominic found strange twisted tools. At the far end of the cavern was a crudely constructed altar and, scrawled above it in either blood or excrement or some foul mixture of both, this phrase: DO NOT CALL UP THAT WHICH YOU CANNOT PUT DOWN. Below that, a word: NYARLATHOTEP.
[smudged, illegible]
1st October
I am still deciphering my grandfather's journals. His small, painfully cramped handwriting and the archaic nature of the language he employs makes it a slow and frustrating process.
Dominic is uneasy. He will not return to the sub-cellar. He senses a presence in this house, some black and nameless thing. He wants to leave. I have refused. There is nothing in this house. As for the whispers, they [smudged, illegible]
10th October
Looking through the books in the sub-cellar again, I made the most marvellous discovery: the Necronomicon. Written by the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred in the fifteenth century, it is the rarrst book in existence [smudged, illegible]
16th October
My grandfather's journals are cast aside as I devote all my time to the Necronomicon. The language is alien to me but the pictures ... hideous beings, foul alien geometries, things that sear the eyeball and claw at the mind. And familiar to me, as familiar as the shaoe of my face in a looing glass, for I have been dreaming of these foul creatures and sketching their unnatual proportions for months [smudged, illegible]
... things took a most unpleasant turn tonight. I hurt Dominic. I did not mean to, oh God, I did not mean to. Something took hold of me, I cannot explain it...
31 October
Dominic still keeps his distance. He has accepted my apology, but has not come to mt bed for over two weeks.
9pm
At 7pm or thereabouts, standing in the kitchen, I heard something upstairs, something crashing against a wall. I rushed upstairs and found Dominic on the floor, senseless. I left him there and went to fetch help. Dominic had recovered his senses when I returned with a doctor. He claims to have been manhandled by some supernatural force. But the doctor found no marks, no signs of distress. I have dismissed Dominic's story as either an act of petty revenge or an All-Hallow's prank. It might even be both.
[date unknown]
Oh Lord, where do I begin? I should have gone upstairs when he called me ... but I did not go, I would not go ... that scream ... I found him ... half on floor, half on bed .... his face, his eyes ... sorry, Dominic, I am so sorry ....
[date unknown]
Something is loose in this house. I hear it, feel it, it flickers in the corner of my eye [smudged, illegible]
... I see it all now ... my grandfather's journal ... he was raising something .... something from outside time and space ... the mob carried him away before he could finish ... final ingredient ... human blood, my grandfather's blood .... I cut myself that first night ... I brought it forth ...
[date unknown]
Blood calls to blood ... blood calls to blood ... blood calls to blood ... what is done cannot be undone ... do not call up that which you cannot put down ... do not call up that which you cannot put down ... do not call up that which you cannot put down ...
[date unknown]
Cannot get out ... cannot summon help ... it comes ... IT COMES ...
INCIDENT REPORT
DATE: 22nd November
OFFICER IN CHARGE: Christopher Wolstenholme
Locals report strange sounds and lights coming from the Bellamy place up on the hill. I took three men up to investigate and speak to the new tennant, the grandson of the first owner.
We found his body in the front bedroom. His throat was cut and his journal, the scribblings of a madman, lay on the floor beside him. We followed the stench of decay to the second bedroom, where we found what must be the remains of Mr. Bellamy's companion, Dominic Howard. It appears that Mr. Bellamy went insane, butchered his companion and then cut his own throat. An open and shut case.
But there are many unanswered questions:
If Mr. Bellamy cut his own throat, where is the knife?
How could he hold a knife when all his fingers were broken?
Where are this missing pages of his journal? Why did he tear them out?
He claims to be an artist and refers to sketches he made - where are they?
11pm
I left Hopkins up at the house, searching for this sub-cellar Bellamy speaks of. He should have been back hours ago. What could be keeping him?
