An Infernal Love
folder
Lord of the Rings Movies › General › Lord of the Ring Stars
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
11
Views:
2,049
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Lord of the Rings Movies › General › Lord of the Ring Stars
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
11
Views:
2,049
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is work of fiction! I do not know the celebrity(ies) I am writing about, and I do not profit from these writings.
An Infernal Love
An Infernal Love
Inspired by: Southpark - the movie and Bram Stoker's Dracula.
Yeah, I know what that sounds like!
Please review!
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true, all made up!
Chapter 1
Malham, November 10th, 1798, Journal of Dr David Wenham
4p.m
I am starting this diary to document the phenomenon I am going to examine, though I do not know its kind yet. This evening I am to leave Malham and travel to the estate of Sir Viggo Mortensen, who much desires to become a patient of mine. I am not sure what he expects of me as he has only contacted me through my secretary so far and I thus have not spoken to the man in person yet. The message he left with Miss Harker, however, promises a most interesting study, which made me even more eager to accept Mr Mortensen’s most generous offer. His carriage is to pick me up at 8p.m and I cannot help but look forward to that in anticipation.
Later that day
I cannot believe how fast all this is happening. Only three days ago I did not even know about the existence of Sir Mortensen and now I am sitting in the very man’s carriage, racing towards his castle in the part of the Dales that we call the North York Moors. The landscape is flying past the luxurious carriage.
Lush green hills, which are becoming steeper and steeper as our journey continues, sloping down to shadowy valleys where small herds of sheep huddle together near the cottages, their white fleeces glimmering in the pale beams of the full moon, that shimmers ominously in the clear black sky. Apart from the moonlight the only things that mark our passage are the illuminated windows of the stony farms and shepherd’s cottages and the flickering blue-green light that emanates from the gas-lamps on the front of the carriage.
Strangely enough the driver has not spoken a word to me so far. The more often I look outside, the more I am convinced that it will snow within the next few days. In spite of the clear sky the moon is surrounded by a misty corona that dulls its light. It is already past 9p.m and I can only hope that we reach Mortensen’s castle soon, as the chill of the night is starting to get to me.
The carriage proves that Sir Mortensen must be a man of immeasurable wealth indeed. The drapes that cover the window – though black – are of the finest silk and the seats are soft and pliable. Nevertheless I am starting to feel how uneven this country road is.
Same day, 11p.m
I am now writing instead of going to bed because the journey and my arrival at Sir Mortensen’s castle have upset me very much. I stopped writing in this journal during the journey because I had to fight off a growing sleepiness and was also feeling somewhat dizzy. I must have drifted off somewhere along the road though I do not recall falling asleep but the things I seem to remember from the last part of the journey are too bizarre to be real memories. I shall try to do my best to put them into words, though. This is what happened:
We were past the gently sloping valleys and had entered the mountainous part of the region when I started to feel sleepy and decided to abandon my journal for the time being. I barely took notice of the landscape passing by till I was gradually jerked back go what I believed to be full consciousness by the howling of wolves. I thought nothing of it in the beginning, since the eerie yelping sounded quite distant but it seemed to draw closer by the second.
I sat hunched back in the seat, glancing out through the curtained windows, shivering with cold sweat as the first of the wolves became visible in the hurrying landscape, illuminated by flames of blue fire that lapped up between the shadowy trees. In spite of my fear and agitation I was unable to fight off the dizziness much longer and drifted in and out of a sleepy haze, jerked awake time after time by feverish shudders and images as the carriage drove on relentlessly.
Once, as the wolves seemed to be closer than ever I had the impression that the carriage stopped. When I dared to peer outside I saw that the wolves had surrounded us in a tight circle. Side by side they stood, their heads held low as their yellow eyes glared at the carriage with a reddish tinge of madness. I am sure that I must have screamed as the driver, a tall bulky man, jumped down from his seat on the carriage, his deep red cloak flaring out behind him, glistening violet in the light of the gas-lamps as he patted the horses’ manes to calm them down. One of the horses reared, its hooves flying wildly through the air, forcing the driver to step back.
For a split second I saw his face. Deep-set sea-green eyes shone from a ghastly pale face, framed by a few strands of sandy-blond hair and the hood of his cloak before he turned to the wolves, lifting his arms to both sides till he looked like a big deformed bat. Growling the wolves retreated, just far enough to be out of the flickering light but close enough to keep watching us with their yellowish glistening eyes. The driver climbed back up again and off we were. On and on we drove, an echo of the howling wolves and the shimmering of the blue flames following us all the way till we finally left the mountains and drove over a vast plain towards a distant wood in front of which a big dark castle with high towers rose into the sky.
We drove through a rather dilapidated gate and came to a stand-still on the cobble-stones of the outer court-yard.
The driver yanked the door open and motioned for me to step out of the carriage, his face once more hidden by the hood of his cloak. With a few swift movements he had taken my luggage down and gestured once more for me to follow him as he already carried what little luggage I had inside. Hesitantly I followed him, too sleepy to take note of my surroundings and he led me through seemingly endless corridors, hung with heavy tapestries of battles long gone, till we finally entered a small chamber.
“This is your room during your stay here.” the driver told me, “You must be tired. Sleep now. You will meet Sir Mortensen at breakfast tomorrow morning.” With that he put down my suitcases next to the fireside and left me, ere I could thank him.
The strangest thing is that no matter how hard I try I find myself unable to recall the man’s voice, even though I remember that I thought it to be rather memorable when I heard it.
But I am tired and barely able to hold the pencil I am writing with any longer. I shall try to sleep and am going to continue this journal as soon as possible. Maybe after my breakfast with Sir Mortensen. For now I am only looking forward to sleep.
Tbc….
Inspired by: Southpark - the movie and Bram Stoker's Dracula.
Yeah, I know what that sounds like!
Please review!
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true, all made up!
Chapter 1
Malham, November 10th, 1798, Journal of Dr David Wenham
4p.m
I am starting this diary to document the phenomenon I am going to examine, though I do not know its kind yet. This evening I am to leave Malham and travel to the estate of Sir Viggo Mortensen, who much desires to become a patient of mine. I am not sure what he expects of me as he has only contacted me through my secretary so far and I thus have not spoken to the man in person yet. The message he left with Miss Harker, however, promises a most interesting study, which made me even more eager to accept Mr Mortensen’s most generous offer. His carriage is to pick me up at 8p.m and I cannot help but look forward to that in anticipation.
Later that day
I cannot believe how fast all this is happening. Only three days ago I did not even know about the existence of Sir Mortensen and now I am sitting in the very man’s carriage, racing towards his castle in the part of the Dales that we call the North York Moors. The landscape is flying past the luxurious carriage.
Lush green hills, which are becoming steeper and steeper as our journey continues, sloping down to shadowy valleys where small herds of sheep huddle together near the cottages, their white fleeces glimmering in the pale beams of the full moon, that shimmers ominously in the clear black sky. Apart from the moonlight the only things that mark our passage are the illuminated windows of the stony farms and shepherd’s cottages and the flickering blue-green light that emanates from the gas-lamps on the front of the carriage.
Strangely enough the driver has not spoken a word to me so far. The more often I look outside, the more I am convinced that it will snow within the next few days. In spite of the clear sky the moon is surrounded by a misty corona that dulls its light. It is already past 9p.m and I can only hope that we reach Mortensen’s castle soon, as the chill of the night is starting to get to me.
The carriage proves that Sir Mortensen must be a man of immeasurable wealth indeed. The drapes that cover the window – though black – are of the finest silk and the seats are soft and pliable. Nevertheless I am starting to feel how uneven this country road is.
Same day, 11p.m
I am now writing instead of going to bed because the journey and my arrival at Sir Mortensen’s castle have upset me very much. I stopped writing in this journal during the journey because I had to fight off a growing sleepiness and was also feeling somewhat dizzy. I must have drifted off somewhere along the road though I do not recall falling asleep but the things I seem to remember from the last part of the journey are too bizarre to be real memories. I shall try to do my best to put them into words, though. This is what happened:
We were past the gently sloping valleys and had entered the mountainous part of the region when I started to feel sleepy and decided to abandon my journal for the time being. I barely took notice of the landscape passing by till I was gradually jerked back go what I believed to be full consciousness by the howling of wolves. I thought nothing of it in the beginning, since the eerie yelping sounded quite distant but it seemed to draw closer by the second.
I sat hunched back in the seat, glancing out through the curtained windows, shivering with cold sweat as the first of the wolves became visible in the hurrying landscape, illuminated by flames of blue fire that lapped up between the shadowy trees. In spite of my fear and agitation I was unable to fight off the dizziness much longer and drifted in and out of a sleepy haze, jerked awake time after time by feverish shudders and images as the carriage drove on relentlessly.
Once, as the wolves seemed to be closer than ever I had the impression that the carriage stopped. When I dared to peer outside I saw that the wolves had surrounded us in a tight circle. Side by side they stood, their heads held low as their yellow eyes glared at the carriage with a reddish tinge of madness. I am sure that I must have screamed as the driver, a tall bulky man, jumped down from his seat on the carriage, his deep red cloak flaring out behind him, glistening violet in the light of the gas-lamps as he patted the horses’ manes to calm them down. One of the horses reared, its hooves flying wildly through the air, forcing the driver to step back.
For a split second I saw his face. Deep-set sea-green eyes shone from a ghastly pale face, framed by a few strands of sandy-blond hair and the hood of his cloak before he turned to the wolves, lifting his arms to both sides till he looked like a big deformed bat. Growling the wolves retreated, just far enough to be out of the flickering light but close enough to keep watching us with their yellowish glistening eyes. The driver climbed back up again and off we were. On and on we drove, an echo of the howling wolves and the shimmering of the blue flames following us all the way till we finally left the mountains and drove over a vast plain towards a distant wood in front of which a big dark castle with high towers rose into the sky.
We drove through a rather dilapidated gate and came to a stand-still on the cobble-stones of the outer court-yard.
The driver yanked the door open and motioned for me to step out of the carriage, his face once more hidden by the hood of his cloak. With a few swift movements he had taken my luggage down and gestured once more for me to follow him as he already carried what little luggage I had inside. Hesitantly I followed him, too sleepy to take note of my surroundings and he led me through seemingly endless corridors, hung with heavy tapestries of battles long gone, till we finally entered a small chamber.
“This is your room during your stay here.” the driver told me, “You must be tired. Sleep now. You will meet Sir Mortensen at breakfast tomorrow morning.” With that he put down my suitcases next to the fireside and left me, ere I could thank him.
The strangest thing is that no matter how hard I try I find myself unable to recall the man’s voice, even though I remember that I thought it to be rather memorable when I heard it.
But I am tired and barely able to hold the pencil I am writing with any longer. I shall try to sleep and am going to continue this journal as soon as possible. Maybe after my breakfast with Sir Mortensen. For now I am only looking forward to sleep.
Tbc….