Death and the Hermitage Options

[Guest_sehrgut_*]

DEATH AND THE HERMITAGE

 I hated him. His very presence was offensive to me, so when I knew Death would come for him, I did not tell him.
 Ask me not how I knew, for it seemed as in a dream; I knew, but had no recollection of discovering. It was as though I had always known. I was expecting it, and could hardly keep calm while I talked with him, and called him "brother."
 Every word the sallow face spoke, every bob of the white-wooled head, brought with it a joy of knowing I would soon never have to see that head or hear that cringing voice again.
 At mealtime, in the Great Hall, I kept watching him — sharp-eyed as a child — watching for the faintest sigh of poison or of illness. He laughed and joked with the rest, and sat soberly as stone when the Master entered; and in all, survived.
 My secret knowledge was nearly driving me mad, by now; for I knew beyond a shadow of suspicion that he ought to have been dead, now day was so far spent. I wandered the corridors of the hermitage until late in the night, my candle the only gleam or sign of vigil. Then, as I rounded a corner, I saw a huge, black-robed figure duck into a doorway. The cowl was empty, and the whole robe was filled with nought but shadow. There was a silver gleam I knew to be a sickle-blade at his side.
 His chamber was fatefully two doors from where I stood frozen. I turned toward it, and then glanced back over my shoulder. Near Death's chamber stood now a grotesque of a bull: huge, tawny-black, head lowered before disproportionately immense shoulders. It looked at me with a gaze so terrible and expectant that I turned away.
 "Brother, brother!" I called, pounding his oaken door.
 "Brother!" again.
 The door opened, and, suddenly speechless, I realized I was about to kill this man I called "brother;" the man I slyly named "friend." Somehow, hoarse-voiced, nearly dumb, I directed him to the chamber down the hall. He could not see the Death-bull. Somehow, I knew before I ever roused him that only I could see it. As he entered the room, the bull snorted once, stomped a hoof, and followed him inside.
 I heard a shuffle, a cut-off cry, and then silence. Cautiously, I walked to the door, and entered.
 There, lying gored on the stone before me, lay this man, the man I most despised. His blood flowed gently, freely from his chest, and I watched it. I was now the only one left to despise; I was the hateful.
 Now consumed with sorrow, I looked up, and was filled instead with terror. I backed up, trying to leave by the door; but there was no longer a door. In fright, I spun around, but faced only a wall.
 Sobbing, I sunk down. I heard a snort, and the stomping of a hoof. Looking back, I saw the bull trotting slowly toward me.

[Guest_Cailean_*]

Two of my favourite stories are "The Thing on the Doorstep" which has to have one of the most arresting starts for a story I must admit ... also my absolute favourite story "The Whisperers in the Darkness". As for more modern horror, I am a particular fan of Clive Barker and Jack Yeovil (who only lightly touches horror but definitely has his moments) who is also known as "Kim Newman". Of Clive Barker, Cabal and The Great and Secret Show are probably my favourite stories, with Jack Yeovil I am partial to Beasts in Velvet (genre it may be, no matter), Drachenfels (ditto) and the Demon Download series, but the latter is only appreciated if you enjoy the surreal mixed in with strange new technology and an alternate history of the world.

Dracula is to horror that Lord of the Rings is to fantasy - it's not necessarily the best that's out there, but it's definitely the root of much of current horror. Of course, something similar could be said of Poe, but as far as I can follow it, it went pretty much Poe, to Stoker, to Lovecraft, to King/Lumley/Koontz/Barker.

Just a few threads to start with.

Cailean.