(if i could speak in shorthand, i would. i need to keep this short. i don't normally do these country bumpkin sorts of stories. the ones that get me away from my contacts and a well-stocked bar and require that i pack galoshes and dodge deer. but i heard from a reliable source about — well. the particulars aren't very important. at least not right now. no, no. all will be revealed in due time. that's how these kinds of stories begin, right? an innocent young girl arrives at a mansion as the new governess or maid or just to get away from it all. but then she's pushed into an unknown and strange world of terror, paranoia, and death. well, dear reader, i am neither innocent nor young, but eveniwas pushed into that world. but, as i said, all will be revealed.
it began in the late afternoon of march 24. it was gray. like it had been all day and the previous day. i arrived at the mansion, rang the doorbell, and waited...
kolchak waits for a couple of seconds before ringing the doorbell again, pressing his thumb against the button. the drone of the doorbell is like egg beaters or the dull hum of a beehive. it's the only sound for miles. but no one comes. sensing the futility of this, he releases his finger and then glances over his shoulder. he's the only life for miles. he tries the doorknob and it's unlocked. it swings open, easily, like it had been expecting him. he takes it as an invitation and enters.
the mansion is a nice, big place. a little old-fashioned for him and very reminiscent of those old monster movies kolchak used to take girls to as an opportunity to make out. gothic revival architecture, velvet persian rugs, mahogany furniture, looming oil portraits of stern-faced ancestors, and a musty stench like a mausoleum. yes, very dracula meets the wolf-man. he adjusts his bag on his shoulder, looking around him to anybody. in front of him is a grand staircase (also made from mahogany with velvet carpet) and he's tempted to climb up in his search of a person. but...
but he would prefer to stay on the ground level for now. it makes for a quicker escape. at least until he's scoped out his surroundings. even with a silver cross and bottle of holy water weighing heavily in his bag, kolchak still feels unsure about who (or what) lurks in these halls.
he adjusts his bag again and walks further into the mansion. he's between the parlor and the library (where colonel mustard was with the candlestick) when a man smelling of wet grass with a face like the sun behind a veil of smoke appears from outside. kolchak looks behind the guy and, through the glass panes of the door, spots a garden and, beyond that on a slope, a cemetery. tombstones jut out from the ground like fragments of a shipwreck wedged in the sand.
the man asks for a shovel and the question draws kolchak's brows together. ) No. Can't say I have. Actually, I'm looking for the uh proprietor of this castle, Mr. Barnabas Collins. Oh sorry. ( he reaches inside his tan linen suit and pulls out a business card. quick and charming, two essential traits for a reporter. ) Carl Kolchak, reporter for the Chicago Tribune.
( or does the business card read the denver post? back when the mountain air filled his lungs and a failed government experiment (half-man, half-cougar, your tax money at work) terrorized denver. he's been fired from so many newspapers it's difficult (and expensive) to keep his business cards up to date. but quick and charming, a flash of the business card and a flash of a smile to the guy. keep the questions firing and they'll eventually spill everything. )
spill the beans, willie world news
it began in the late afternoon of march 24. it was gray. like it had been all day and the previous day. i arrived at the mansion, rang the doorbell, and waited...
kolchak waits for a couple of seconds before ringing the doorbell again, pressing his thumb against the button. the drone of the doorbell is like egg beaters or the dull hum of a beehive. it's the only sound for miles. but no one comes. sensing the futility of this, he releases his finger and then glances over his shoulder. he's the only life for miles. he tries the doorknob and it's unlocked. it swings open, easily, like it had been expecting him. he takes it as an invitation and enters.
the mansion is a nice, big place. a little old-fashioned for him and very reminiscent of those old monster movies kolchak used to take girls to as an opportunity to make out. gothic revival architecture, velvet persian rugs, mahogany furniture, looming oil portraits of stern-faced ancestors, and a musty stench like a mausoleum. yes, very dracula meets the wolf-man. he adjusts his bag on his shoulder, looking around him to anybody. in front of him is a grand staircase (also made from mahogany with velvet carpet) and he's tempted to climb up in his search of a person. but...
but he would prefer to stay on the ground level for now. it makes for a quicker escape. at least until he's scoped out his surroundings. even with a silver cross and bottle of holy water weighing heavily in his bag, kolchak still feels unsure about who (or what) lurks in these halls.
he adjusts his bag again and walks further into the mansion. he's between the parlor and the library (where colonel mustard was with the candlestick) when a man smelling of wet grass with a face like the sun behind a veil of smoke appears from outside. kolchak looks behind the guy and, through the glass panes of the door, spots a garden and, beyond that on a slope, a cemetery. tombstones jut out from the ground like fragments of a shipwreck wedged in the sand.
the man asks for a shovel and the question draws kolchak's brows together. ) No. Can't say I have. Actually, I'm looking for the uh proprietor of this castle, Mr. Barnabas Collins. Oh sorry. ( he reaches inside his tan linen suit and pulls out a business card. quick and charming, two essential traits for a reporter. ) Carl Kolchak, reporter for the Chicago Tribune.
( or does the business card read the denver post? back when the mountain air filled his lungs and a failed government experiment (half-man, half-cougar, your tax money at work) terrorized denver. he's been fired from so many newspapers it's difficult (and expensive) to keep his business cards up to date. but quick and charming, a flash of the business card and a flash of a smile to the guy. keep the questions firing and they'll eventually spill everything. )