You know, I was actually starting to like this blog. Writing about Elizabeth on it was an escape from this life, into something much more exciting. Whenever I read the journal, and as I transcribed onto the blog, I always imagined myself as Elizabeth…. Like I was in a world where I was someone who could stand up for themselves, who lived with excitement and who met amazing people, instead of being a pathetic girl who can’t even make herself go outside. I was almost able to make myself forget the strangeness at this blog’s start. There hadn’t been any new posts from anyone else in a while, so I’d assumed that whoever had first made this blog had given up on it. It was starting to feel like it really was my blog, instead of something handed to me by a stranger for some reason.
Then…. Those last two posts happened. And…. A new person was added. Most of the posts before mine started were like something out of a novel. Some strange fantasy world with monsters and lots of running. I might have enjoyed reading them if not for the circumstances around this blog. But that post by “Grendel”? I…. I don’t know what to do with that. It’s creepy beyond anything else I’ve seen here so far….
I don’t want anything more to do with this. I locked up and put the black box back in the attic. No more stories about Elizabeth Wells. No more reading about darkness chasing people through impossible libraries. Just me, going back to my life of hiding under the covers and never talking to anyone. Once I post this and close my browser window, I’ll be through with this blog and everything relating to it. I really, really mean it this time.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
August 15, 1963-Oxford, England
677
Still annoys me that blogger doesn’t believe in dates before 1970. Posting from this timeframe works, but it feels so unprofessional. As if the timeline wasn’t screwy enough.
So I’d learned what I needed to do, but not how. Do you realize how vague “You must collect several ancient relics to perform a ritual” is? I don’t even know what this ritual is supposed to be! And collecting ancient relics? Half my life these days involves me collecting ancient relics from the days when the planets were young! This world is crawling in ancient relics! I so much as walk out the door and I trip over a pile of ancient relics! You need to be a bit more specific!
Sent out some queries to my contacts in Arkham. They weren’t able to give me much (Genuinely surprising. I’d been starting to think that there wasn’t anything Orne Library didn’t have on its shelves), but they gave me a lead to follow. I was told to seek a small, untitled book written by Abdul Alhazred, one of the few of his writings not already in the possession of Orne Library.
Took me some time to pinpoint where I could find it. When I did discover the location, I can’t say I was very enthusiastic about going there. Like I have a choice.
Dropped into Oxford, and went looking for a bookstore. Not just any bookstore. Had to be the creepiest, oldest, most blatantly ominous bookstore in the city. Found the place squatting in an alley, so obscured by shadows you could barely tell it was day. No signs or external markings on the building; the only reason one could tell it was a bookstore was because of the piles of dust covered tomes scattered around the door.
When I opened that old door, I found that the interior followed the same pattern of organizing its contents as outside. I’d be surprised if the owner had ever heard the concept of putting books on shelves. Or dusting. Though the scattered organization could have been because of lack of space; this building was only a single room large.
Even given the room’s small size, it took annoyingly long to find the owner. He was hidden behind a wall of books, so focused on frantically scribbling on a parchment that he had failed to notice my entrance. Older man; ancient, really. Scarcely a wisp of hair left on his wrinkled head, eyes almost obscured by heavy spectacles seated on a crooked nose, over a mouth half filled with yellowed teeth.
Slamming my hand down on a book next to him got him to notice me (it also created a cloud of dust which caused us both to go into a coughing fit for several seconds, but let’s just skim over that). Looked to be a bit angry at my presence, and shouted that the shop was closed. I ignored that, and told him I needed to get into the back room.
Anger was instantly replaced by fear. The owner didn’t say anything more to me. Stood up, and pushed a stack of books by the wall aside, to reveal a door. Pulled out a key and unlocked it, opened the door, and there was…. Blackness. The light from inside this room barely pierced through the shadow behind that door.
Once I stepped through that door, the owner closed it behind me. For some time, I was alone in darkness. Then, a small flame flickered before me. Followed by another, and another; small candles, stretching as far as I could see, lit themselves, creating tiny pockets of illumination in the darkness. The light revealed my location; I was standing in a massive library. Though perhaps mausoleum for books would be a better description. The shelves stretched far off into the distance, filled with unmarked books, haphazardly stacked and piled. Their height of the shelves was equally immense; when I looked up, the candles illuminating the upper shelves were so far away that they looked like stars in the sky.
I walked down the rows, ignoring the unearthly sounds which came from behind the shelves. Occasionally I would turn and walk down another row, but that served no purpose beyond alleviating the boredom of walking in a straight line. This place didn’t conform to our traditional sense of directions; I would reach the book when the Library allowed me to reach the book, no matter which path I took.
Can’t say for certain how long I was in there. Sense of time was completely destroyed the moment I had stepped through that door. I couldn’t feel the progression of time around me, couldn’t see the lines of time moving through past and future. Felt about as bad as going blind. But my journey came to its eventual end. After walking through dozens of endless rows, I finally reached a dead end, where the shelves blocked further progress. In the center of this shelf, directly at my eye level, was the book I’d been seeking. It was a small thing, barely larger than a pamphlet. But it had the knowledge I needed, so I took it from the shelf, and began my walk back.
My journey into the Library had been calm (or at least as calm as my life gets). Leaving, on the other hand…. The strange sounds I was hearing behind the shelves increased in intensity the further I walked. They were no longer a quiet part of the background, but direct, and hostile. Still, sound on its own is nothing to be afraid of…. Until the lights started to go out. It began far behind me, so far that I almost didn’t notice the flickering of the flames. Soon it became obvious, as more candles went dim, and the darkness spread. Light after light went out, moving towards me as a roar which no creature should be able to produce bellowed from the blackness.
I began to run, as fast as I could. The darkness screamed at me, growing louder, louder, each moment coming closer. Kept running, couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let it catch me. Must have run for miles through those shelves, pain ripping through my legs, lungs raw, couldn’t stop running, darkness gaining on me until it was just behind me, reaching out and grasping at my hair….
Then, the door. So far away, but I could see it. One last burst of speed, and I slammed into the door, throwing it open. Without wasting any time, I threw it shut with as much force as I could. I sank to the ground, exhausted, but safe.
But then I looked around, and realized that I wasn’t in the bookstore. And when I looked over my shoulder, there was no door behind me. Just me, sitting alone in an empty alleyway. No sign that there had ever been anything else there.
Doesn’t matter. I got the book I was looking for. So I’m calling this one a victory.
And next time I’m going to remember to bring a flashlight. Or a grenade launcher.
Scratch that, next time, I’m going to bring a flashlight taped to a grenade launcher.
I-330
Still annoys me that blogger doesn’t believe in dates before 1970. Posting from this timeframe works, but it feels so unprofessional. As if the timeline wasn’t screwy enough.
So I’d learned what I needed to do, but not how. Do you realize how vague “You must collect several ancient relics to perform a ritual” is? I don’t even know what this ritual is supposed to be! And collecting ancient relics? Half my life these days involves me collecting ancient relics from the days when the planets were young! This world is crawling in ancient relics! I so much as walk out the door and I trip over a pile of ancient relics! You need to be a bit more specific!
Sent out some queries to my contacts in Arkham. They weren’t able to give me much (Genuinely surprising. I’d been starting to think that there wasn’t anything Orne Library didn’t have on its shelves), but they gave me a lead to follow. I was told to seek a small, untitled book written by Abdul Alhazred, one of the few of his writings not already in the possession of Orne Library.
Took me some time to pinpoint where I could find it. When I did discover the location, I can’t say I was very enthusiastic about going there. Like I have a choice.
Dropped into Oxford, and went looking for a bookstore. Not just any bookstore. Had to be the creepiest, oldest, most blatantly ominous bookstore in the city. Found the place squatting in an alley, so obscured by shadows you could barely tell it was day. No signs or external markings on the building; the only reason one could tell it was a bookstore was because of the piles of dust covered tomes scattered around the door.
When I opened that old door, I found that the interior followed the same pattern of organizing its contents as outside. I’d be surprised if the owner had ever heard the concept of putting books on shelves. Or dusting. Though the scattered organization could have been because of lack of space; this building was only a single room large.
Even given the room’s small size, it took annoyingly long to find the owner. He was hidden behind a wall of books, so focused on frantically scribbling on a parchment that he had failed to notice my entrance. Older man; ancient, really. Scarcely a wisp of hair left on his wrinkled head, eyes almost obscured by heavy spectacles seated on a crooked nose, over a mouth half filled with yellowed teeth.
Slamming my hand down on a book next to him got him to notice me (it also created a cloud of dust which caused us both to go into a coughing fit for several seconds, but let’s just skim over that). Looked to be a bit angry at my presence, and shouted that the shop was closed. I ignored that, and told him I needed to get into the back room.
Anger was instantly replaced by fear. The owner didn’t say anything more to me. Stood up, and pushed a stack of books by the wall aside, to reveal a door. Pulled out a key and unlocked it, opened the door, and there was…. Blackness. The light from inside this room barely pierced through the shadow behind that door.
Once I stepped through that door, the owner closed it behind me. For some time, I was alone in darkness. Then, a small flame flickered before me. Followed by another, and another; small candles, stretching as far as I could see, lit themselves, creating tiny pockets of illumination in the darkness. The light revealed my location; I was standing in a massive library. Though perhaps mausoleum for books would be a better description. The shelves stretched far off into the distance, filled with unmarked books, haphazardly stacked and piled. Their height of the shelves was equally immense; when I looked up, the candles illuminating the upper shelves were so far away that they looked like stars in the sky.
I walked down the rows, ignoring the unearthly sounds which came from behind the shelves. Occasionally I would turn and walk down another row, but that served no purpose beyond alleviating the boredom of walking in a straight line. This place didn’t conform to our traditional sense of directions; I would reach the book when the Library allowed me to reach the book, no matter which path I took.
Can’t say for certain how long I was in there. Sense of time was completely destroyed the moment I had stepped through that door. I couldn’t feel the progression of time around me, couldn’t see the lines of time moving through past and future. Felt about as bad as going blind. But my journey came to its eventual end. After walking through dozens of endless rows, I finally reached a dead end, where the shelves blocked further progress. In the center of this shelf, directly at my eye level, was the book I’d been seeking. It was a small thing, barely larger than a pamphlet. But it had the knowledge I needed, so I took it from the shelf, and began my walk back.
My journey into the Library had been calm (or at least as calm as my life gets). Leaving, on the other hand…. The strange sounds I was hearing behind the shelves increased in intensity the further I walked. They were no longer a quiet part of the background, but direct, and hostile. Still, sound on its own is nothing to be afraid of…. Until the lights started to go out. It began far behind me, so far that I almost didn’t notice the flickering of the flames. Soon it became obvious, as more candles went dim, and the darkness spread. Light after light went out, moving towards me as a roar which no creature should be able to produce bellowed from the blackness.
I began to run, as fast as I could. The darkness screamed at me, growing louder, louder, each moment coming closer. Kept running, couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let it catch me. Must have run for miles through those shelves, pain ripping through my legs, lungs raw, couldn’t stop running, darkness gaining on me until it was just behind me, reaching out and grasping at my hair….
Then, the door. So far away, but I could see it. One last burst of speed, and I slammed into the door, throwing it open. Without wasting any time, I threw it shut with as much force as I could. I sank to the ground, exhausted, but safe.
But then I looked around, and realized that I wasn’t in the bookstore. And when I looked over my shoulder, there was no door behind me. Just me, sitting alone in an empty alleyway. No sign that there had ever been anything else there.
Doesn’t matter. I got the book I was looking for. So I’m calling this one a victory.
And next time I’m going to remember to bring a flashlight. Or a grenade launcher.
Scratch that, next time, I’m going to bring a flashlight taped to a grenade launcher.
I-330
Thursday, July 28, 2011
it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Dorian Gardner
Another entry from Elizabeth’s journal. This one’s from four days after the last I posted.
Been growing used to Los Valle. It’s quiet. I can barely remember the last time I had the pleasure of experiencing quiet. The room Samuel’s provided me was much nicer than what I had expected; he seems to be trying to run a quality establishment. Shame about the average clientele. Samuel is wasted on them.
My wonderful quiet was disrupted by a new band of travelers who came through the bar yesterday. Saw them sitting at a table, playing cards. Four men, with a very harsh look about them. All the other customers were giving them wide berth, and Samuel was eying them cautiously. Appeared to be a bit of an overreaction, as they seemed content to stick with their cards.
Got an interesting idea as I watched their game of poker go on. My supply of money wouldn’t last forever, and this was starting to look like the perfect opportunity to restock. It’d been a while since I’d done a real, genuine scam….
My plan relied on these men being the greedy, money-loving scum that they looked like, which most fortunately turned out to be the case. Went over to their table, all wide eyed and innocent, laying the “naïve east-coaster” accent on as heavily as I could. When I expressed interest in their game, a light switched on in their heads. These weren’t complicated thinkers; when an obvious newcomer shows the slightest interest in gambling, they fall back on the same old plans. Let the innocent win a few hands. Draw them in. Make them feel greedy. Then, when the newcomer puts in all their money, the veterans throw off the gloves, pull out every cheat they know, and walk away with all the newcomer’s money. But if I knew what was coming…. Well, all I had to do was cheat harder than the cheaters.
First few rounds, I stuck to my role. Acting shocked when I won a round, always asking for help with the rules. The more I put on the table, the more eager they grew, as they realized how much money I had on me.
Then came the moment. Still acting like an ignorant fool, I put all my money in. The greed written across their face was laughably obvious.
They cheated, I cheated, when the hands went down we had six aces distributed amongst the five of us. Dropping all pretense of ignorance, I pointed out that my royal flush beat all their hands, grabbed the money, and got up to leave. I’d planned on their pride stopping them from doing anything to me; what man here would want to admit to being outsmarted by a woman?
Hadn’t expected that they might love their money a bit more than their pride. Guns were drawn and leveled at me. Wasn’t the best situation I’d fallen into. Never gotten the hang of outrunning a bullet, much less four, which was something I really began to regret right there. Several strategies ran through my head, but none were optimal. The only way out I could see would involve killing at least one of them, and I wanted to avoid that as much as possible. But it was starting to look like I wouldn’t have a choice this time….
Saved from having to make that decision when the door was thrown open, and a man in black came in. Suddenly the four card players were interested in someone else, and turned their guns on the newcomer. Gave me a chance to make my move; flipped the table over, and attacked during the confusion. Disarmed one quick, and went for the second. The new guy in black didn’t hesitate; he saw the brawl breaking out between me and the four, and he ran forward and punched one of the gunners in the face.
With the two of us against those four, the fight didn’t last long. I think they only got off a single shot, which harmlessly struck the ceiling, before all four were on the ground clutching various injuries. One could almost feel sorry for them, had they not been pointing guns at me just moments ago. The guy in black was leaning down to speak to them. First time I got a good look at him; was surprised to realize that he’s the same age as me. Maybe even a year or two younger. He was talking with quite a friendly tone to the men, saying, “Been hardly four months since the last time we did this, hasn’t it boys? Now, why don’t you four just go and leave this town all nice and fast-like?”
And run they did. Not even a glance backwards as they shot out the door. Their falling over each other as they got out was hilarious. Samuel certainly thought so, as he was laughing as he came out from behind the bar. He and the man in black greeted each other like old friends, and Samuel led him over to me. “This is Dorian Gardner, an old friend of mine.” Samuel told me. “And this,” he said, gesturing to me, “is that Elizabeth girl I told you ‘bout.”
Dorian smiled and mimed tipping a hat to me. “My, Samuel told me he had a girl staying with him who could outfight a man, but he never bothered mentioning that she was beautiful too.”
Flirt.
But a friendly flirt, which is a miracle after all the pigs I’ve dealt with since coming here. Samuel closed the bar early that day, and the three of us spent hours chatting and sharing drinks. You would not believe some of the situations Samuel and Dorian claim to have gotten into. They were quite a pair when they were younger, if you take their word for it. Dorian’s still wandering around having his adventures, supporting himself through “this and that”. Was nice seeing him when he wasn’t all battle ready; with that unruly hair, big brown eyes, and constantly optimistic energy, it was like having a conversation with a hyperactive puppy. As the conversation went on and more drink was consumed, I found myself fighting the urge to pet his head and say, “Whosa good boy?”
That night was probably the most sociable I’ve been in a long while. Felt good to talk with people. Probably will get another chance soon, as Dorian’s going to be passing through the town frequently on “business”. Can’t say I’m not looking forward to the next time he comes by.
And that’s all for today. Tempted to keep going on ahead, but I’m trying to pace these entries. Doesn’t mean I can’t read ahead. Some fun things happen to Ms. Wells here in the next few entries. But that’s all I’m going to say about it for now.
-Lisa
Been growing used to Los Valle. It’s quiet. I can barely remember the last time I had the pleasure of experiencing quiet. The room Samuel’s provided me was much nicer than what I had expected; he seems to be trying to run a quality establishment. Shame about the average clientele. Samuel is wasted on them.
My wonderful quiet was disrupted by a new band of travelers who came through the bar yesterday. Saw them sitting at a table, playing cards. Four men, with a very harsh look about them. All the other customers were giving them wide berth, and Samuel was eying them cautiously. Appeared to be a bit of an overreaction, as they seemed content to stick with their cards.
Got an interesting idea as I watched their game of poker go on. My supply of money wouldn’t last forever, and this was starting to look like the perfect opportunity to restock. It’d been a while since I’d done a real, genuine scam….
My plan relied on these men being the greedy, money-loving scum that they looked like, which most fortunately turned out to be the case. Went over to their table, all wide eyed and innocent, laying the “naïve east-coaster” accent on as heavily as I could. When I expressed interest in their game, a light switched on in their heads. These weren’t complicated thinkers; when an obvious newcomer shows the slightest interest in gambling, they fall back on the same old plans. Let the innocent win a few hands. Draw them in. Make them feel greedy. Then, when the newcomer puts in all their money, the veterans throw off the gloves, pull out every cheat they know, and walk away with all the newcomer’s money. But if I knew what was coming…. Well, all I had to do was cheat harder than the cheaters.
First few rounds, I stuck to my role. Acting shocked when I won a round, always asking for help with the rules. The more I put on the table, the more eager they grew, as they realized how much money I had on me.
Then came the moment. Still acting like an ignorant fool, I put all my money in. The greed written across their face was laughably obvious.
They cheated, I cheated, when the hands went down we had six aces distributed amongst the five of us. Dropping all pretense of ignorance, I pointed out that my royal flush beat all their hands, grabbed the money, and got up to leave. I’d planned on their pride stopping them from doing anything to me; what man here would want to admit to being outsmarted by a woman?
Hadn’t expected that they might love their money a bit more than their pride. Guns were drawn and leveled at me. Wasn’t the best situation I’d fallen into. Never gotten the hang of outrunning a bullet, much less four, which was something I really began to regret right there. Several strategies ran through my head, but none were optimal. The only way out I could see would involve killing at least one of them, and I wanted to avoid that as much as possible. But it was starting to look like I wouldn’t have a choice this time….
Saved from having to make that decision when the door was thrown open, and a man in black came in. Suddenly the four card players were interested in someone else, and turned their guns on the newcomer. Gave me a chance to make my move; flipped the table over, and attacked during the confusion. Disarmed one quick, and went for the second. The new guy in black didn’t hesitate; he saw the brawl breaking out between me and the four, and he ran forward and punched one of the gunners in the face.
With the two of us against those four, the fight didn’t last long. I think they only got off a single shot, which harmlessly struck the ceiling, before all four were on the ground clutching various injuries. One could almost feel sorry for them, had they not been pointing guns at me just moments ago. The guy in black was leaning down to speak to them. First time I got a good look at him; was surprised to realize that he’s the same age as me. Maybe even a year or two younger. He was talking with quite a friendly tone to the men, saying, “Been hardly four months since the last time we did this, hasn’t it boys? Now, why don’t you four just go and leave this town all nice and fast-like?”
And run they did. Not even a glance backwards as they shot out the door. Their falling over each other as they got out was hilarious. Samuel certainly thought so, as he was laughing as he came out from behind the bar. He and the man in black greeted each other like old friends, and Samuel led him over to me. “This is Dorian Gardner, an old friend of mine.” Samuel told me. “And this,” he said, gesturing to me, “is that Elizabeth girl I told you ‘bout.”
Dorian smiled and mimed tipping a hat to me. “My, Samuel told me he had a girl staying with him who could outfight a man, but he never bothered mentioning that she was beautiful too.”
Flirt.
But a friendly flirt, which is a miracle after all the pigs I’ve dealt with since coming here. Samuel closed the bar early that day, and the three of us spent hours chatting and sharing drinks. You would not believe some of the situations Samuel and Dorian claim to have gotten into. They were quite a pair when they were younger, if you take their word for it. Dorian’s still wandering around having his adventures, supporting himself through “this and that”. Was nice seeing him when he wasn’t all battle ready; with that unruly hair, big brown eyes, and constantly optimistic energy, it was like having a conversation with a hyperactive puppy. As the conversation went on and more drink was consumed, I found myself fighting the urge to pet his head and say, “Whosa good boy?”
That night was probably the most sociable I’ve been in a long while. Felt good to talk with people. Probably will get another chance soon, as Dorian’s going to be passing through the town frequently on “business”. Can’t say I’m not looking forward to the next time he comes by.
And that’s all for today. Tempted to keep going on ahead, but I’m trying to pace these entries. Doesn’t mean I can’t read ahead. Some fun things happen to Ms. Wells here in the next few entries. But that’s all I’m going to say about it for now.
-Lisa
Monday, July 25, 2011
Elizabeth
Going through the box now. First envelope I opened was dated from 1887; inside was a telegram addressed to Elizabeth Wells, reading,
BOOKS YOU REQUESTED NOW AVAILABLE STOP READY TO MAKE EXCHANGE STOP COME WITHIN THE WEEK STOP
No idea what books they’re talking about, or what they’re exchanging the books for, but it’s interesting that Elizabeth was in touch with staff from a prestigious campus like that. Not what I was expecting when I first learned that she was an old west outlaw.
Here’s the first entry from the journal…. Well, not exactly the first. The first and last few pages of the journal have all been burned or ripped out. This is the first surviving entry I was able to find.
Made it to a town. Small place called Los Valle; the sort of town which pops up when two roads happen to cross in the middle of the desert. A crossroads for travelers, on the way to the much larger city of Albuquerque. An inn which doubles as a saloon, shops, church, sheriff’s office, and a few small homes. And lots of sand. Dust and sand everywhere.
Definitely not the sort of place I’d want to stay in, but I have little choice. Went to the inn first; the money I’ve acquired should grant me room for a few nights. Past that, I’ll need to improvise. Bottom floor of the place was a bar, containing several seedy types lounging around their drinks. Didn’t like the looks I was getting from them. Perhaps I should have found a dress, or something else respectable to wear, but respectability and pragmatism rarely go hand in hand. I’ll stick with my riding clothes for now. At least it looked like the drinkers weren’t going to make any comments. Carrying a revolver on your hip tends to discourage most idiots from talking. Most.
Spoke with the owner behind the bar. Big, friendly man, which was not in line with my expectations. Very sociable as well, and the two of us got to talking. He goes by Samuel, and he was one of the original settlers in Los Valle; built the inn back when this place only had a church and a few shops. Even got married and had kids here.
Friendly as our talk had been, he didn’t seem that eager when I told him I was looking for a room. At first I thought it was a money issue, but even when I assured him I could pay, he didn’t seem happy. Finally he admitted that he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a woman traveling on their own; according to him, it wasn’t safe for me to be moving about these places without a man to protect me. I had a bit of a laugh at that, and assured him I’d be fine. Still didn’t seem to convince him.
At that moment, the doors were thrown open and three men walked inside. Loud, boisterous men, shouting and swaggering their way to the bar. The lead one shouted to Samuel, “Hey, bartender, me and my friends just ‘found’ ourselves a big stack of money, and we’re fer some drinks!”
Samuel seemed to recognize the group, and wasn’t too happy about their appearance. Didn’t do anything beyond glare at them, as they were clearly armed. Their leader saw me, and whistled. “Why hello there, dolly….”
Then he put his hand on my shoulder, which was a terrible mistake for him to make. Grabbed his arm, shifted my weight, and flipped him over onto the ground. Before he could get back up, stomped my boot down onto his throat.
His two mates were surprised, but reacted quickly, reaching for their guns. I kicked the closest in the head, knocking him aside. The last was fast enough to have his gun drawn and aimed; I lunged at him, grabbed his gun arm so that the shot went flying through the roof, then kneed him in the groin. That brought the last of them down. When they got back to their feet, they seemed extremely eager to get out of the bar as fast as they could. I could feel the eyes of the other patrons on me as the trio ran off. Those eyes were suddenly more respectful than they had been moments ago.
After that incident, Samuel didn’t complain any more when I asked for my room.
I suppose it’s comforting to know that I will never be anywhere near as badass as my ancestor. I couldn’t even imagine fighting three men armed with guns like that. From what I’ve read ahead, this is only the start; I can’t wait to post the other crazy things she gets involved in later.
-Lisa
BOOKS YOU REQUESTED NOW AVAILABLE STOP READY TO MAKE EXCHANGE STOP COME WITHIN THE WEEK STOP
ORNE LIBRARY
MISKATONIC UNIVERSITY
ARKHAM, MASS
MISKATONIC UNIVERSITY
ARKHAM, MASS
No idea what books they’re talking about, or what they’re exchanging the books for, but it’s interesting that Elizabeth was in touch with staff from a prestigious campus like that. Not what I was expecting when I first learned that she was an old west outlaw.
Here’s the first entry from the journal…. Well, not exactly the first. The first and last few pages of the journal have all been burned or ripped out. This is the first surviving entry I was able to find.
Made it to a town. Small place called Los Valle; the sort of town which pops up when two roads happen to cross in the middle of the desert. A crossroads for travelers, on the way to the much larger city of Albuquerque. An inn which doubles as a saloon, shops, church, sheriff’s office, and a few small homes. And lots of sand. Dust and sand everywhere.
Definitely not the sort of place I’d want to stay in, but I have little choice. Went to the inn first; the money I’ve acquired should grant me room for a few nights. Past that, I’ll need to improvise. Bottom floor of the place was a bar, containing several seedy types lounging around their drinks. Didn’t like the looks I was getting from them. Perhaps I should have found a dress, or something else respectable to wear, but respectability and pragmatism rarely go hand in hand. I’ll stick with my riding clothes for now. At least it looked like the drinkers weren’t going to make any comments. Carrying a revolver on your hip tends to discourage most idiots from talking. Most.
Spoke with the owner behind the bar. Big, friendly man, which was not in line with my expectations. Very sociable as well, and the two of us got to talking. He goes by Samuel, and he was one of the original settlers in Los Valle; built the inn back when this place only had a church and a few shops. Even got married and had kids here.
Friendly as our talk had been, he didn’t seem that eager when I told him I was looking for a room. At first I thought it was a money issue, but even when I assured him I could pay, he didn’t seem happy. Finally he admitted that he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a woman traveling on their own; according to him, it wasn’t safe for me to be moving about these places without a man to protect me. I had a bit of a laugh at that, and assured him I’d be fine. Still didn’t seem to convince him.
At that moment, the doors were thrown open and three men walked inside. Loud, boisterous men, shouting and swaggering their way to the bar. The lead one shouted to Samuel, “Hey, bartender, me and my friends just ‘found’ ourselves a big stack of money, and we’re fer some drinks!”
Samuel seemed to recognize the group, and wasn’t too happy about their appearance. Didn’t do anything beyond glare at them, as they were clearly armed. Their leader saw me, and whistled. “Why hello there, dolly….”
Then he put his hand on my shoulder, which was a terrible mistake for him to make. Grabbed his arm, shifted my weight, and flipped him over onto the ground. Before he could get back up, stomped my boot down onto his throat.
His two mates were surprised, but reacted quickly, reaching for their guns. I kicked the closest in the head, knocking him aside. The last was fast enough to have his gun drawn and aimed; I lunged at him, grabbed his gun arm so that the shot went flying through the roof, then kneed him in the groin. That brought the last of them down. When they got back to their feet, they seemed extremely eager to get out of the bar as fast as they could. I could feel the eyes of the other patrons on me as the trio ran off. Those eyes were suddenly more respectful than they had been moments ago.
After that incident, Samuel didn’t complain any more when I asked for my room.
I suppose it’s comforting to know that I will never be anywhere near as badass as my ancestor. I couldn’t even imagine fighting three men armed with guns like that. From what I’ve read ahead, this is only the start; I can’t wait to post the other crazy things she gets involved in later.
-Lisa
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Box
Yesterday morning I heard that the McDonalds three blocks down was looking for people, so I vowed that I would for once be proactive, get out of the house and get a real job for myself before my finances were in a crisis. Did amazingly well sticking to that vow; I made it out the door and down an entire block before I started to find ways to distract myself.
Said that the reason I was going into the park was so I could relax and clear my head before applying. Was just going to spend a short time there, only enough to walk a single lap around the park. Then, I would finally make my way to the restaurant.
Instead I spent the entire day wandering around the trails in the park. Had to take some of the more overgrown paths to avoid the walkers and joggers going around the place. Didn’t want to have to interact with anyone, even if it was just saying hello to a stranger. Lap after lap, each time telling myself that I was only going to stay for a little longer, each time delaying my trip a bit more.... By the time I left the park, the sun was setting. That gave me the excuse to go back home. No point in applying for a job so late in the day.
I hated myself for what I did there. The loathing hit the moment I stepped through my door. Was I really not able to just do this one thing? Was it really that hard just to walk over to the place? Another day, wasted away.
Didn't want to dwell on my new failure, so I began to do whatever I could to put my mind off it. Cooked more food than I could hope to eat, read a book, wasted hours on the internet. Soon began to run out of things which were distracting me enough, so I began cleaning (for the first time in months). Really threw myself into it; the layer of books covering my floor was sorted, windows were shined until spotless, rooms I hadn't entered in months were carefully cleaned and dusted, so on and so forth. This house is much bigger than I need it to be. I only really use three of the rooms (bedroom, kitchen, bathroom). The rest I only interact with if they happen to be on the route I take between any of those three. Those which aren’t on the paths remain exactly as they were when I moved in, furniture untouched and wallpaper peeling back from lack of repair.
My cleaning eventually took me upstairs, to the attic. The place was filled with old family heirlooms, dating back to when my ancestors had crossed the Atlantic to join the colonies. I'd gone through them all once, when I first moved in, but realized most of it was junk. I suppose I could have thrown most of it away, or sold it, but I never got around to doing that.
When I entered the attic this time, I felt a slight breeze waft past me. There shouldn't have been any wind up there; no windows. I may need to look around for cracks in the walls later. Would have done it then, but my attention was being held by the black box lying in the center of the room.
Of course I have a black box in the attic; why would I ever have said that I didn't? I remember it so clearly now, it seems ridiculous that I could have forgotten it. The weathered old wooden box, colored black not from any paint, but from the burn marks along its entire frame. Of course it's always been there. Like the post on this blog said, there was an envelope on top of the box, and inside that envelope was an old key. The envelope was covered in dust, as though it had been laying on top of that box for years. Can't imagine why I never thought to open it up before.
Took some time to get the lock to work; age hadn’t been kind on it. Not really sure what I expected; a part of me was really hoping for the box to be filled with solid gold bars, but the part of my mind more grounded in realism understood the unlikelihood of that.
What I did find was several pieces of very old paper, a torn up leather bound book, and a stack of yellowed envelopes. Not exaggerating when I emphasize how old the contents were; the dates on the envelopes were from the 1880s. The piece which drew my attention the most was a rolled up wanted poster, offering $800 for the capture of a woman named Elizabeth Wells.
First time I’ve heard that I had an outlaw as an ancestor. Knew the family moved out to the West after the Civil War for a few generations before coming back to the east coast, but never heard any details about it. The entire box is full of things relating to her; the letters are all addressed to her, and the book appears to be a journal she kept. Suppose it could be a coincidence, that she has the same last name and a box in my home is filled with her things, but she’s got a very strong family resemblance; the same black hair that I and every relative I know on her head, same narrow face. I’m becoming a bit fascinated by this; it may not be gold bars, but it’s something almost as interesting. Might post transcripts of what I find here. It’ll give me something to do with all the spare time I have.
-Lisa
Said that the reason I was going into the park was so I could relax and clear my head before applying. Was just going to spend a short time there, only enough to walk a single lap around the park. Then, I would finally make my way to the restaurant.
Instead I spent the entire day wandering around the trails in the park. Had to take some of the more overgrown paths to avoid the walkers and joggers going around the place. Didn’t want to have to interact with anyone, even if it was just saying hello to a stranger. Lap after lap, each time telling myself that I was only going to stay for a little longer, each time delaying my trip a bit more.... By the time I left the park, the sun was setting. That gave me the excuse to go back home. No point in applying for a job so late in the day.
I hated myself for what I did there. The loathing hit the moment I stepped through my door. Was I really not able to just do this one thing? Was it really that hard just to walk over to the place? Another day, wasted away.
Didn't want to dwell on my new failure, so I began to do whatever I could to put my mind off it. Cooked more food than I could hope to eat, read a book, wasted hours on the internet. Soon began to run out of things which were distracting me enough, so I began cleaning (for the first time in months). Really threw myself into it; the layer of books covering my floor was sorted, windows were shined until spotless, rooms I hadn't entered in months were carefully cleaned and dusted, so on and so forth. This house is much bigger than I need it to be. I only really use three of the rooms (bedroom, kitchen, bathroom). The rest I only interact with if they happen to be on the route I take between any of those three. Those which aren’t on the paths remain exactly as they were when I moved in, furniture untouched and wallpaper peeling back from lack of repair.
My cleaning eventually took me upstairs, to the attic. The place was filled with old family heirlooms, dating back to when my ancestors had crossed the Atlantic to join the colonies. I'd gone through them all once, when I first moved in, but realized most of it was junk. I suppose I could have thrown most of it away, or sold it, but I never got around to doing that.
When I entered the attic this time, I felt a slight breeze waft past me. There shouldn't have been any wind up there; no windows. I may need to look around for cracks in the walls later. Would have done it then, but my attention was being held by the black box lying in the center of the room.
Of course I have a black box in the attic; why would I ever have said that I didn't? I remember it so clearly now, it seems ridiculous that I could have forgotten it. The weathered old wooden box, colored black not from any paint, but from the burn marks along its entire frame. Of course it's always been there. Like the post on this blog said, there was an envelope on top of the box, and inside that envelope was an old key. The envelope was covered in dust, as though it had been laying on top of that box for years. Can't imagine why I never thought to open it up before.
Took some time to get the lock to work; age hadn’t been kind on it. Not really sure what I expected; a part of me was really hoping for the box to be filled with solid gold bars, but the part of my mind more grounded in realism understood the unlikelihood of that.
What I did find was several pieces of very old paper, a torn up leather bound book, and a stack of yellowed envelopes. Not exaggerating when I emphasize how old the contents were; the dates on the envelopes were from the 1880s. The piece which drew my attention the most was a rolled up wanted poster, offering $800 for the capture of a woman named Elizabeth Wells.
First time I’ve heard that I had an outlaw as an ancestor. Knew the family moved out to the West after the Civil War for a few generations before coming back to the east coast, but never heard any details about it. The entire box is full of things relating to her; the letters are all addressed to her, and the book appears to be a journal she kept. Suppose it could be a coincidence, that she has the same last name and a box in my home is filled with her things, but she’s got a very strong family resemblance; the same black hair that I and every relative I know on her head, same narrow face. I’m becoming a bit fascinated by this; it may not be gold bars, but it’s something almost as interesting. Might post transcripts of what I find here. It’ll give me something to do with all the spare time I have.
-Lisa
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Rejection
Didn’t I say I wasn’t going to deal with this anymore? I’m terrible at keeping to my resolutions….
How sad is it, that the only thing which I can vent to is an account made for me by some crazy writer. A writer who can phase through walls, because when the police investigated the break in they found no sign of forced entry anywhere in my home. I just want to scream, and rant, and shout, throwing all the things I’ve been dealing with out for everyone to see…. But there’s no on to listen to me. Not anymore. This blog’s the closest I can find to a public forum for my emotions. And if whoever made this blog in the first place doesn’t like it, well, tough. You shouldn’t have set up an account for me in the first place.
I got another rejection letter today. I've lost track of how many I've gotten now. At first I kept count, but now it's turned into a long blur of failure. Nothing new about this one; “We’re sorry, but your story was not what we are looking for at this time.” I think I may have seen every form letter made by any publishing company by this point. One would think that I’d have become desensitized to rejection. But…. I haven’t. Every manuscript I send out fills me with a glimmering of hope, that maybe this will be the one. This time, they’ll accept it. That’s all I need, just one book accepted. Each story I write, I say that it will be the one.
It never is. Every time, that spark of hope which had been building is crushed. I suppose that’s what I get for dreaming.
This means I need to start looking for a job again, since I won’t be getting any magical life altering paychecks from publishers anytime soon. That’s something I should start doing soon. But of course I won’t. I’ll wake up every morning telling myself I need to go out and find a real career, only to spend the rest of the day under the covers of my bed, lights off and windows closed, with only a book and a flashlight. Maybe inspiration will strike me and I’ll write another doomed to fail novel. Then one day I’ll realize the refrigerator is completely empty, and the loose change I get from under the couch isn’t enough to buy groceries, and once again I’ll find myself scrambling to find a burger joint which needs someone capable of smiling and basic mathematics. And so the endless cycle of my life goes on.
-Lisa
How sad is it, that the only thing which I can vent to is an account made for me by some crazy writer. A writer who can phase through walls, because when the police investigated the break in they found no sign of forced entry anywhere in my home. I just want to scream, and rant, and shout, throwing all the things I’ve been dealing with out for everyone to see…. But there’s no on to listen to me. Not anymore. This blog’s the closest I can find to a public forum for my emotions. And if whoever made this blog in the first place doesn’t like it, well, tough. You shouldn’t have set up an account for me in the first place.
I got another rejection letter today. I've lost track of how many I've gotten now. At first I kept count, but now it's turned into a long blur of failure. Nothing new about this one; “We’re sorry, but your story was not what we are looking for at this time.” I think I may have seen every form letter made by any publishing company by this point. One would think that I’d have become desensitized to rejection. But…. I haven’t. Every manuscript I send out fills me with a glimmering of hope, that maybe this will be the one. This time, they’ll accept it. That’s all I need, just one book accepted. Each story I write, I say that it will be the one.
It never is. Every time, that spark of hope which had been building is crushed. I suppose that’s what I get for dreaming.
This means I need to start looking for a job again, since I won’t be getting any magical life altering paychecks from publishers anytime soon. That’s something I should start doing soon. But of course I won’t. I’ll wake up every morning telling myself I need to go out and find a real career, only to spend the rest of the day under the covers of my bed, lights off and windows closed, with only a book and a flashlight. Maybe inspiration will strike me and I’ll write another doomed to fail novel. Then one day I’ll realize the refrigerator is completely empty, and the loose change I get from under the couch isn’t enough to buy groceries, and once again I’ll find myself scrambling to find a burger joint which needs someone capable of smiling and basic mathematics. And so the endless cycle of my life goes on.
-Lisa
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