The Eldritch Horror of the Number Eleven Bus
(This was a writing challenge, to write a short piece in the style of your favourite author. I chose HP Lovecraft, not because he's my favourite but because his style is more easily recognised).
It is with a trembling hand and a heart full of dread that I must recall my last encounter; one which leaves my mind teetering on the very knife-edge of sanity, or that, indeed, I may have even crossed that such line and now am forever damned; my very soul exposed to the terrifying abyss that now watches my every move with it's hungry eyes.
The day itself was a quite ordinary one, I should say even dull, and as I proceeded through the routine of my daily employ, I had no inkling of what eldritch horrors I would face mere hours after. And so it was with almost a feeling of elation, I finished my chores and set off on my homeward journey.
Beside the road there is an old, gnarled tree, aged beyond measure, its trunk cracked and pitted by the ravages of time, its bare, leafless limbs reaching to the sky as if to supplicate, or perhaps to beg for mercy. It is beside this tree I stood and waited for my transport, and I did not have long to wait, for soon it came and little did I know as I stepped aboard, what horror I was about to face.
He was, I am almost certain, a servant of those most dread masters whose names I dare not speak, lest I carelessly invite them into my mind to take from me what precious little sanity remains to me. Grey and lank was his hair that fell about his gaunt, ashen face. He looked at me with eyes that reflected unspeakable horror and as I placed my tattered five-pound note in the tray before him, he spoke.
Oh, in all my days I have never heard such a voice, as though speaking from the very depths of the great abyss itself; he looked at my offered note with disdain and opened his mouth, his great gaping maw of a mouth, and spoke but four words which chilled me to the core.
"Sorry, Sir, no change."
It is with a trembling hand and a heart full of dread that I must recall my last encounter; one which leaves my mind teetering on the very knife-edge of sanity, or that, indeed, I may have even crossed that such line and now am forever damned; my very soul exposed to the terrifying abyss that now watches my every move with it's hungry eyes.
The day itself was a quite ordinary one, I should say even dull, and as I proceeded through the routine of my daily employ, I had no inkling of what eldritch horrors I would face mere hours after. And so it was with almost a feeling of elation, I finished my chores and set off on my homeward journey.
Beside the road there is an old, gnarled tree, aged beyond measure, its trunk cracked and pitted by the ravages of time, its bare, leafless limbs reaching to the sky as if to supplicate, or perhaps to beg for mercy. It is beside this tree I stood and waited for my transport, and I did not have long to wait, for soon it came and little did I know as I stepped aboard, what horror I was about to face.
He was, I am almost certain, a servant of those most dread masters whose names I dare not speak, lest I carelessly invite them into my mind to take from me what precious little sanity remains to me. Grey and lank was his hair that fell about his gaunt, ashen face. He looked at me with eyes that reflected unspeakable horror and as I placed my tattered five-pound note in the tray before him, he spoke.
Oh, in all my days I have never heard such a voice, as though speaking from the very depths of the great abyss itself; he looked at my offered note with disdain and opened his mouth, his great gaping maw of a mouth, and spoke but four words which chilled me to the core.
"Sorry, Sir, no change."