“Lane’s End Cottage” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

The village in which I live has many strange and wonderful laws.

It is of old stock, full of colourful characters, and is widely regarded as friendly and welcoming save the couple who lived at lane’s end cottage.

They were a murderous pair, with a dislike for children and a hatred of pets.

One day a travelling circus were passing through and all was well until their cat disappeared.

That night an unseasonal storm brewed, with such lightning that all the cats cried and ran off to hide.

When dawn broke the couple at lane’s end were nought but bones.

“The King Beneath the Sea” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

As I stand alone and look across the craggy beach I am overflowing with melancholy.

My watch at the ancient lighthouse appears to have been fulfilled, and I now await the one heralded by strange tides.

For years I have channelled the songs of sea, a secret means passed down for generations, of divining the future based on the rhythmic crashing of foaming waves against the jagged rocks.

They prophesied the meeting of my wife, the birth of our children and eventually their lamentable demise.

Last night I discovered that I am to foresee nothing more save our king’s return.

“The Unexplained Bedazzlement” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

The moment I laid eyes on that bedazzling ring I was mesmerised. I cannot say why exactly, but just being in its close proximity made my old shack feel like home, only more a home than I had ever known.

Of course, soon after its owner and I became close the way a faithful dog befriends the hand that feeds it, and I didn’t even begrudge the extra chores if I could linger further in its presence.

However, had I only discovered its dominating effects earlier, then I would have fled and not paused ‘til I’d crossed a thousand leagues.

“A Match Made in Hell” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

As unlikely as it seemed the homesteader was sitting on a mountain of riches, if only she realised it.

Untapped veins of gold lay in the foothills behind her acreage, purchased in a time before her husband’s illness took him, plus their creek river was awash with pannable flecks.

Sadly, she knew of neither, for raising livestock and babies consumed her every waking moment.

Regrettably for her, the landowner who came calling saw the potential of both and her beautiful comely daughter.

Regrettably for him, her daughter had a whip sharp mind and a cast iron will of her own.

“The Ghost Soil” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

Cling not to your foolish notion that ‘tis only the bald ape and its relations that have souls, for I know of the earth and of the ghost soil.

The fields may be tilled with hoe or plough, or scorched with flame or bomb, but the landscape absorbs and the soil embalms.

It bears the scars of our childish dreams, our mature endeavours and our aged bones.

It has endured a billion years and it will long survive the shallow contrivances of children yet to come.

The earth, the land, the field, the soil, it knows and does not forget.

“The Graveyard Pact” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

The abandoned graveyard had many ghost stories, unbelievable tales involving ghouls, eerie music and subterranean caverns.

As children this had worried the pair, but as adults they felt unafraid and hatched an illuminating plan.

Waiting ‘til nightfall they dared to venture within and dislodging a large headstone uncovered a tunnel entrance.

Using telephone wire to communicate one remained above while the other descended.

A few minutes inside he reported baring witness to a procession of indescribable creatures, then suddenly the line went quiet.

As his friend listened feverishly, an unearthly voice broke the silence and mockingly intoned his friends’ demise.

“The Cabin in the Field” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

Cursing her luck, the student kicked at her punctured tyre.  She scanned around for assistance but all there was nearby was a squalid wooden shack in a neighbouring field.

With little alternative she strode over and rapped on the door.  The door groaned and cracked ajar upon a second knocking, so posturing bravery she pushed it open and crossed the threshold.

Inside she found a dishevelled man asleep in an armchair, a spine creased book balanced on his naked lap.

As she curiously approached, a droplet of blood fell onto the open page and the man’s crazed eyes burst asunder.

“A Drunken Pain of the Asp” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

Everyone in the joint knew to avoid Cleo.

She drank heavily every day except Fridays, when instead she’d vehemently extol the virtues of strict abstinence.

Nobody knew her background, and certainly no one believed her drunken ramblings about an Italian guy either called Mark or Tony, yet each Friday she’d have solid gold coins as payment.

Then, one tragic weekend when the owner was too poorly to open up, Cleo was unable to gain entrance. In desperation she flew into a terrifying rage then suddenly dropping dead.

Later the coroner certified the cause as a lethal nip of asp venom.