Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-33295018-20171021151030

This is the opening to a story i'm working on, i've written a little more but it's still a work in progress. Would really appreciate any suggestions or critisims you guys have. Thanks! An Ungodly Influence  I waited in the front room while the doctor prepared us some tea. I sat down on the sofa, letting my eyes wander across the many shelves that contained countless books and nik naks, small items such as candels and ornaments which i guessed belonged to his wife, but also a few more abstract items, an old and rusted trains whistle, and what looked to be a shell casing from a very large gun. The room was small but cozy, with an open fire which looked like it stayed perpetually lit, and a sofa which you could sink into and never be uncomfortable. Like the other houses in the village there was no T.V, and i traced the background hum of the room to a small black cat, purring peacefully on the armchair in front of me. It was a room in which you could feel instantly at home, the thick curtains and crackling fire made it feel like i was sheltering from a cold and bitter night, although i knew that outside it was still only early evening. The Doctor came through with two steaming mugs, and he passed one over to me. I held it in my hands for a moment, letting it warm me further. After a moment he walked over to the armchair opposite and, after scooping up the suddenley awoken cat, he collapsed into it. I looked up to meet his eyes, and he smiled then glanced away to look about the room. It wasn't the same look of interest that i imagined i had as i scanned the shelves and sides, rather, i detected a hint of sadness about him, although it was hard to tell with his eyes cast in shadow. Suppose I'll have to start packing pretty soon He said, and i nodded, but said nothing. He looked over at the fire, and i looked over at him as he ran his hand lazily over the cat, which was now nestled in his lap. For the longest time neither of us spoke, he continued to stare into the flames, lost deep in thought, and my eyes went from him, to the cat, to the image of a feirce battle raged across the ceramic field of my mug, and then, finally, to a painting hung above the mantle. The painting was a large and comanding piece and i wondered how i could have missed it as i looked about the room earlier. For that breifest of seconds my stomach tightened, as if the painting had suddenley appeared from out of nowhere at that very moment. How long have you had that picture? I asked, and he snapped out of his trance. He gave me look, and i wondered if he'd heard something in my voice. I motioned to the painting, and he too looked up at it. The painting depecticed a scene which was clearly somewhere out in the surrounding fields, although it was hardly a realistic interpretation. The hills in the background were warped, inclining and declining at strange and impossible angles. The grass was green like it was the height of summer, but the sky was dark and oppresive, with a hint of orange between the hills, suggesting it was late evening. A cobbled wall like the ones in the village ran across the scene, following the bizzare contours of the land. But the main focus of the painting was not the bizzare landcape, but rather the meeting of two bizzare characters upon it. There was a man, hunched and old, with a lantern held up by his head, his clothes dark and a little muddy. He had his back turned, but his figure was also slightly warped, and i could see his stubbled chin and long, hooked nose. His company stood facing front, and at the centre of the peice, towering over the man. The figure standing with the man was not another human, but a goat, standing on it's hind legs, hooves by it's side, and back straight. It wasn't warped at all, rather straight and solid, and it gave me the idea that it was the only real thing in the painting. I tried to make out it's face, but saw little more than an impression of one as it was wrapped in shadow, with the man's lantern proving seemlingly useless. I shivered suddenly, and the Doctor must have felt it too because he reached over and stoked the coals in the fire. He sat quiet for a moment, the cat going unloved this time, and for a moment i thought my question would go unanswered, but then he spoke again. I believe it was by a french artist, Jean something, it's not signed, but my mother knew. He sighed for a moment, his hands suddenley very still on the arm of the chair. The story is that he came here sometime in the 1800's. He was a very traditional artist, he wanted to make a painting of the landscape in order to sell at auction or someplace. The cat hopped down off his lap and left the room. He looked over to watch her go. ''Well he came here, rented a room above the village shop, and every morning he would go out into the fields to paint, returning every evening for a home cooked meal. But one day he didn't come back. It was spring time, and so the days were long, but by the time night fell the village folk were worried. A party of six or so men set out into the night, intending to find him. They returned a few hours later, but without the artist. They said they heard him calling, but the land was all wrong and the couldn't find him. They agreed they would resume the search in the morning. But the next morning Jean was back, shivering outside the door of the shop, clutching his painting.'' He glanced up to the painting aboved the mantle, but i resisted the urge. ''He was incoherent, rambling, some guessed he'd been driven half mad. He told them how he'd lost track of the time, one minute he'd been painting in the sun, but the next it was suddenley dark and cold. He headed back, he said he could see the lights from the village on the horizon, but couldn't make it there. He walked and walked, but never got closer, because the hills would change and confuse him. He said he walked for hours and hours across the night, sometimes seeing a snatch of light from a lantern in the distance, but never being able to find the source. Just when he was sure he was going to collapse from cold and exhaustion, he saw a figure ahead of him. He approched what he thought was a man, calling out and getting no answer, but when he got close he realised something was wrong. He found a lantern by his feet, and lit it.'' The Doctor paused, i asumed for dramatic affect, but when i glanced up he wore a troubled look upon his face. ''He lit the lantern, to reveal this goat, standing tall on it's hind legs. He said it whispered to him, with strained vocal cords which had never been used, as he looked down at the mud. He said it talked of the relationship between human, animal, and the earth, but when pressed by the village folk Jean refused to elaborate. When the goat stopped talking, he raised the lantern, and it warned him not to view it's face. He paused, and then raised the lantern anyway. He wouldn't tell anybody what he saw, and refused to show it in his painting.'' I looked over at the painting above the mantle, trying not the ackowledge the uneasiness in my gut, and i cursed myself for feeling a wave of relief when i looked over to see the goat's face still cast in shadow. 