Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20160328173454

Diary Entry #1 15th October 1943 Been to see psychologist today.(Mem. Remember name: Dr. John Greenfield) Dr. Greenfield advised me to start a diary. ‘It is my belief that starting a diary where you can express your feelings of anger, depression, and issues with self control, that you told me about, can in fact aid you in achieving peace of mind and relief from stress. Also remembering conversations can improve your memory. As I understand that is also an issue.’ Yes, I think those are the exact words Dr. Greenfield said to me. Before proposing that I go on a holiday.‘You told me that you have been stressed recently due to the amounts of collage work your doing. Is that correct?’  ‘Yes.’ I said shortly. ‘In that case I recommend a holiday. A change of scenery should do wonders to such a creative mind as your own.’ Diary Entry #226th October 1943Got my holiday planned out leaving for Norway 1st November. Nearly finished the Frankenstein, and Dracula essay for collage. (Mem., add a bit about what the monsters represent.) Diary Entry #33rd  November 1943Left Boston at 4.35am arrived at Oslo at 8.55pm next day. Was supposed to arrive at 8.45pm so I was angered because of the delay. The flight was relaxing  The strangest occurrence was me overhearing the two men next to me saying: ‘You hold mine while I go, and I'll hold yours when you go.’ My mind hastily leapt to the worst conclusion. But seeing my facial expression the man closer to me explained they were talking about briefcases. I arrived safe and sound and got one of those cabs that frequent the airport and set off to the four-star hotel. I seldom seen such beautiful vistas of snowy fields dotted with bleak trees, distant, snow-capped mountains and frozen rivers. The dark, gloomy colors appealed to me much more than cheerful, bright, and happy colors could. Sleep soon seized me and I regret saying I missed out on the rest of the fascinating, snowy terrain. I woke a mere ten minutes before arriving at my destination, which was located in a small town by a river, which was surprisingly not frozen. The town consisted of a hotel, three shops, fifty-nine houses, a bar, a cemetery, and a hospital. There were some strange silhouettes of residents lurking in the shadows, the orange light of their cigars glowing in the darkness. Though the brightest lights, were by far those of the hotel. The light was bright, warm, and inviting. We stopped outside the hotel and the driver asked for a certain amount of kronos. I paid him and walked up to the registry desk. Luckily there were no complications. I had some quiche, garnished, and with lemons on the side for supper. I slept peacefully and woke up in the late morning. Rays of sunshine streaming in through the curtains of my window. I had some local dish for breakfast, took a shower, and feeling refreshed got ready for my holiday. I decided to meet some locals. To my surprise, despite the threating countenance of most of them they were friendly, and well spoken. Most had a mouth for gossip, and rumours. This was good. I found the idea of writing an article on local Norwegian legends and folklore great. I heard countless rumours about love-triangles, theft, and blood oaths of old. But one rumour stood out. Here is exactly what a local said when I met him in a bar:‘Folk ‘round here will tell ya plenty of hogwash ‘bout some headless, phantom fiends haunting the streets at 7.23 at Wednesday of the 17th of July every decade. But we're no closer to confirming that than figuring out which came firs' the chicken or the egg. If you want some credible stories ask me or, Brig over there in the corner.’ He gestured at a chubby man drinking beer in a corner, who waved back. ‘Now I'll tell ya ‘bout old Frank Creed. American just like ye. Nobody ‘round here know much ‘bout Franky. He is ‘bout eighty-two. Lives in a mansion on a steep hill, ten miles from town. He is a strange character. He is recluse ya know. Never comes out much. If he does he is wearing a torn tunics and ripped trousers. We all figure he's rich cause of the mansion but this suggests otherwise. Despite his age and clothes he appears to be a vigorous man of great vitality. ‘ My new friend said. ‘Well that is unusual but pardon my saying so. The tale seems rather mundane. It seems like more of a chain of contradictory  behaviours and possessions  of a strange person.’ I said ‘I'm getting to the queer stuff, but firs' MORE BEER!’ he hollered at the barman.‘Ah! Good stuff alright. Anyways back to the story. So old Frank  only comes into town once a month. He is quite a nice fellow. Bought me a bunch of beers once. His Norwegian is fluent quite like yours really.’ He said I did not feel flattered but out of respect said ‘Thank you, sir, I do try'He gasped and continued his tale: ‘ So we all thought him a nice enough fellow. That was until some local kids ran up to his residence on a pretty gloomy day and pissed on his doorstep as an idea for a idiotic joke. Then the fools bombarded his house with countless eggs. The old man emerged from his doorstep. The proceeding actions shocked us all. Now them vandals deserved a good hiding. But by the parents. So Frank gave chase to the kids. He broke into a run with such great speed the people who saw him charging through the hills thought him a young fellow chasing his friends. Now understand nobody was close enough to recognise him as the eighty-two year old Frank Crees. Though the kids got swift five second head start they found themselves restrained by Frank in no time. He then, with an immense fury, caught the kids by the hair bringing them down to the ground, he delivered a strong, furious kick to the ribs. He then continued to do so alternating between the kids. Those who arrived at the grisly scene reported that drool was running out of franks mouth, and that he was producing low, menacing howls under his breath. The kids yelled in agony, but the beating would not cease. No sublunary being could guess that this man, even though he looks healthy and strong, would posses this amount of fury, and strength. He was in a frenzy. By god you wouldn’t imagine the wrath blazing in this mans eyes. I saw him, I heard him, I experienced the horror.’ My friend was delirious. I, with great effort, calmed him down. ‘I’m okay, I'm fine, grand, fine.’ He said. The minute chaos made some people glance this direction. ‘So what of Frank.’ I asked. ‘We scolded him but the parents took no action so we let him live in solitude. ‘ I decided this was enough for a day so I am writing this entry until I feel remotely tired. I left the bar and started for the hotel. I asked the receptionist if she knew where Frank Creed lived. She gave me directions, and I was off to my room. I got lost and had trouble remembering my room number. (It was not on the keys.)So I had to ask (Mem., room nr. 217)Oh here comes the sleep. Diary Entry #44th November 1943I woke up to a raging thunder storm outside. I decided I could kiss my chances of meeting Frank and interviewing goodbye for today. Later- It cleared up around six afternoon. I decided I should try my chances with frank. I got on my heavy leather coat, boots, shirt, jeans, and stuffed a pen, my diary, and a journal in my coat. I started for Frank's around quarter past. I made  my may through large puddles that were spread across town.The weather was gloomy. The whole world was a dark shade of grey. The rain did a good job at eliminating the snow. The trees were dancing in the wind. The emerald grass turned a much darker shade from the dampness. I journeyed out of town and through a vast amount of shrubs and briars. I finally caught sight of a great mansion atop a steep hill. It was a great, and aweing structure. It has lattice, black tinted windows. It was made primarily out of spruce wood. I climbed the hill. The door was dark oak and had a steel knocker. I knocked and the sound echoed through the interior. I was about knock again but I heard a distinct sound of footsteps. The heavy swung back at an acute angle, only big enough for a yellowish-green eye to appear inside what looked like an endless, dark void. ‘Whose there?’ barked a hoarse voice. ‘Excuse me, sir, My name is Henry Johns. I am an amateur writer in search of a story. I implore you, do not take this in a bad way, but I would love nothing more than to have a little interview with you. Just to hear about some things about this area. See you and I are both Americans. And you have been living here for a long time I take it. So it would be great to hear your account of things. The townsfolk are ignoramuses and I trust you have many tales to tell.’ ‘Pitiful absolutely pitiful! Don't you dare use that flattery on me. I can sense the lies from you, see them in your eyes. It was a mistake, A stupid mistake. Those damned kids. It angered me I have anger issues.’ Frank hissed. ‘Look, Frank.’ I thought hard. ‘I am also struggling to maintain my temper at times its hard. But I solemnly promise I will not inquire about the incident.’ ‘I sense no lie, let me think. Hmm..... Let me have a good look at you.’ Frank said swinging the door all the way back.I would not have guessed Frank was elderly. He looked vigorous and his face gleamed with vitality. He had large muscles and a stern look. The only distinct characteristics that would hint at Frank's old age was his shaggy mane of grey hair and wrinkled face. ‘Yes, yes. Curious and short-tempered. I stand facing an arrogant idiot. With stupid parents. Most likely an orphan.’ Frank said grinning. I was infuriated. How dare this man stand here insulting me? By what right? I clenched my hands into fists. The veins in my neck were throbbing. I opened my mouth to yell vicious insults at him. The words were on the edge of my tongue. But I halted.‘Sir, I would appreciate if we acted mature and not venture upon insult.’ I said with obvious difficulty. ‘Perfect.’ He waved me inside. The hallways of the house were ominous and long. The inside was in a queer way slanted. The house was ghastly. There were thousands of specks of dust floating in the dark rooms, and hallways. Frank led me to the kitchen. The table and chairs, in which he told me to sit in, were antique and beautiful. I sat down and gazed around the room. The kitchen was dirty and looked demolished. There were newspaper clippings and other miscellaneous items scattered here an there. There was a fully working grand father clock pushed against the wall. The pendulum was swinging to and fro. Soon Frank placed a steaming cup of tea in front of me and steaming flagon beside himself. I thanked him and spoke:‘I am very glad you accepted my offer. I promise to be quick.’ ‘Oh do not worry about time. Please. I have plenty.’I took out my journal and started writing:‘    4th November 1943. Interview with Franklin Creed ‘So Mr. Creed how long have you lived here?’ I aked. ‘Since birth.’ He said shortly. ‘Okay could you please describe your relationship with the town nearby.’ I said trying to lead into questions that I want answers to. But I feared he might be reluctant. ‘Oh well Its okay I guess I just shop there once in a while. I prefer isolation. It helps me to think and sustain myself.’ ‘Okay how often do you go into town for shopping.’ ‘Not much. Once in every few months.’ ‘Thats not allot. How do you obtain food If you seldom go to shop.’ ‘Hunt.’ He said his eyes ablaze happiness and hunger. I thought he must be joking with me ‘Sir please do not jest. It would be highly appreciated' ‘Okay,’ he gasped ‘You got me. I shall be honest from this point forwards. But say, why don't we drink and clear our throats.’ I raised the cup to my lips and drank. The liquid burned my throat but it was good. Frank laughed and rose.‘I like you.’ He said. ‘I really do you know. That anger. Fury waiting to be unleashed. Few share the anger and unpredictable  rage you have been blessed with.’ He said. I stood up but my legs faltered. I felt nauseous and my vision became blurred. I collapsed. I woke up with a start. I was in a damp room. The walls were made out of cobblestone. I felt chilled. I was in a dungeon. The room was small, and square. It was dimly lit by an dying oil lamp. I noticed a few iron bars. I ran up to them and tried, with all my might, to open it. But the door iron bars would not budge. I screamed for help. But to no avail. I was prisoner, and I knew something bad is going to happen, some villainy. I sat in a corner. I was going to die and I was powerless. It made me angry. The lack of control made me infuriated. Not sad, no. I hated being in someone else’s control. I at least had my diary and still do. Later- As I was hatching an escape plan someone cast a dark onto the floor behind the bars. The shadow grew closer, and closer. My hearth beat faster, and faster. A great terror filled me. There behind the bars stood and eldritch figure whom I recognised as Frank Creed. ‘Hello' He said calmly. I walked up to the bars. I looked straight into those dark green eyes. They were flaring with triumph. Laughing at my embarrassing defeat. ‘You may have been wondering what this is all about. Well consider yourself lucky, Since I usually eat food that comes to me. But you, you are special and I do not want to kill and eat you. And I wont unless you a fool. Are you a fool?’ without waiting for an answer he continued ‘Of course not. I am the fool to assume such a fine tortured soul as yourself is a fool. Any way I invite you to share my anger, to dine with me upon the weak.’ I was weak and confused. I was stuck for words so I stupidly croaked out: ‘Are you a cannibal?’‘Haha,’ he laughed ‘I see you are a bit ignorant. That’s only a few people know about us. I am, my dear friend, a Werewolf.’ ‘A what? Surly such things are mere fairy tales.’ ‘Nay. They are not. It of course would not work out for my species if humanity knew that blood-thirsty savages rampage through the wilderness once a month murdering anything that is sentient, with the exception of our own kindred.’ He said calmly. ‘Today is full moon So I shall show you what I offer you.’ With that he walked away.God help me!!!! This man appears to be a lunatic. But if he is not. Oh god, sweet Mary have mercy on my soul. Later- The moon was beaming brightly through the bars. I was dozing off when the loud screeching of iron bars pierced my ears. I sprang up. I was terrified of the horrors that might occur. This lunatic is probably hallucinating that he is a werewolf and he will no doubt eat me alive. He stood there smiling at my horror. He locked the iron bars again. He stood there in the moonlight. He abruptly yelped. He collapsed onto his and produced a low, agonizing, lengthy wolf-like howl. He was showing no signs of physical transformation just a mental breakdown. His eyes slowly became scarlet. All I could see were menacing, scarlet pupils. Soon his nose started to grow and flatten. His spine drew back and his skin took on a darker tint. Hair was appearing every were on his body and his muscles were no the size of watermelon. Soon I was staring at a huge beast about nine feet tall. Hands hooked into claws, with long, pointed nails. He was hunched down. I punched myself to see if I’m dreaming. The test was negative. I was awake and looking at a real monster. It was hairy and had spots where leather, rather than skin was showing. It was the color of charcoal. I ran towards the exit screaming. The beast roared and hurled me against the wall. It was closing in on my. I shut my eyes. Its breath smelt of blood, and decay. It whispered in deep, horrifying voice:‘Do you chose power or death.’I squirmed as It opened its leathery mouth, showing his snow white sharp teeth’‘DON'T KILL ME PLEASE! ILL BE ONE6 OF YOU SPARE M-‘The beast sank its hideous teeth into my shoulder. It tricked me. I fell unconscious. I woke up in the dungeon. It all felt like a dream. But I feel stronger and much more powerful. I feel hungry but I feel hungry for blood. God help me. I feel like I am a monster. A vile, horrible demon.  