Short Story Of Andsebury

A curious case on which I had started unknown to the horrors of that damned tract named Andsebury. Such happenings from that cursed realm upon a single thought of recollection bears down a terrible tremble and pressing shock to the core of my being. If only I had known what a disastrous task I had set out to play a part. Those secrets dredged up from the very earth of reality, ghastly knowings of Anterbury’s truths, oh how they haunt my dreams. I cannot forget, no I must not for my task is not yet done and such I must bear down on these pages through shaken hand and trembling heart over the terrors I have witnessed, things which needed be known lest they taint our world and bring with degradation of hope’s being. To let the misfortunes I …show more content…
Fairmount was as a guest to Herokatic University’s exhibit opening. A proud moment for the small and relatively secluded university to present their gathering of local peculiarities, to gibber over detailed the queer history of Andsebury, of which I shared a peculiar draw to and studied in my scholarly years. How dreadfully foreboding that night morphed into, and though a night that will not fade from my mind I wished I had stayed away from that accursed town. Opportunity to neglect my appearance among the company present was ladened over chances to cancel my plans, and reflecting back it is as though the world itself knew of the horrors that would come in fruition from that night and bid to dissuade my current course. Two days prior to my departure, a strong squall struck the eastern coast and with worry of a hurricane fast on the trail inland striking land from which the grand estate left by my late farther, an impressive manor built during the late seventies constructed of strong wood richly stained, with an exterior coated in quaint pastel yellow faded with age and rough weather. While I was not one to believe in foolish optimism that the storm would pass over my home leaving the troubling rage of nature’s discourse to wreak against man elsewhere, I had been admittedly lazed in my preparations spending in idles waste of staunch disinterest my time in the manor appreciating the relatively peaceful days I could spend flipping through the studies and essays collected through the years which the walls I sheltered myself in stood. These days spent though secluded within the mind was far from absolute solitude with the active presence of those holding the manor’s charges. The duties of the estates upkeep managed by the staff under my father’s previous employ, headed by an Italian of Tuscany, Diego Rossi, possessing a sturdy build and flat face that cast an intimidating air. The utmost professional and despite his brutish looks a truly