Welcome. It’s been awhile.

So I have been very busy with work and getting ready for the exciting International just a few days away! How exciting is that! I’ve finished up a draft of my novel and hopefully it is coming together. I don’t know how other authors do theirs but my writing process is, oftentimes, a slog. I write a first draft then I revise, revise, revise. I would say that about 80% of a novel is created through editing.

Which should be encouraging to any beginning authors out there. If you first pass doesn’t feel good then congratulations! You’re in good company.

I have something a little fun and different today. A few weeks back, I played Betrayal at House on the Hill Legacy with a few friends of mine. We had such a blast with the game. I’m not a huge fan of the Betrayal boardgame but throwing legacy elements on it naturally lent to a organic cooperative story-telling experience.

And for some reason I decided to start writing ours up. So here is a peek into the history of our bloody house on the hill.

History of the House

Act 1 : Beneath Ezekiel’s Pale

Prologue – 1666, Jebediah Harrows

I write this from need: not desire. 

There is evil in this world. Of that, my son, I am certain. It is with heavy heart that I witness it come to Silvercreek. It has settled most foul upon our tiny village. I fear that – alone – I cannot stop it. It has already struck the poor Williams family. We say it was the pox but I know better. I know the pox does not blight nought but a single household. It does not kill the father, mother and brother leaving the daughter missing and unexplained. No, this was no disease. Our village has lost the favour of the Lord for we have broken his covenant. 

It is witchcraft and devilry. And we have done nothing to quell it. I will not let its rot spread further. I intend to stop it.

My suspicions have settled upon the Lammermora clan. I can see now that they were none too subtle. The Williams’ deaths lie on my conscience. The signs were clear. 

Firstly is their blasphemous matriarchy. While life is never easy, theirs is not for want of a male figure. Second, they bear the mark of the beast with their fiery hair. Third, I have seen them interacting with the slaves. They have abandoned the noble pursuit of educating them in the civilized English language. Instead, I have witnessed their efforts to learn that barbaric speech. Each black word they utter leads them ever further astray from God’s holy light. Now they whisper of the negroes being equal. Of them being men and women like us. Of knowing them biblically. 

It is blasphemous. They are assuredly witches.

Most telling, however, is their obsession with Hill House. I have spied them going alone or as couples to its peak beneath the cover of darkness. Surely it is there they work their profane curses. Curses that slew the Williams. 

I cannot allow any other innocents fall victim to their predations. I have singled out Lilias, the most eager of the lot. In whispered tones I have heard the unclean call her Ayizan. She wears the appellation with pride. I shall await the time when she is alone at the Hill House and I will confront her. God have mercy on me for I fear I may already be too late. Their power may be too strong. 

But I steel myself with the scriptures and know my quest to be righteous. Should the worst befall me, let these immortal words bear my knowledge longer lasting than my fleeting time on this earth.

Your ever faithful servant,

Jebediah Harrows

Chapter 1 – 1667, Ezekiel Gravenhurst

There is something not right here. These past months have been unsettling. Did I strike first? No, that is not right. My dreams would betray me. They would lead me astray. 

I commit to this diary for a reason. I worry about my power of recollection. I awake wondering if still, perchance, I dream. Too often have the sheets been soaked from my cold sweats. And this home, it settles too much in the dead of the night. 

I get ahead of myself. I should start from the beginning. 

I am Ezekiel Gravenhurst. 

Life is brutal. I do not wish to diminish the struggles of my common man. I am aware of how trying this existence can be. I carry much the same burdens plus many more of my own. I am reviled by family. I know this. They claim otherwise but a child knows when their mother looks upon them not with love but revulsion. I have caught my brothers and sisters making a mockery of me. I will not pretend that it did not leave scars. My father, perhaps the only one to show some measure of kindness, I would best describe as tolerant if nothing else. 

This is to say, I expected little from them as I grew and, in turn, was faced with little disappointment when my prognostications came true. Do I resent them? Most definitely. They would suckle at the teat of father’s stipends knowing little of the hardships for which they demean me and others. But I have been strengthened by experiences they could only imagine. And this strength is of great benefit to one of my stature. 

I should thank them, however. For their cruelty prepared me for the rest of the world. There are few who would love a dwarf. I can safely claim that all I made, I made myself. I had no need to rely upon the Gravenhurst name or connections. In fact, they would shun me had I tried. 

It was under these auspices that I arrived in Silvercreek. I was led by nought other than serendipity. I actually heard about the village while down the river in Galt. The stories had spread there while I finished my term at the lumber mill. Word was that the village had a homestead for those looking. Rumours were in bold supply; the most enticing suggested the village would pay for anyone willing to take it off their hands. Rational men dismissed this as the ebb-waters it was. 

But my prospects were bleak. The thought of my own roof, something which had eluded me all these years, was too enticing. I set for Silvercreek, expending much of my wages in doing so. I had enough for food and the inevitable transport out. Twenty years of leading your own life teaches some measure of practicality to the senses. 

To my surprise, however, the reeve confirmed the hearsay. At least he confirmed some measure of their tale. There indeed was an empty homestead. The locals called it Hill House. Its location, thusly, was easy enough to navigate. The reeve explained to me that they were willing to hand over the deed, for a rather meagre stipend to any interested party. The cost? Less than the fare I spent getting to the village.

There lay one wrinkle. The reeve insisted that the transaction would only proceed should I stay a solitary night in the home. It was a most curious request and made me suspicious of what should have already been a highly suspect offering. I questioned him over the integrity of the structure and, he confessed, it had seen some manner of neglect that could be a deterrent to his stipulation. When pressed about this peculiarity in the deal, he was evasive. His only explanation, that the village had little desire for an absentee landlord, rang hollow. My greater senses on guard, I requested to see a contract. At the very least, one night would give me a chance to evaluate the integrity of the structure and I was by no means bound to take it if I determined it to be too great an investment. 

Truth be told, I merely wanted assurance that there would be no reneging the deal. Though as I departed having put name to ink, I had no idea how I would afford extensive renovations if it were truly uninhabitable. I had learned some carpentry skills, however, and at least the land should have some inherent value. 

I made my way to the location, too elated to consider how no soul in the village itself had snatched upon this terrific deal. As I drew near, however, I felt my first misgivings. The homestead lay a peculiar distance from its neighbours and the life of the settlement. A wicked wood which, by my estimate, lay partially on the grounds itself, formed a barrier that segregated the outside world from this remote perch. These are all, on first blush, positive qualities for a plot. But the barrenness of the wood touched upon something instinctual in my mind. The setting sun amplified those worries. I felt a repulsion for my path, as fleeting as it was. 

I convinced myself there was no harm in taking a look. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I broke through the dying foliage to find a house most handsome. Truly, I could scarcely believe the size of the estate. I knew nothing of its previous inhabitants but these were no mere potato farmers. I approached with much excitement. I had expected near ruins and from my cursory glance, it seemed fortune had finally – after all these many years – smiled upon me. 

My jubilations would not last. I had scarcely made it to the porch, gazing upon the expansive foyer, when I heard movement inside. I froze, fearing I had inadvertently trespassed upon the wrong lot. I listened intently, assured that there were multiple souls within. 

As always, I leveraged the advantages of this form with which God has cursed me. I was able to skulk about the perimeter. Peering through the windows – most intact despite the home’s abandonment – and spotted only two individuals. An old priest and his young wife were sorting through the rooms separately. It was clear to me that others had taken up the reeve’s offer. I was deflated. 

Experience had taught me to never expect equitable treatment. I knew, should they choose and claim otherwise, their word would outweigh my own. Regardless of having signed a contract, this couple would have claim to the prize. Crestfallen, I turned away from the prospect. 

And I fear my nature got the better of me. 

I thought, given the state of the house, that there may be some keepsake I could find in the exterior which would make the journey worthwhile. I had no desire to leave Silvercreek empty handed. Curiously, I had not far to look. Beneath a most twisted and queer tree, I found something remarkable. A plain cup of wood composition lay soiled amongst the gnarled roots. Despite the elements, it looked unweathered. Surely it would fetch for a few pennies – possibly even a warm meal. 

Thusly, I picked it up. And I swear to God, the world itself exhaled a sullen sigh. I felt the cold wind prick my skin. The hairs upon my neck stood at their ends. Scattered leaves curled back in fright. 

The chalice itself was warm, however. I can picture it now as though I still stand before that horrific tree. I can see its smooth surface. I can detect the coppery scent of its bowl. Despite its size, it was heavy in my hand. I dare say, I could almost hear it whisper. 

A scream distracted me. It was young, frightful and from the house. I don’t know what propelled me there, chalice in hand. Thoughts streamed through my head yet I can no longer recall what I thought. I know I arrived upon the stoop. There, I saw the priest attack his wife. The poor thing stood no chance. I had to intervene. I knew this. I brandished the chalice, hurrying forward. I interposed myself, my attack both sudden and brutal enough to knock the holy man back into the hall. That is what happened. I am sure of it. I defended the woman. It was an act of heroic guardianship. 

But yet, even as the ink stains my page, I can see the priest beneath me. I can feel the weight of the chalice in my hands. Did I strike first? Did she scream later? No, that cannot be. She tried to interpose, to wrestle the chalice from my hand. I know now that she meant me harm. What else could I do? I held her back, pulling the chalice from her grip. She fell of her own teetering balance. It was her momentum that sent her into the foyer’s wall. Of that I am certain. It was all an accident: a horrible, twisted accident. 

The priest and his wife lay dead for no reason. I shall never know the cause of their quarrel nor how he went after her in such viciousness. It was truly his fault, you see. So, I struck again. The look in his eyes was one of bloodlust. I struck again. I can remember that baleful glare so full of hatred and loathing. I struck again. The simple act of recalling the event shakes me even now after all this time. I struck again. The fact of the matter was, I struck again I could not explain this to the reeve. I struck again. Nor to the village. I struck again. They would think me a murderer. And again. I cannot say how long I stood in that hall stricken by the horror of those two bloody forms. And again. It was the priest’s fault. And again. Had he not attacked her I would have departed. And again. Had he but waited and I would have been long gone. And again. It was him. And again. It was not my fault. And again.

What would I tell the reeve?

I recall the shadows deepening in the hall. They swallowed the girl as if they had become her grave. Surely, there would be no others coming to the house that night. The dread in the reeve’s voice as he spoke of it was testament enough to its reputation. And it was far too late for me to depart now. I could stay just one evening. I could offer a proper burial for these two. Then I would leave and the reeve would know the place was not to my liking. 

Yet curiously, the house had not been ransacked. It took little effort to find the lantern. I recall thinking it lay exactly where I would keep it – the shovel too. I was exhausted. I simply needed to rest and collect my wits. That was all.