This statement (consisting of several pages, each signed by me) is true to the best of my knowledge and belief. I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated in it anything which I know to be false or do not believe to be true.
Dated 05-05-1013
This is a story I wrote four years ago. I penned it all in one fevered session, and though I've not posted it until now, I refuse to edit it in any part at this point. I'm not the same person I was when I wrote it. Please, enjoy- or don't- the lost work of yesteryear.
It was during a trip to Maine that it happened. The quietude and salt air of the little town I stayed in were a boon to my health, and I enjoyed the isolated atmosphere of the hamlet greatly. Not long after my arrival, I chanced to walk through the town's dilapidated, aging streets, on the hunt for interesting bits of architecture and history. I wanted to catch a glimpse of the famous little seaside towns of New England, which are not long for this world if the progress of all-consuming Boston remains unchecked.
After a time, I found myself in front of a house with peeling paint and loose shutters. This was hardly unusual; the thing which caught my attentions was the wraparound porch. It was covered in old, yellowed tomes. I ventured to step up and investigate this queer domicile, and found that it was a used bookstore. As I am a voracious reader, capable of devouring a paperback like an anaconda its prey, my heart leapt with excitement. I spent a time inside, perusing the little shop. It was almost impossible to navigate the building, so full was it of creaking bookshelves loaded with manuscripts of all shapes and sizes. Being as I am six-foot-three with broad shoulders, it was a bit of a challenge to pick my way through the musty stacks. Even the stairs were jammed with books, to the point of being nigh-unusable. Some were relatively recent, but the majority were decades old, and there were a handful which were even older. I acquired a number of first-edition copies of books which I proudly display on my shelves to this day.
But the most important acquisition I made in that odd little shop was a collection of H.P. Lovecraft stories. I'd heard of the man, of course, and read "Call of Cthulhu". But that night, as the howling sea winds buffeted my windowpane in the growing darkness, I read for the first time his tales of quiet horrors lurking in the backcountry of New England. And it was from these tales that I derived the story which now sits before you, begging to be read with all the weight of the years it spent on my hard drive. Consider it a loving and fearful tribute which merely apes the style of the true master; it is not a direct copy of any particular story, but borrows from many. I have tried (and, I hope, succeeded) to make it more than just Lovecraft with ponies. But I've said too much already; enter, dear reader, if your nerves are steeled and your mind is unfrayed. I cannot guarantee the same will remain true for long...
