MisterWinter
Virgin
- Joined
- Apr 24, 2011
- Posts
- 13
With a final chuff the battered rental car gave up the ghost. Robert's cold fingers turned the key a few times, praying for a minor miracle, but the engine would not turn over. All around the dead automobile stretched a rocky landscape, covered in a thick, sluggish fog. "Well fuck me very much."
Robert found himself staring out the front window, trying to look for a line of trees. The old bastard's hunting lodge was probably only a two minute drive down the road, but the blasted car was dead! Not for the first time, Robert wished he was back in his father's New York bookstore, drinking coffee from a chipped cup and exploring some musty old tomb. "Fucking Scotland!"
The air was cold and wet against his face as he unfolded his tall, lanky frame from the giant metal paperweight. He reached into the car and pulled out his tartan suitcase, purchased for him by a mother with little sense of irony. He had tried to tell her that someone with the surname of Weiss might want to go with something a bit more subtle, but had given in when her eyes started to water. Brenda Weiss's son knew when he was beat. He pulled the collar of his trench coat up around his thin, angular face and shoved a Yankees baseball cap over his curly black hair.
It was only two weeks since his father had received a letter from an old friend, Ian McFarland, informing him that he had finally located a copy of 'the book'. They had been had met in World War II, when Robert's father was stationed as an army clerk in the UK and stayed in touch ever since, writing each other at least one cryptic letter every few months. Robert wasn't sure what they were searching for, but whatever it was had been his father's obsession for ten years now.
Robert sighed and headed off into the mist. He hoped that this fucking book, whatever it was, would bring his father some peace. It had killed his father not to come to retrieve it himself, but he had lost the ability to walk due to a German bomb. The plane ride across the Atlantic had been bumpy, the train ride across England had been spent stuck between two fat men with cigars and the trip across Scotland was made difficult by two solid days of fog. "Oy Papa, this better be worth it."
(Era: 1956, Genre: gothic horror/Hammer House of Horror)
Robert found himself staring out the front window, trying to look for a line of trees. The old bastard's hunting lodge was probably only a two minute drive down the road, but the blasted car was dead! Not for the first time, Robert wished he was back in his father's New York bookstore, drinking coffee from a chipped cup and exploring some musty old tomb. "Fucking Scotland!"
The air was cold and wet against his face as he unfolded his tall, lanky frame from the giant metal paperweight. He reached into the car and pulled out his tartan suitcase, purchased for him by a mother with little sense of irony. He had tried to tell her that someone with the surname of Weiss might want to go with something a bit more subtle, but had given in when her eyes started to water. Brenda Weiss's son knew when he was beat. He pulled the collar of his trench coat up around his thin, angular face and shoved a Yankees baseball cap over his curly black hair.
It was only two weeks since his father had received a letter from an old friend, Ian McFarland, informing him that he had finally located a copy of 'the book'. They had been had met in World War II, when Robert's father was stationed as an army clerk in the UK and stayed in touch ever since, writing each other at least one cryptic letter every few months. Robert wasn't sure what they were searching for, but whatever it was had been his father's obsession for ten years now.
Robert sighed and headed off into the mist. He hoped that this fucking book, whatever it was, would bring his father some peace. It had killed his father not to come to retrieve it himself, but he had lost the ability to walk due to a German bomb. The plane ride across the Atlantic had been bumpy, the train ride across England had been spent stuck between two fat men with cigars and the trip across Scotland was made difficult by two solid days of fog. "Oy Papa, this better be worth it."
(Era: 1956, Genre: gothic horror/Hammer House of Horror)
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