Enjoy a weekend getaway with your other half in our luxuriously updated replica of the original Witch House, a 17th-century cottage set in the heart of historic Arkham. A ten minute walk through the old town's picturesque alleys will earn you romantic river views and access to Pickman's Gallery and Portraiture, the Cats of Ulthar Window Seat Café, and the tree-lined vistas of Danvers State Park. Looking for a longer-term getaway with your sweetie? Ask about our travel packages to Innsmouth or other, more exotic, destinations!
The man’s gums chomped unceasingly as he undid the apron around his waist. The apron read “World’s Worst Grandad,” and was smeared with sauce and flakes of barbeque gristle. He licked his fingers. There was something strange about his eyes, Keith thought.
“A sack of the corn, some of that deer scent, and those beef sticks,” Keith said, pointing around the store with his hook.
I lean against the outer wall of the checkpoint hut and stare past the tops of towering hemlocks and cedars to the snow-frosted Cariboo mountains beyond. The view would be perfect, but for the smoke from the pit and Willie Harper sitting astride his piebald horse, rifle slung across his shoulder.
He rides patrol back and forth across my line of sight. Surely, it’s deliberate. I hate him and he knows it. If only I could spend the day gazing the other way, ignoring his existence, but my job demands otherwise.
It was shortly after his peer's passing, that Kapellmeister Salieri began hearing the wind differently. Through the oaks it moaned like bassoons. Through slender beech limbs it whined like oboes. The gusts shaking the trees reminded him of the choral blast of the Requiem. And when it rained, the drops tinkled like the Per la ricuperata salute di Ofelia, which Mozart and he composed jointly for piano. Always after sunset, and always from the direction of St. Marx cemetery.
This must be my way of remembering him, he thought, going about his business as Court Composer.
Everything in this place keeps time with the tattoo of the drum. The groan of the oars, the rattling of chains, the crack of the lash, all of it in the same cadence. I even find my climb to the deck above matching the tempo of the rhythmic pounding.
No one knows where the metronomic sound comes from. I have long grown familiar with the shape of my prison over the decades of my captivity; combed over every inch, memorized the grain of every wooden plank. There is no drum here, no unoccupied space within which it might be concealed. But the beat impels us all the same.