The Marvelous Misadventures of Walter Guilman: The Witch House

Guilman

Walter Guilman awoke with a start when he felt someone shaking him gently. It was the bus driver. "Are you alright?" He asked, startled by Guilman's sudden yell. "What? Oh! Oh yes I'm fine." Guilman stuttered In reply. He always hated when this happened. "Well, we've arrived at the stop on your ticket, so you gotta get off here." The bus driver said. Guilman nodded, and began to quietly gather his things. "Hey," the driver broke the silence. "You sure you're alright? I heard you fussin' and moanin' all the way up there." he said, motioning toward the drivers seat. "Oh, just a nightmare." Guilman stated awkwardly in reply. "I've been having them for a while now." He continued to gather his luggage. "Don't worry, I'm fine." The bus driver narrowed his eyes. "Alright," he said in a suspicious tone. "Need any help with that?"

Even though it was well past midnight, the snow glowed brightly under the full moon, and as the bus pulled away from the stop, Guilman was suddenly aware of the brooding horror of this ancient town. Sagging gambrel roofs, whose garrets had once hidden witches from the the torches and pitchforks of angry townspeople. Cracked and broken paving stones around tall, imposing houses that were older than all the residents in the city. Yes, he had heard all the myths and legends of the changeless, haunting city of Arkham, but now that he was there, looking upon that brooding, festering town in the silver moonlight, they all seemed just that little bit more real. He was snapped back into reality when he saw a taxi round the corner. He hailed it, loaded up his things, and climbed inside. "Where too?" the cabbie asked, in thick German accent. "247 Mason Street." Guilman ordered. The cabbie seemed to be frozen with fear for a moment, as if the mere mention of that address was enough to send one into a panic. But he snapped back to attention, put the cab in gear, and set off. They rode in silence through the ancient town, occasionally passing a lit building, where students were likely celebrating the start of winter break. Guilman was never one for parties, but then again, he hadn't been invited to one since the Titanic went down. Nor had he actively perused social interaction, so he couldn't really gauge his charisma. As they crossed a bridge over the river, Guilman spied the reason he had come. Amidst a sea of mold and decay, sat an island of enlightenment. He had seen the campus of Miskatonic University, one of the most prestigious schools in New England. But it disappeared just as suddenly as it had come into view, and Guilman had his attention turned to his current destination.

When Guilman first got out of the car and saw the witch house in it's full glory, he could see why the cabbie had hesitated for a moment. It was a three story cottage, with the first two floors seeming normal enough, with five cloudy windows on the ground floor, and three on the second floor. But when his eyes made it to the third, he saw rooms that stuck far out over the untended garden, and others sunken into the outer wall so they formed small shelves below the windows. He also saw sections of the roof that curved up and down and twisted this way and that with no discernible pattern to any of it. When he turned back to look at the cab, he saw the driver practically throwing Guilman's things onto the pavment, as if he couldn't bear the thought of having to be outside the place for any longer than he needed. By the time Guilman made it over to help, the cabbie was already beginning to drive off, without even asking to be paid. Guilman stood staring confused at the quickly shrinking cab, but then decided that it was the driver's loss. He gathered his things from the sidewalk, carried them to the front door, and rang the bell. After about a minute, a tired looking old man in a pair of footed pajamas answered his summons. "Yes?" he asked in a groggy Polish accent, leaning lazily against the door frame and rubbing his eyes. "Good evening." Guilman answered. "Are you the landlord?". "Yes." the man answered in a tired way, as if he was sick of hearing the question. Guilman placed his suitcase down on the cement porch. "I'm Walter Guilman." he said. "We had a brief correspondence about my being able to rent a room here." The landlord suddenly stood up straight. "Oh, Hello Mr. Guilman!" he said excitedly. "Come inside please, I have prepared a room for you." Guilman followed the landlord into the dimly lit parlor, and just before he entered the door, he thought he saw a faint glimmer of violet light coming from one of the third story windows.