MABEL
Mabel couldn’t hide her grimace when the bottle landed on her first. It disappeared a moment later, within a breath or two; long enough for her to formulate some realm of thought and process. “All right,” came along with begrudging acceptance, eyes flickering on trails of books. She wouldn’t need Samuel’s tome.
“There was once a lighthouse keeper and his wife, sent to an island,” perhaps around Torchline – or some other surrounding sea, and she’d allow their imaginations to formulate aspects of the forlorn place – basking in rock and rubble, along outskirts of nothing but the endless, god damned sea. “To combat the loneliness and isolation, the keeper brought along a piano for his wife. But it turns out, she was not a very good musician, and only knew one song.” To prolong the eerie factions, she began to hum the tune under her voice, like a constant, unwinding, unfurling thing – figments of a world that could be this one. “She played it incessantly. Over and over and over again.”
Had she gone insane from the void around them? Had the waves coaxed her into depravity? Was there madness to be had and found, with naught more than the wind and wood to guide her? “Eventually, the keeper could take no more. He grabbed an ax, and destroyed the piano.” The hum persisted, and she tilted her head a little to the music. “I’m sure you can imagine what came next, turning the destruction upon his wife, and then himself.” Her gaze flickered back to the small crowd, her features blank, eldritch on their own. “It is said the ghosts of the keeper and his wife come out on foggy nights, and when you pass the island, you can hear the song coming through the night.” The story completed; she leaned back in her chair.
“There was once a lighthouse keeper and his wife, sent to an island,” perhaps around Torchline – or some other surrounding sea, and she’d allow their imaginations to formulate aspects of the forlorn place – basking in rock and rubble, along outskirts of nothing but the endless, god damned sea. “To combat the loneliness and isolation, the keeper brought along a piano for his wife. But it turns out, she was not a very good musician, and only knew one song.” To prolong the eerie factions, she began to hum the tune under her voice, like a constant, unwinding, unfurling thing – figments of a world that could be this one. “She played it incessantly. Over and over and over again.”
Had she gone insane from the void around them? Had the waves coaxed her into depravity? Was there madness to be had and found, with naught more than the wind and wood to guide her? “Eventually, the keeper could take no more. He grabbed an ax, and destroyed the piano.” The hum persisted, and she tilted her head a little to the music. “I’m sure you can imagine what came next, turning the destruction upon his wife, and then himself.” Her gaze flickered back to the small crowd, her features blank, eldritch on their own. “It is said the ghosts of the keeper and his wife come out on foggy nights, and when you pass the island, you can hear the song coming through the night.” The story completed; she leaned back in her chair.
If you dig under my feet
You will find things that you don't want to see
You will find things that you don't want to see
