1. Affirmation that you have read the rules.
I have.
2. Your age
Urgh. Late Mid-thirties.
3. Male or Female
Female
4. What part of the world you're in. (at least time zone, most of us are too poor to come stalk you)
Canadien
5. Which boards do you want access to: In The Dark, JointVentures or both? Note if you would like to read the stories on the In the Dark board, but not write on it you can request to be made a ghost. Access to the boards can always be changed after you are a full member.
In the Dark, s'il vous plaît.
6. A writing sample. ***required, please do not leave it out*** It does not have to be Gothic in nature nor do you have to be a best selling author, we simply want to see that you care to try.
The Vale of Twilight seems to stretch endlessly. It is an ocean of drifting and swirling fog that clings to the ground at first, and slowly rises to engulf the entirety of the murky forest. Eerily still, this lonely stretch of hearth houses sleepy hollows dotted with farmlands, but beyond that, the most prominent feature are the graveyards.
As fog settles on the ground, gently rolling and sliding along the earth, it shrouds the graveyards. Cracked monuments and crypts float in the fog as if they are drifting islands for the dead. They are expansive islands, one merging into the other with little or no distinction.
The carriages jolt and cut through the sea of mist. The snap of the whip echoes in the still and chilling air of night, and the sound of horse hooves intertwine with it. The scraping against gravel, and torn muddy earth, slices away the fog, and underneath it, flowers grow. Bone white in colour, the small blossoms faintly shimmer and glow in the light of the lantern that hangs on the side of the carriage. The flowers mark the paths to graves, but in some areas, it appears as though the blossoms blanket the earth, and a sweet heady scent lingers in the air as if trapped by the mists or by time.
Midnight.
The light from the full moon casts a faint luminosity on Lewthwaite Hall as the stone building juts from the mists. Ancient oak and fir trees hastily spread their branches neatly knitting a canopy of leafed webs over the slate roof, and vines of ivy slink and twine their way over the crevices of limestone and lightly tap over the narrow leaded window panes. Slivers of light peer from the many windows, and on the third floor, vague dark images begin to snuff the flames, and darkness settles there.
On the faint yet biting northern wind, moor hounds howl, curdling the blood of all who hear them. One howl answers another and then silence falls.
Standing before the main doors is an older distinguished looking man with several footmen about him, and as the carriages roll to a stop, they busy themselves with the luggage.
“My Lady Lewthwaite,” the distinguished man says, his voice clear and well enunciated, <red> “I am glad to see that your journey has been safe. I am Edward, the butler of Lewthwaite Hall, and it a great pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. ” Edward continues and notices a sleepy footman. He immediately snaps his fingers to draw the footman’s attention.
“Snap to it lad, and look sharp!” Edward berates, his accent growing thicker, “Her Ladyship and the children will like to see to their rooms and have a decent rest before the cock crows!” Edward continues, and then gives Elysia a small smile.
“I am sorry, your Ladyship,” Edward softly says, his tone as placid as before. “It is difficult of late to find decent help as you may know, but I trust our household to run perfectly smooth now that you have arrived,” he eagerly says, and a small smile blossoms on his lips. “My master awaits you in your chambers; his grueling day has greatly fatigued him or else he would have seen to your arrival himself, and for this he does apologize. If you will come with me, your Ladyship, I will see that you and your beautiful children are tended to. ” Edward informs Lady Elysia, and ending those few words with her, the butler disappears into the house with Lady Elysia and her children following closely behind.
The night slowly lingers on like an endless nightmare which one cannot escape.
Settled in their new beds, still yet to unpack their belongings, the strange noises of Lewthwaite Hall haunt the ears and the imagination of all. Faint low moans from the wind slither against the outside walls of the house, and rattles windows and latches with twigs snapping and bristling against the glass panes. The creaking of floor boards sigh in the empty halls and the sound of small claws scrape the inside of the walls throughout the night. The grandfather clock chimes on the hour.
A sweet beauty, Nikita, told me of the site.
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