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    Memorabilia of the Horror & Other Tales of Terror
    Memorabilia of the Horror & Other Tales of Terror
    Memorabilia of the Horror & Other Tales of Terror
    Ebook93 pages1 hour

    Memorabilia of the Horror & Other Tales of Terror

    By Mohammad S. Alwahedi

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    About this ebook

    From English hamlets to teeming metropolises, this book takes you on an unforgettable journey to the realms of true horror. Held within are tales ranging from the ravings of a person who saw his neighbour, "A man with a hint of pungency and several strange skin lesions adorning his arms," disappear under ominous circumstances, to a seemingly innocent hamlet whose secrets tear the fabric of the society.

    This main course is followed by the epistles of a landlord who bought his new house under strange conditions, in which he feels the existence of a ghostly entity within the crumbling walls of Higham Hill. To the latter, the crowning pinnacle is in "Ravings," a recount of an archaeologist who visited a sacrificial henge.

    Topped on everything is the suicide of a physicist who invents special perception glasses that realizes humans' fear, as displayed in The Phantasm.

    This book is a long-since-forgotten art.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPartridge Publishing Singapore
    Release dateOct 31, 2014
    ISBN9781482827385
    Memorabilia of the Horror & Other Tales of Terror
    Author

    Mohammad S. Alwahedi

    Mohammad S. Al-Wahedi was born in 1998. He displayed a keen interest in creative writing, especially after being “stimulated” by short stories from H.P. Lovecraft. He lives in Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates. His goal was to see his writings published. “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown” —H.P. Lovecraft “Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality”. —Edgar Allan Poe

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      Book preview

      Memorabilia of the Horror & Other Tales of Terror - Mohammad S. Alwahedi

      Copyright © 2014 by Mohammad S. Alwahedi.

      ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-2737-8

                      Softcover        978-1-4828-2736-1

                      eBook             978-1-4828-2738-5

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Toll Free 800 101 2657 (Singapore)

      Toll Free 1 800 81 7340 (Malaysia)

      www.partridgepublishing.com/singapore

      Contents

      Acknowledgements

      At the Crossroads

      A Xypholian Study

      Part I: The Horror in Keswick

      Chapter 1 John’s Journal On the Arrival and Other Things

      Chapter 2 Mr. Montgomery’s Memoirs Century Manor

      Chapter 3 John’s Journal Just Like Chicken

      Chapter 4 Mr. Montgomery’s Memoirs Unwelcome Visitors … Them or Us?

      Chapter 5 John’s Journal The Whetting of a Knife

      Part II: The Horror in Eynesbury

      Chapter 6 Detective Noir’s Notebook A Recount of the Former

      Chapter 7 Detective Noir’s Notebook To Keswick … and Beyond?

      Chapter 8 Dr. Lamina’s Epistles Correspondence with Dr. Hendricks

      Chapter 9 John Montgomery’s Journal

      PART III: The Drawing of the Three

      Chapter 10 Trials and Tribulations

      Chapter 11 The Web Draws Tighter

      Chapter 12 Valiant Acts

      Epilogue John Montgomery’s Journal

      Beyond the Spectacles

      Ravings

      Noises at Higham Hill

      For my grandfather, he who knew …

      Sic parvis magna.

      Great things have small beginnings.

      Acknowledgements

      T his work would not have been possible without the contributions made by many people listed below. If, for any reason, someone who means a lot to me does not find his name in this book, then judge me not, for I have a rusty mind and meant no offence at all. I will be sure to list you in my future titles (wink).

      To start, I am obliged to thank my family. I express thanks not to my parents, but to my mother and father, each on their own, for giving me this valuable opportunity to achieve my potential. My father has been dutifully vigilant as to the progress made throughout the writing of this book, or ‘booklet’, as may be nearer to the mark. Thanks to my brother, Sultan and also to Uncle Tariq for frequently inquiring about the developments made. I find myself better in penning down thoughts rather than uttering them.

      Thanks are also due to one of my aunts. I have omitted her name for reasons I will keep to myself, but she knows who she is. I express also the warmest of thanks to my uncles and aunts, as numerous as they are.

      Moreover, my life would have been as dreary as Poe’s if not for my friends. You stood beside me, drawing a smile on my lips whilst I wrote on death and the macabre. So thank you, Salem and Omar. You rock! I also thank Rashed Al-Hammadi, the one and only, for being of assistance.

      I must thank all of my teachers, be they math teachers or Arabic teachers. However, I owe thanks to a specific few who contributed, whether directly or indirectly, to this book: Mr. Ahmed Balbolia, Mr. Mohammad Al-Najar, Mr. Mohammad Al Trabulsi (who remains as controversial as ever), Mr. Adel Hamana, Mr. Tariq Bahi, and Mr. Adel Chouchan.

      As to the ASAD, I must thank four special teachers who influenced me greatly: Mr. Mahmoud Dabet, Ms. Maissa Wahby, and Mrs. Sara Al-Shami, all of whom were great sources of inspiration. I am also very grateful to Mr. Charles Elkins, who aided me in proofreading. He discovered terrible mistakes. Thank you, Mr. Charles!

      Thanks go out to my editors at Partridge Publishing, Jade Bailey and Sydney Felicio, for being patient with the development of the manuscript from A to Z. I have been lax and lethargic as of late, and writing the book had become something of a time-consuming burden.

      And if inanimate objects could be praised, then I would like to finally thank my closest family, dearest friends, and best teachers: books. Without books my development would have been solely limited to school.

      So thank you all. May the sun illuminate your paths as you have lit mine.

      At the Crossroads

      O ne can delve into nearly innumerable vistas of hallucination and despair by taking the wrong turn at an intersection. Few can calculate the possibilities. I am one of those few. Indeed, I now wonder whether the strange occurrence on the seventeenth of January was merely an illusion of the mind or a hint that bespoke of horrors we humans are ignorant to.

      Being, since my childhood, a man with a natural distaste toward social activities, and yet who admired nature in its quietest, I adopted a habit of having a nocturnal stroll through the suburban streets of Cambridge. My strolls usually began in the middle of the night, when only a few stragglers walked the streets. I usually began from my house, passed by Orchard Park, and then headed to the abandoned railroad tracks, where the streetlamps were devoured by a tangled stretch of trees. In the darkness, a man could scarcely see the outlines of his hands.

      On the seventeenth of that month, I began my stroll. The gibbous moon above gave everything a subtle iridescence. I walked slowly, humming to myself peacefully, when I came upon the railroad tracks. As I had memorized the path, I kept walking forward into the dark. Then I stopped. I saw a small, even darker road, which I had never remembered seeing before. And so, propelled on by the sort of curiosity that wrecks the life of a youth, I turned onto the small avenue. For this I paid a price greater than Orpheus, he who looked over his shoulder.

      I crawled onward slowly; not a thing stirred. Then I saw it. From a window of a dilapidated house nearby hung a corpse with a rough-spun sack on its head; congealed blood clung

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