Pinehill hall

Speculative notions of fear - It feels really good to be writing again :D

The last few notes of the darknesses whispered words sighed in Pendergasts mind. He knew, that for a moment fear would no longer hold sway over him, for he knew the face of dread. He had heard about the things that man should fear and was, for the time, without.
Fear, the thing not of light but the invention of the over active mind in the dark. Echoes from the primal mind of man paired with our dreadful imagination brewed fears. The knowing, or rather, assuming of harmful outcomes to events that had yet to pass. Fear holds us in chains, it warps us into things we are not. Dark and snivalling things, powerless. Prendergast had glimpsed the face of fear, true fear. It rose like a colossal black glacier, magnificent in stature and awesome to comprehend, but dark and destructive. With the aeons fear mounted, ice on ice, year upon year. Until, with a thunderous roar it assayed forth to crush the weak willed and strong alike. All these notions occured to Pendergast as he walked down the passage to the great hall. Strangely, he walked not with himself but rather as an outsider he saw his automatic actions, his meandering thoughts of fear from the third person. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. Maybe Pendergast was, instead of being immune to fear as he so confidently thought, was overwhelmed by it. So completely and utterly had this emotion overcome him, he was, for a time forced out of himself. Of course, this notion never even occured to our young Pendergast as he felt, so safely numb to everything. He had conversed with the dark thing before, high up in the Western tower. It was, for the young and curious quite the enigma. How long the thing had been confined up there, amongst the spiders and dust he could not fathom. Certainly Pinehill Hall had stood for centuries, but it's peculiar occupants seemed to be much older, belonging to a more antiquarian time - perchance, long before man, that curious bipedal ape stepped into the murky glow of enlightenment. Pendergast had always been a bright lad, curious of the natural world around him and had, in light of recent events begun to consider a world much greater than could be imagined. A realm of spirituality. With beings and creatures of orders far greater, or at the very least, far removed from the magnitude of man. The dark thing, as far as he could tell was a kind of fairy. It had, perhaps after some offense been carefully trapped in a cold iron case to be spirited away into the amber dark of the Western tower. It sat there now, hidden underneath the soild matte metal, whispering dreadful things to itself, and to our young hero, naïve as he was to listen. Pendergast could not grasp his fascination of the thing; why he went back only to fill himself with that strange kind of terror, the one that starts a blizzard in your belly. Cold radiating outwards until your teeth chatter uncontrollably. Where your fingers shake and the shadows feel like wells of ice. Perhaps it was the sheer depth of feeling Pendergast had become addicted to. To actually feel and to feel so strongly as to make the world seem more real. Indeed, Pendergast could not fathom it.