The first on what might become a series of articles chronicling my output from writing exercises, this is less about ‘good writing’ and more about working to constraints without over-thinking them.

This exercise was simply to write 750 words or more in under an hour starting with the words “The book fell to the floor…” and ending with “…and then he saw the light in the window.”

WARNING: contains poor attempts at an unintentional Lovecraftian style.

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The book fell to the floor…

“Working late again, Father?”

The cleaner’s question jolted Father Leonard upright in his chair; he had been working too hard, too late. It was fine for deities to work for six hours without rest, but mortal men were made of lesser stuff and sleep had stolen upon him before he had known it.

“Yes, I am sorry…” he began, stretching himself in the armchair, “What time is it?”

“Oh, I should think it has gone midnight by now. You should go home; it’s Sunday tomorrow.” she told him, with a slight hint of reproach.

The paradox of the church, he thought to himself with a smile, while everyone else is busy enjoying the weekend, we are dreading the busiest day of the week.

It had not always been like this, he thought. Once, he had looked forward to Sunday and the chance it brought to tease some light into the community of believers at his door. Now… now he was not so sure. Faith was a fragile thing and rare besides; at first, he had thought to share his certainty with the congregation and multiply it. Over time though, he saw it diminish, as though each step he showed them toward the light was a step further away for himself.

It is a test, he reminded himself, a chance to prove my faith. He had been so sure. The more adversity he overcame, the more he proved his faith and the closer his was bound to Him, the stronger he should feel His love.

When first he saw the cracks, he had run to ask advice from the bishop. The old man had mirrored those hollow sentiments; like Job, he was tested because he was loved. Father Leonard did not know whether to laugh or cry at the memory…

The priest bent down to lift the ancient book, praying sincerely that he had not damaged such a fine specimen, but God was watching over him or else luck was on his side; the book had survived its fall without incident.

“What is it you’re reading there father, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The ramblings of a mad Arab, nothing of consequence.”

It was not technically a lie, he reflected. Another apocryphal book, like so many writings of those who lives too long in the desert, the book of Al’Hazred was mostly the inane ramblings of one who does not understand what he has experienced. Father Leonard had learned to read between the lines, reading past the ranting and blasphemous ritualism, and could see the hand of the great deceiver guiding the Arab’s. The names were unfamiliar, but their identities were written in their actions; Azathoth, Hastur, she of the thousand young… No man may count the myriad forms of evil, but any he with a mind can see them where they lurk.

“Know thine enemy…” they had told him before he left Rome, “Learn the lies of the New England cult so that we might better bring the light to those who need it most.”

“Father? I was just wondering if you needed anything. Some coffee perhaps, before you drive home. The roads are treacherous enough in the cold without being half asleep as well.”

He nodded. A mug of coffee would do him good before driving in the snow.

“You just wait here and I will see if I can find you some.”

As the aged cleaning woman left to potter around in the back of the library, Father Leonard allowed himself a short walk toward to window. His legs had stiffened in the cold and he shook them to get the blood flowing back. Barely thirty and already he was feeling his age, no doubt one of the dangers of his adopted American diet.

Across the road, he looked at the old Derby house. There were stories about what had gone on in there, the unspeakable cruelty that had been perpetrated. It was just as well that the walls had near collapsed to cover over the abandoned building.

Somehow, he felt a sense of wrongness about it tonight, something changed. It took his mind some time to place it and when he did, he felt a cold presence climb his spine and drive him to his knees; where by day he had seen nought but rotting timbers, the moonlight showed the house intact and whole. Glancing through the door no longer missing, but thrown open in welcome, he felt he could almost see a gateway into a deep place of ancient evil. For a moment, he told himself that it was uninhabited, that the shadows were playing tricks on his tired and superstitious mind…

…and then he saw the light in the window.