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    Gloom in the Mortuary of Melancholy
    Gloom in the Mortuary of Melancholy
    Gloom in the Mortuary of Melancholy
    Ebook65 pages1 hour

    Gloom in the Mortuary of Melancholy

    By Aleksi Karvonen

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A Lovecraftian tale of loss & regret, wherein a man ventures forth in search of the ultimate aesthetical experience of melancholy.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBooks on Demand
    Release dateApr 29, 2019
    ISBN9789528005803
    Gloom in the Mortuary of Melancholy
    Author

    Aleksi Karvonen

    --------------------------------------------------------

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      Book preview

      Gloom in the Mortuary of Melancholy - Aleksi Karvonen

      resigned.

      Part I: The Graveyard Meeting

      Gloom in the Mortuary of Melancholy

      ~ A Lovecraftian tale of loss & regret ~

      *

      I have understood Azathoth!

      -The Madman’s last words

      *

      Part I: The Graveyard Meeting

      *

      Perhaps I should begin by stating my lifelong obsession & admiration to the classic gothic literature. I’ve had this inexplainable fascination since my childhood due to reasons unclear – certainly the towering stacks of dusty books in my grandfather’s attic attributed to this interest, yet they fail to explain the innate fascination I’ve retained since the very beginnings of my subjective timeline. Whatever the case, I never could restrain myself long from getting back into the dark worlds of Poe, Dickens and their likes.

      The reason I mention this is because this frenzied interest, coupled with a morbid curiosity to my own hometown’s past – which seems to be muddied & obfuscated, perhaps intentionally by shadowy authority figures I shall not go further into here – led me into the haven of this peculiar madman whose tall tales of melancholy were of most extraordinary quality and strangeness. This man, who claimed to have lived for centuries – a dubious claim, I admit – inhabited a tomb, or a mortuary more like, of the most unusual kind in a forgotten, decaying cemetery deep in the woods some kilometers north of town, in a distorted realm not unlike ours – but I’m getting ahead of myself. I shall first explain how I came to find such a well-hidden hideout.

      *

      For years I had been practising these relaxing evening strolls around town and its surrounding areas, sometimes out of boredom, but most often in search of certain locations of interest. All kinds of old & forgotten places pique my fascination - houses, bunkers and other habitations where man had once dwelled but later abandoned in search of a better future. Unfortunately my hometown – excluding its muddied past – is quite an ordinary place, a quiet, middle-sized countryside village with little to nothing when it comes to these kinds of attractions. There are, however, certain hallowed locations and degenerating buildings (the ward and the town cemetery most prominently), and a few abandoned factories which I had numerous times scrounged in search of something mysterious, usually late in the evening in order to heighten the gloomy atmosphere and allow my imagination that additional boost of mystique – but these late evening strolls were most often unfruitful. The most I managed to uncover were that of a few homeless wanderers, whose drug-addled speech and unpleasant bodily-odours were nothing to write about into my little notebook, the precious thing I always carried with me in hopes of encountering something truly extraordinary. This all changed however, when, one late evening I once again decided to visit the town graveyard.

      *

      It was a typical, albeit unusually cold, late autumn evening with the red sun shooting its last rays of light betwixt the pines when I stepped through the open iron gates. The cemetery - a small clearing amidst dense northern forest - was nearly empty, only a few slumbering souls wandering amongst the dead, unseemingly wanting pay visit to anyone in particular, but instead merely stumbling around, reminding themselves of the inevitability. I didn’t expect much of this nightly stroll, as I had visited the cemetery numerous times before & had examined most of the graves in the most excruciating detail. The reason for my visit was the most ordinary one – that of all-engulfing ennui. I needed something mentally envigorating to relight my mind, and the aesthetical decrepitude of the unkempt graveyard acted as good source of sustenance as any.

      *

      After wandering a while amidst the rows of graves, a certain peculiar man captured my attention. This man, who wasn’t clearly young nor old, stood perfectly still in front of one unremarkable gravestone, staring at it without a singular bodily movement. Even the slight gusts of wind, which occasionally raced through the open cemetery (accompanied by a high-pitched sound that of not unlike a primitive wind-instrument), could not sway this man’s perpetual vigil. His stoic watch piqued my interest, and so I made my way towards him, ultimately positioning myself next to him to peer at the gravestone he was looking at. A typical female name was engraved into the stone, her death apparently having occurred a mere few years back. I stood still for a moment beside the man, waiting for him to notice me, but upon understanding his uninterest to spring into action any time soon, I coughed and asked, with a low, wary voice;

      Greetings, Sir. A chilly evening, don’t you think?

      The man ignored my attempts of communication. I began to doubt he’d hear me at all, but when I was about to continue my inquiries he surprised me with these sudden words, still staring at the gravestone;

      My sister. Hanged herself three years ago.

      I examined the man’s face, but saw no change in his expression.

      I’m terribly sorry Sir.

      It felt inprudent to question him on this topic further, so I stayed silent.

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