𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢, 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦…

Chapter 1: Stormhaven 

The small, dreary fishing town of Stormhaven seemed especially gloomy the day I arrived. Standing in front of my new upstairs apartment, the light misty rain blew into my face as I fumbled the keys into the lock and pushed inside. The first floor would be where I set up my vinyl and music store, and looking around at the peeling walls, slowly rotting floorboards, and leaky windows, I can see why I got this place for so cheap. It’s slightly decrepit charm is perfect for me though and as I head upstairs to my living space above, i can already see myself fitting in here nicely. 

The upstairs smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and mildew, and the whole room seemed to be made entirely of wood, from the creaky floors to the wood paneled walls and sturdy looking ceiling beams. Tape residue stained the walls in places where I guessed posters used to hang, and some dark brown spots stained the wooden walls and floor in the corner in what could have been dried blood. Two wide yawning windows faced toward the docks and I could hear the distant ringing of the bouys in the harbor. 

Stepping towards the slightly cracked open window, my wet leather boots squeaked loudly against the floor and I almost tripped as my toe caught the tip of a floorboard suddenly, looking down and noticing that one of them was out of line and sticking up slightly. 

𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘩. 𝘞𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦… I thought as lifted up the board. Sure enough, a glass pipe, grinder, and some hand rolled cigarettes revealed themselves to me as I quickly brushed away the spiderwebs and dust as I lifted the contents from beneath the boards. 

Under the pipe was a leather bound book and a black cassette tape labeled “Abyssal Lament” with an upside down cross scrawled beneath it. The book was unmarked on the cover but looked very worn and smelled strongly of damp musty leather. I opened the book carefully, having to peel the first two pages apart and saw that it seemed to be a handwritten journal, although in a language I couldn’t understand; maybe Russian? 

As I flipped through more of the pages I saw it was also full of drawings and sketches that looked like symbols or sigils. The drawings were of demonic looking beasts, frog and fishlike creatures, and a beautiful woman with flowing green hair, long arms and dark black eyes. 

Feeling a chill run through my body as the cold breeze hit me I closed the book and stood up, placing it along with the cassette on the small table in the corner of the room. I closed and latched the window, wondering if the real estate agent had forgotten to lock it on his final walkthrough, or if the wind or someone else had opened it. Looking down, I noticed two small puddles on the ground, and contemplated whether it could be from the rain pouring in at an angle or from someone standing there in front of the window in wet clothes. 

The rain seemed to have suddenly stopped, so i decided to take advantage of the break in weather and headed downstairs to start bringing in my belongings, an unsettling feeling gnawing inside me. No sooner was I outside than I heard a voice call to me,

“So you’re the young fellow who bought the Novak’s old place.” I looked up and saw an elderly woman smiling over at me from her front porch bench. 

“I’m your neighbor, Mariam. I was wondering if anyone would ever live there again, after everything that happened…” she trailed off, stroking the white cat that lay curled on her lap. 

I paused a moment, a little taken off guard, “I’m Leon, nice to meet you.” I forced myself to sound more pleased to be talking to her than I was. “Why, what happened here before i came along?” I asked curiously, ducking under the roof as it started to drizzle again and rubbing my bare hands together to keep them warm. 

The old lady’s face cracked for a second before she continued. “Oh it’s such an awful story to remember, not that I can recall all the details now in my old age. But the folks that used to live there, a sickly old mother and her son were strange characters indeed, witches and devil worshipers if I ever saw them.” She said, forehead wrinkles pressing together in the middle. 

“She died unexpectedly 5 years ago, and her son took his own life shortly after. Townsfolk tend to think your place is haunted.” She said matter-o-factly. 

I was never very superstitious or religious, just paranoid, and the idea of living in a “haunted” house wasn’t too unappealing. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘸. I thought to myself. 

“Well hopefully the local ghosts don’t affect business too badly, I’m hoping to open up my music shop here in the next few weeks.” I told her, looking up at the dark clouds and wondering how much longer the rain would last. 

“We haven’t had a store there in years now, and it’ll be nice to have a new neighbor again.” She laughed. “Well I’ll stop bothering you then and let you unpack.” She added, and with a nod and a wave I began to make trips from my truck to my front door, thinking about the journal and cassette tape again as the rain began to pour down on me and started to soak through my patched leather jacket. 

The journal must have belonged to the “witch” the old lady mentioned judging by the sigils and symbols I had seen, which intrigued me. I was always drawn to the darker more occult side of life, hence my love of heavy music, horror movies, taxidermy, and the like; call it morbid fascination or coping mechanisms for living with bipolar disorder for over a decade. 

In the back of my mind a burning curiosity began to grow in me about what was on the tape as well, I had the feeling it must have belonged to her son along with the pipe and cigarettes. I made up my mind that I would listen to it as soon as I had finished. 


As I placed the last box of my belongings upstairs I grabbed the tape from on top of the journal and jogged down to my truck, hopping in the front seat and popping the track into the cassette player. My finger hovered over the play button for a moment before pressing it. 

The sound of distorted electric guitars, down tuned bass, and blast beats drone from my shitty quality truck speakers and fill my head with dissonant noise. Shrieking, banshee like vocals cut through the tremolo picked guitars and a small chill tingles down my spine. I had listened to plenty of edgy black metal before but never had the vocals seemed so desperate and earnest, like genuine cries of pain. 

Then the drums slowed and the screeching softened and the vocalist began to sing in a quieter but deeply melancholy voice, and I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach like I shouldn’t be listening to this, like it would somehow change me. I shook off the feeling, entranced by the melody and feeling a sinking feeling of sadness started to boil in my stomach and chest. I could make out some of the lyrics now, 

“Drowning in despair, lost beneath the tide, A vessel of anguish, where hope cannot abide. 

Blackened waters rise, pulling me below, In this abyssal lament, I find my final woe. 

The moon weeps silver tears into the murky brine, as I plunge into darkness, my spirit intertwines. 

A heart once full of fury, now a ghost in the swell, I surrender to the deep; in darkness, I shall dwell” 

The vocalist growled into the distorted recording, and the feeling of despair grew inside me. Once again the pace changed growing more erratic and fast,

“So heed this wretched cry, from depths of shadowed blue; In the grasp of the ocean, you may find your truth anew. 

But in the depths of heartache, remember my lost name, for in the abyss, we are all the same.” 

I could barely make out the words in some places but it felt to me like he was speaking them directly to me, and they hit me in my chest. 

As the song ended and faded into the sounds of the harbor and sea, i felt a strange longing desire to listen to it again as I sat there in silence a moment. I also had the urge to find out who had written this, had it been the same man who used to live in my apartment, or someone else? A shudder jolted through me at the thought that the man who committed suicide was the author, journaling his thoughts in a morbid final note. 

I popped the cassette out of my truck and back into its case, taking a moment to look at it again and run my fingers over the front. It appeared the cross wasn’t drawn, but rather carved into the plastic cover. I’d have to ask around if anyone knew the artist once my shop was open. 

TAP TAP TAP, I startled from my thoughts as a loud pecking sounded from my front windshield, i jerked my head up to see a seagull pecking at the glass and turning his head to the side to peer in at me and cry loudly. 

I opened my truck door and stepped out, shooing at the bird, “I don’t have any fucking food, come on get off my truck!” I yelled but the gull didn’t seem to fear me. Taking it as a sign to get back to work, I left the cassette in my truck and walked back to my shop to start unpacking, looking back and seeing that the gull was still perched on the hood, staring at me as I left. 

Where the water calls your name, pt.1: Stormhaven