The Man Who Split His Infinitive

[koilungfish]

8/1/07 - The Man Who Saw More Than He Ought To

          I met a man in Shanghai who claimed to have seen more than he ought to.
          "That's all very well," I said, "but in what respect?"
          He went rather pale, and pressed his lips together in the manner of an Englishman who regrets saying one thing too many. "Never mind, never mind," he muttered through his moustache, taking a mouthful of whiskey that, I suspect, had less water in it than he would've admitted to.
          "Come now," I said, leaning forwards in my chair, "you can't give me a hint like that and then clam up."
          "I shouldn't have said anything," he said, turning away, and I dismissed the thought that I had seen a tremor in his hand.
          Thinking myself canny, I summoned the waiter and bade him bring us a round of drinks. Sponsonby - for that name will fit him as well as any - ordered something I didn't hear closely, but by the raising of his fingers it was a double.
          "I suppose you think that you can buy me out with a whiskey and soda," he said, looking down his nose at me. He was sunburnt and brown-haired, which made the pale blue of his eyes rather startling.
          "I might as well try," I said with a shrug and a sip of my iced tea, the latter of which he regarded with disdain.
          "I dare say you have all sorts of ideas about what I meant. Native rituals or dark secrets in the mountains, that sort of thing."
          "Well, you have been here for fifteen years," I replied, and since the waiter had arrived with the drinks I was quiet for a moment. "But old Allen had stories about dark rituals in the mountains and he doesn't go green at the gills about it."
          "Allen's younger than he looks, and his brains are pickled. I dare say I shall follow in his footsteps quickly, having seen worse than he ever did."          
          "There you go again," I said immediately, "dropping hints. Anyone would think that you wanted to be baited."
          He looked at me, and his eyelids were heavy over his eyes as if he were terribly weary. His pale eyes were unfocused, and the ice rattled quietly in the heavily etched glass as his hand trembled a little. "I dare say I might," he said softly, gaze focused on something behind my shoulder, possibly the barman. "Allen once told me he slept far better after the first time he told that story about the six men who went into that valley wherever it was. But I don't sleep like he does."
          "What, badly?"
          "Oh, I sleep well enough. Hard to wake, sometimes. Doctor says it's the whiskey."
          "You hardly seem inclined to prove him wrong."
          "Yes - well - you see," and then he stopped, so I didn't. He drained his glass, and tipped the ice into the fresh one, then put the glass end-up on the dark mat on the salver, I don't know why. "Look, Betony, a word of advice. You ask too many damn questions."
          At least, I think that is what he said, since his upturned glass had caught my attention. The dark blur of mat, seen through the heavy etchings, was moving. It was a faint, frantic, feeble little movement, a suggestion of an awful lot of long legs pawing at the glass in a desperate effort to get out.
          I thought he'd put his glass down over a spider, or perhaps a scorpion, but as I reached over to inspect it, he caught my wrist with his hand and my gaze with his pale eyes.
          "Don't look too closely," he said softly. "They won't leave you alone, once you've seen more than you should."

Comments

[raisedbymoogles.livejournal.com]

Ooh. *shiver*

[koilungfish.livejournal.com]

Oho-ooh? :: gentle poke with the feedback stick::

[raisedbymoogles.livejournal.com]

It's creepy. In a good way.

[dragoness-e.livejournal.com]

Ooh.

You have a touch for classic horror, I see. So much character and sinisterness suggested just from dialogue. Your characters come across as classic British out in the backwaters of the Empire, late 19th or early 20th c.--is that intended? A. Conan Doyle or H. G. Wells-flavor, if you know what I mean.

A suggestion: for web display, format your paragraphs as blocks separated by a blank line. It's more readable, and it's the standard for web publication.

[koilungfish.livejournal.com]

Character? I hadn't thought there was much character to it. It does seem to have fallen into the turn-of-the-century-horror mould, probably because I've been reading a lot of turn-of-the-century horror recently. It's not exactly intentional, but it's not exactly accidental either.

I utterly refuse to use standard web formatting. I find it hideous.

[dragoness-e.livejournal.com]

I read a lot of H.G. Wells, Doyle, and other turn-of-the-century horror when I was much younger, so the flavor was very familiar. But also distinctly someone else's (yours).

I prefer it, you detest it. Purely a matter of personal taste. I think it makes for better readability on computer screens, which still aren't as good as the black & white of Times New Roman on a printed page. (Especially given the love of slightly-less-readable sans serif fonts on the 'Net...)

[koilungfish.livejournal.com]

Hmm. Nice to know I'm not vanishing into unintentional imitation :)

Possibly it's because I have my default font set to Tahoma, which I find much easier to read on a screen than just about anything else. I find the standard web-format looks strung out and rather unfinished.