Wintermarsh Street.
Welcome my friends, to the show that never ends, Wintermarsh Street. A place on the edge of small town Somerset, a neat Victorian terrace projecting an image of neighbourly community, but peel back the thin veneer of normality, peer beneath the surface and you will find yourself staring into an abyss. A dark abyss that squirms and writhes with unknown things, things that will force you to reassess your perception of reality.
Please allow me to introduce myself; my name is Vladimir Beaverhausen, though my friends call me ‘Vlad’. I reside, of course, on Wintermarsh Street, with my concubine Ms Crocofshit, (pronounced, Crochet, in the French way). Our humble, mid-terrace home is unremarkable at first glance, however on closer inspection; the more perceptive might perhaps notice some subtle clues that hint at its unique status.
If I may explain, above the oaken door with its stained, leaded glass, proudly squats a stone hunky-punk, wings spread in preparation of flight. Hat is his name, he guards our home against uninvited guests, and those wings of his though carved of stone, are not merely decorative.
Down in the small front garden, that is not and never will be a ‘driveway’, lurks Jackie, a small, quick to anger Pixie, she stands sentinel amongst the blackened grass and the Harts Tongue Ferns, ever prepared to slash the ankles of the unwary and those foolish enough to wear green during May, with her razor sharp talons.
If, via this digital portal, and with my guidance and protection, you care to enter Wintermarsh Street, you may be privileged to glimpse the interior of number 58, and perhaps understand why a personage of my illustrious heritage chooses to inhabit such an apparently mundane abode.
You may also discover other things to delight or disturb you. For example, why do the Undead Majorettes continue to practice their elaborate baton twirling routines on the street despite having died more than twenty years since? Why are Mildred’s hats so important? What lurks in the house at the end of this unusual cul-de-sac, the house known simply as Dead End?
Behind every door is a story, and at number 58, we see it all, I can tell you such tales my friends, but do you wish to hear?
(all rights reserved)
Welcome my friends, to the show that never ends, Wintermarsh Street. A place on the edge of small town Somerset, a neat Victorian terrace projecting an image of neighbourly community, but peel back the thin veneer of normality, peer beneath the surface and you will find yourself staring into an abyss. A dark abyss that squirms and writhes with unknown things, things that will force you to reassess your perception of reality.
Please allow me to introduce myself; my name is Vladimir Beaverhausen, though my friends call me ‘Vlad’. I reside, of course, on Wintermarsh Street, with my concubine Ms Crocofshit, (pronounced, Crochet, in the French way). Our humble, mid-terrace home is unremarkable at first glance, however on closer inspection; the more perceptive might perhaps notice some subtle clues that hint at its unique status.
If I may explain, above the oaken door with its stained, leaded glass, proudly squats a stone hunky-punk, wings spread in preparation of flight. Hat is his name, he guards our home against uninvited guests, and those wings of his though carved of stone, are not merely decorative.
Down in the small front garden, that is not and never will be a ‘driveway’, lurks Jackie, a small, quick to anger Pixie, she stands sentinel amongst the blackened grass and the Harts Tongue Ferns, ever prepared to slash the ankles of the unwary and those foolish enough to wear green during May, with her razor sharp talons.
If, via this digital portal, and with my guidance and protection, you care to enter Wintermarsh Street, you may be privileged to glimpse the interior of number 58, and perhaps understand why a personage of my illustrious heritage chooses to inhabit such an apparently mundane abode.
You may also discover other things to delight or disturb you. For example, why do the Undead Majorettes continue to practice their elaborate baton twirling routines on the street despite having died more than twenty years since? Why are Mildred’s hats so important? What lurks in the house at the end of this unusual cul-de-sac, the house known simply as Dead End?
Behind every door is a story, and at number 58, we see it all, I can tell you such tales my friends, but do you wish to hear?
(all rights reserved)