The Shorecliff Horror and Other Stories
Page 14
In the far northern-most reaches of the country in which I was born, there lies a small town of a few thousand souls. It is these days a rather unremarkable place, quiet and rundown with little sense of purpose about it and no obvious clues as to its long and fascinating past. It is a place whose fame is renowned far more in storybooks and in legends told of far off times than in the dry, fact-riddled ledgers of more recent days. There are many stories told about this town, more than enough to fill a hundred fairy tales, more than enough to keep a humble taleteller such as I busy for a hundred long evenings, a thousand even. I could tell about the dragons and wizards who visited this place and the grand adventures they had here, of kings and beautiful princesses, of times of great glory that touched this humble little town and of times of pestilence and hardship during which its citizens did not feel so lucky. Too many stories for one telling, that’s for sure. So, I’ll start with a simple tale. A love story in some ways, a horror story in others. A true story? Oh, certainly. All the stories I tell are true, you know that, or at least truthful. And you can’t ask fairer than that of anyone, can you?