cthulhu_architect - Cliff House - 25 x 30
infoAbout This Title
She learned to pack light, emotionally: to never travel without a disposable version of herself, one she could quickly discard and leave behind when she had to move on.
— Chris Brookmyre, The Cliff House
Nathan Weld had appraised every property of consequence between Kingsport and the Cape for Marsh & Ogden, auctioneers, and had never once misstated a room or overvalued a view. The Cliff House estate was meant to be an afternoon’s work: the owner lost off the fishing banks in the spring, no heirs nearer than Boston, and the bank wanted a figure before the equinox tides. But the house, which should have smelled of a shut-up winter, smelled instead of low water, and the front door was not locked. Inside, every surface had been dusted within the day, the gramophone in the parlour held a record worn nearly through, and the chessboard by the fire stood mid-game, white to move, though the professor had been three months in the Atlantic.
The wrongness was in the small things. The telescope on the veranda was trained not on the horizon nor on the harbour light but on a half-drowned reef a quarter mile out, and it was still turning, in slow, patient sweeps, though no one stood at the eyepiece. The tide tables pinned behind the study desk were the harbormaster’s own printed sheets, annotated in a fine antique hand with dates that had not yet come, each marked with a single word: collection. Out on the terrace the umbrella was up and the two loungers faced the water, and between them the little round table had been laid with a service of tea for one, the cup still faintly warm to the touch.
Behind the garden wall Weld found the flights of stone stairs he had taken, from the listing photographs, for a boundary wall, descending the cliff face on either side of the property. Halfway down, where no landing showed from above, a passage ran in beneath the terrace and opened into the cave. It had been made a dwelling, and kept: a bed laid with hospital corners, rugs beaten flat, a stove with a kettle still ticking as it cooled, a workbench with cord and gaff hung in order, and a long table set for two, the chairs pushed back as though the guests had risen together and gone down. On the passage wall, where the lamplight reached, ran the dried tracks of things that had come in from the sea and gone out again.
Below the cave mouth the beach lay wide at low water, and the sand told the rest. Footprints came up from the sea by the dozen, broad and bare and oddly joined where the wet sand had slumped into them, and none went back down. A single line of prints climbed the shore stairs instead, paused at the terrace door, and returned to the water’s edge, over and over, the next annotated date on the tide tables lying one tide away. When the swell drew back, Weld heard beneath the rock a sound that kept time with it—not the sea’s voice at all, but something practising the sea’s voice, the way a man practises a language he means to use among strangers.
He should have walked up to the harbour road and wired the bank from there. But the tide was turning early, and the water, which had stood drawn back a moment before, came up the sand faster than any table allowed and did not stop at its old mark. Weld climbed the stairs two at a time, and behind him, from the cave, came the small unhurried sounds of a table being cleared and a kettle being filled, as though the house, having counted him, had begun to make ready for his keeping.
The bank sold Cliff House within the month, its inventory amended in Weld’s own hand to read two dwellings where the deeds recorded one, the second tenanted under a word the new owner’s solicitor could not pronounce and did not care to write down. Weld’s valuation was found waiting on the study desk, complete, his fee receipt signed beneath it. The tea service on the terrace had gained a second cup, and the telescope was turning again, slowly, though no one stood at it. And far below, where the reef showed at low water, the table in the cave stood set for three—the chairs pushed back, the kettle warmed, and the last place laid, as the house had laid every place across its long keeping of the shore, for whoever the next tide should bring.
You can download all the maps on my website
Remember you need to first login with Patreon before you can download the maps.
You can find more information on how to download my maps & foundry modules on this post
Tier Benefits
Yog-Sothoth: 70 PPI, 140 PPI, dd2vtt files
Great Cthulhu: 70 PPI, 140 PPI, dd2vtt files, foundry module
Nyarlathotep: 70 PPI, 140 PPI, 256 PPI, dd2vtt files, foundry module
Azathoth: 70 PPI, 140 PPI, 256 PPI, dd2vtt files, foundry module, pdf files ready to print & play
She learned to pack light, emotionally: to never travel without a disposable version of herself, one she could quickly discard and leave behind when she had to move on.
— Chris Brookmyre, The Cliff House
Nathan Weld had appraised every property of consequence between Kingsport and the Cape for Marsh & Ogden, auctioneers, and had never once misstated a room or overvalued a view. The Cliff House estate was meant to be an afternoon’s work: the owner lost off the fishing banks in the spring, no heirs nearer than Boston, and the bank wanted a figure before the equinox tides. But the house, which should have smelled of a shut-up winter, smelled instead of low water, and the front door was not locked. Inside, every surface had been dusted within the day, the gramophone in the parlour held a record worn nearly through, and the chessboard by the fire stood mid-game, white to move, though the professor had been three months in the Atlantic.
The wrongness was in the small things. The telescope on the veranda was trained not on the horizon nor on the harbour light but on a half-drowned reef a quarter mile out, and it was still turning, in slow, patient sweeps, though no one stood at the eyepiece. The tide tables pinned behind the study desk were the harbormaster’s own printed sheets, annotated in a fine antique hand with dates that had not yet come, each marked with a single word: collection. Out on the terrace the umbrella was up and the two loungers faced the water, and between them the little round table had been laid with a service of tea for one, the cup still faintly warm to the touch.
Behind the garden wall Weld found the flights of stone stairs he had taken, from the listing photographs, for a boundary wall, descending the cliff face on either side of the property. Halfway down, where no landing showed from above, a passage ran in beneath the terrace and opened into the cave. It had been made a dwelling, and kept: a bed laid with hospital corners, rugs beaten flat, a stove with a kettle still ticking as it cooled, a workbench with cord and gaff hung in order, and a long table set for two, the chairs pushed back as though the guests had risen together and gone down. On the passage wall, where the lamplight reached, ran the dried tracks of things that had come in from the sea and gone out again.
Below the cave mouth the beach lay wide at low water, and the sand told the rest. Footprints came up from the sea by the dozen, broad and bare and oddly joined where the wet sand had slumped into them, and none went back down. A single line of prints climbed the shore stairs instead, paused at the terrace door, and returned to the water’s edge, over and over, the next annotated date on the tide tables lying one tide away. When the swell drew back, Weld heard beneath the rock a sound that kept time with it—not the sea’s voice at all, but something practising the sea’s voice, the way a man practises a language he means to use among strangers.
He should have walked up to the harbour road and wired the bank from there. But the tide was turning early, and the water, which had stood drawn back a moment before, came up the sand faster than any table allowed and did not stop at its old mark. Weld climbed the stairs two at a time, and behind him, from the cave, came the small unhurried sounds of a table being cleared and a kettle being filled, as though the house, having counted him, had begun to make ready for his keeping.
The bank sold Cliff House within the month, its inventory amended in Weld’s own hand to read two dwellings where the deeds recorded one, the second tenanted under a word the new owner’s solicitor could not pronounce and did not care to write down. Weld’s valuation was found waiting on the study desk, complete, his fee receipt signed beneath it. The tea service on the terrace had gained a second cup, and the telescope was turning again, slowly, though no one stood at it. And far below, where the reef showed at low water, the table in the cave stood set for three—the chairs pushed back, the kettle warmed, and the last place laid, as the house had laid every place across its long keeping of the shore, for whoever the next tide should bring.
You can download all the maps on my website
Remember you need to first login with Patreon before you can download the maps.
You can find more information on how to download my maps & foundry modules on this post
Tier Benefits
Yog-Sothoth: 70 PPI, 140 PPI, dd2vtt files
Great Cthulhu: 70 PPI, 140 PPI, dd2vtt files, foundry module
Nyarlathotep: 70 PPI, 140 PPI, 256 PPI, dd2vtt files, foundry module
Azathoth: 70 PPI, 140 PPI, 256 PPI, dd2vtt files, foundry module, pdf files ready to print & play
Comments (0)