My "Grand-Uncle's" illegal night visit to Stonehenge
Hey, not sure if people who enjoy creative writing here would get a kick out of this, but my Grandfather's brother wrote a note to before his hospitalization which reads like a spooky story like Lovecraft. This Grand Uncle of mine, having a psychotic break after this illegal visit to Stonehenge with his best friend back in 1900s (some time before WW1). The reason we can know for certain this is a story compared other writings on this subreddit, is that there is family history of mental health issues, as well as his drug issues at the time.
Only spooky bits from the account, is recognizing stones from Wales and Roman race ways before they were the current day understandings of the monument. Very strange and I think adds to the spooky, almost "possessed" or haunted ideas you could get from the passage.
Here is my "Grand-Uncle's" account of his illegal night visit to Stonehenge (It really does sound delusional):
Graves, mass graves are what they are. Shallow mounds but packed full of bodies is what they truly are. Bodies from far ago, with traditions lost far beyond the original colonizers, and their traditions, naming the stars and bodies above us with their gods selfishly. The shallow mounds still moan to this day, with what they are. Graves. Mass graves.
Stonehenge, nothing more than solemn stones stacked from England and mysterious carved rocks of Wales. There is nothing but lost traditions, there should be nothing but lost traditions, but they grow, grow in their own wrong ways. I visited those blocks of rock at night, faithful night, and yet the locked things under them cradled and beckoned with their own voices and talks. Never knew what latins and previous they spoke. But they talked and called champions of their own. Speaks no modern man could know.
I and a friend stood on the paths cut in grass by what could be assumed as modern man’s, and saw the ghastly shadows of blue and bronze and whatever colours could conjure grow. And they sprouted as foul blooms of the grass and bush which covered mounds. Bodies, many bodies, sprouted as twisted helix and flowers and old forested trees. An amazon of strange growth. The origins of England and our isle in truth from my sights. I could not describe the nature’s grandeur than that of the gossips of South America with gnarled roots with trees beyond the sky, but yet, those bodies grew and grasped as such. I would think me and Johny had been spiked with those new “mushrooms” from America or some other new drug, but those bodies did grow as much as they glowed.
An entrancement we followed through, and twirled along this bloomed path. These glowed things along side the natural world of great oaks, an addendum to such. We passed the mounds along side spiked brush, with these glowing bodies calling out in language far forgot and their own growing into far forgotten tree. Me and Johny kept reaching paths, not quite by a sophisticated modern man, but old dedicated treading, Like that of Roman march. We did catch on to these old paths hypnotized, by the glow of these far forgot olds, but we continued the treading to find bodies reaching out closer to our own. Bodies of men wrapped in fabric strewn from waist to shoulder, beards pout down, gazing intently on our path. Cheering for champions yet shown. Cheering and disappointment for that of a winner and loser. We knew we were close to the special rock when we realized the “modern” bodies emerged. Could see Stonehenge.
From the mound, a red man, face replaced with stead, mouth bit thoroughly on metal rod with leather strap, stomped furiously from the mound. Deep breath of strong equestrian snout. A discharge of wind smacked upon our ears. The spectator’s champions, they were rearing.
Foot forth with great stomping, as they walked with steps, to runs to gallops. More grew from this one man. Two, to three, to five to eight. The red horse men, galloping along this forgotten marched route at us. I forced Johny into the brush, pushed, shoved, thrown even. He faced something else, but I was chased, I was in the wrong event. Roar of applause and hate from the “modern” man from the mound, as their champions started to race, shoving once among each other, galloping on the vague path. I felt myself absorbed in the spirits of the red horse men, absorbed into the spirit of a horse or horse rider, galloping in my own mad frenzy. And I charged. Madly. But, I did act as some bull rather than refined horse, and forced myself straight into a body of thistle or whatever thorned bush was ahead. My collapse, freeing me unfairly from the red folk’s race, diluting my unfair ahead position. A thick snap I felt to my arm, with bulge under my skin, forearm’s underside and top. Both bones having a clean snap. They twisted far more than was intended, right hand backwards, palm same facing as my left. The gallops of the true champion racers steered to my right, as they kept to the correct direction, and continued beyond my collapse. I did scream, no comfort by Johny, who had his own experience with the glowing old ones. But I screamed amongst the “modern” one’s cheers, drowned out, to subtle sleep.
Me and Johny awoke the next morning, concerned farmers, who’s land we did intrude, and their aid to ambulance. Our folk tales, leading us to these shrink buildings, more north than we live. I am to received treatment to this hallucinated night, the new in psychological help, the lobotomy, I shall rest in peaceful sleep tonight and forget this mad delusion.