MusicalCrepitus : Lyam Benson woke slowly, as was his normal ritual. There was no breakfast waiting for him, no sound of a child running about the house. Only silence. His house in Yuma was small, only suiting a family of one. A bedroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a latrine. It was all he needed.
Lyam made a fair amount of money. The revenues of his books brought him in plenty to live on. He was a successful writer. Sure, he was no Steven King, but he had made himself a niche in the world of published fiction. He was noteworthy. It was all he could ask for. His revenue along with his wife's life insurance... he could pretty much do whatever he wanted.
Unfortunately, Lyam no longer had a clue what he wanted anymore. The loss of his wife and daughter had destroyed him. Most people think of the genre of Horror as the absence of normal, or life. But it takes a person like Lyam to understand what we crave and what we fear to truly write something that sends chills down our spine.
That is Lyam Benson. Nearly a psychologist, a master in history and old pagan writes. He views life as more of a mystery story than a mathematical problem, like so many scientists. He craves the why? And not the How?
Lyam's early wakening was not of his own choosing. His agent wanted him to start writing again.
It had been a few years since he had written anything. Not since the accident. His publishers were desperate for him to write... anything. Lyam had conceded that it was about time he wrote something worthwhile, but nothing had stuck.
Finally, his agent Kyle Anderson had told him about a local mystery in Colorado. A John Ferguson had died, trapped in the bottom of a mine. He had been reminded about a song by Black Stone Cherry. A man named Floyd Collins. It had intrigued him, and he agreed to travel to the small town of Crestview. It was a town somewhat near to Denver, but about two to three hours away from Yuma.
Lyam set out early that morning. He needed something. Maybe he would write something as a tribute to the men who had died there, based on the knowledge of the people in the town. Such old tales tended to last long in these little towns. Either way, he needed something to write if he was to keep his publisher.
Lyam arrived at the Stagger Inn about mid day. It was a decent place, a man with the nametag Chris was there to greet him. The boy seemed out of place almost with the warm solace of the small inn. He had almost a morose quality about him. Professional, but down trodden.
"Thanks for the room. I'll be needing it for a while." Lyam eyed the boy behind the counter. "You alright Mate? You seem to have a tid bit of the blues." (Psychology check) Lyam knew people. Furthermore, people who are depressed know their own kind, this one definately was one of his own. To the naked eye, he wasn't that impressive. A faded work jacket and jeans, some kicks and a baseball cap. Anyone with an eye for clothes would know that they were all designer, and even his t-shirt would have ran in the area of fifty dollars.
Lyam made a fair amount of money. The revenues of his books brought him in plenty to live on. He was a successful writer. Sure, he was no Steven King, but he had made himself a niche in the world of published fiction. He was noteworthy. It was all he could ask for. His revenue along with his wife's life insurance... he could pretty much do whatever he wanted.
Unfortunately, Lyam no longer had a clue what he wanted anymore. The loss of his wife and daughter had destroyed him. Most people think of the genre of Horror as the absence of normal, or life. But it takes a person like Lyam to understand what we crave and what we fear to truly write something that sends chills down our spine.
That is Lyam Benson. Nearly a psychologist, a master in history and old pagan writes. He views life as more of a mystery story than a mathematical problem, like so many scientists. He craves the why? And not the How?
Lyam's early wakening was not of his own choosing. His agent wanted him to start writing again.
It had been a few years since he had written anything. Not since the accident. His publishers were desperate for him to write... anything. Lyam had conceded that it was about time he wrote something worthwhile, but nothing had stuck.
Finally, his agent Kyle Anderson had told him about a local mystery in Colorado. A John Ferguson had died, trapped in the bottom of a mine. He had been reminded about a song by Black Stone Cherry. A man named Floyd Collins. It had intrigued him, and he agreed to travel to the small town of Crestview. It was a town somewhat near to Denver, but about two to three hours away from Yuma.
Lyam set out early that morning. He needed something. Maybe he would write something as a tribute to the men who had died there, based on the knowledge of the people in the town. Such old tales tended to last long in these little towns. Either way, he needed something to write if he was to keep his publisher.
Lyam arrived at the Stagger Inn about mid day. It was a decent place, a man with the nametag Chris was there to greet him. The boy seemed out of place almost with the warm solace of the small inn. He had almost a morose quality about him. Professional, but down trodden.
"Thanks for the room. I'll be needing it for a while." Lyam eyed the boy behind the counter. "You alright Mate? You seem to have a tid bit of the blues." (Psychology check) Lyam knew people. Furthermore, people who are depressed know their own kind, this one definately was one of his own. To the naked eye, he wasn't that impressive. A faded work jacket and jeans, some kicks and a baseball cap. Anyone with an eye for clothes would know that they were all designer, and even his t-shirt would have ran in the area of fifty dollars.
