Goathill is, as any man worth his salt should know, a very small English settlement just on the border of Dorset and Somerset counties. As I’ve mentioned, it’s an exceptionally small and not-particularly-prominent locale, which makes gathering information on it for the purpose of, say, writing a 250-word paper on the subject rather difficult. One friend of a friend of a friend who lives there described the place as “a tiny little English shithole.” As it were.
From what I can understand, its two most prominent buildings are a mill and a church of St. Peter. The church – and this part actually impressed me – dates back to the 13th century, though the area around the altar was rebuilt in 1873. A local farmer recently donated the church’s pulpit and lectern, though why he had a pulpit and lectern lying about is beyond me. There’s more information available about the church than the settlement itself, which is just disappointing for everyone involved.
The mill is no longer in operation as such, and is now privately owned and lived in. Even I have to admit, it’s an awesome-looking residence. According to one source I found, the entire parish is made up of eight homes. Eight. My street has more homes than that, and I live on a tiny cul-de-sac. There’s only one explanation.
Only eight households; one of them is much larger and nicer-looking than any other; recently-rennovated 13th-century church; this place just has to hold some dark, Lovecraftian secret. I’d be willing to bet anything that the pulpit the farmer donated is actually an altar to the dark elder thing L’mur-Kathulos, and that the villagers all get together monthly for a human sacrifice, under the guidance of whoever it is that lives in the mill. The Mill-Dweller. And if you listen closely from far away, you can hear inhuman shrieks and wails emanating from below the church, the tattered souls of those damned by L’mur-Kathulos all howling out for salvation. But their cries fall on deaf ears.
…what was I talking about, again?
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