Chapter 1: What is the significance of the Delorier Invitation?
¶¶ welcome back to creepcast today we're going to be reading one of our all-time favorite authors strange accounts on his little story called the duloy high invitation part one of two it's a two-parter folks and it's in the 1930s if this doesn't skew into some kind of lovecraftian thing then i don't know then what are we even doing here if you put me in the 30s you better make a lovecraft
You had all the highlights for yourself, Lovecraftian, mispronouncing a French name, all that. So good, good. That was a great opening from you. The Delorier Invitation is by Strange Accounts or his real name, Travis Weaver. Not only an author that we love, we've covered his story before.
I forget the name of it right now, but it was the one about the band of headhunters who came across the Owl Woman story.
in the frontier and during the live show we covered his story about the coal miner's daughter diary of a coal miner's daughter uh both of the stories we read from him have been incredible i love his writing style i love how he does like these historical fiction things and now i am very proud to announce which i should make it clear this is not sponsored i'm saying this because i like him travis has a book out
He has a book out called Strange Accounts from the American Frontier. That is an anthology book that's a collection of different stories, as the title says, from the American Frontier. One of them is the story we covered at the live show, The Diary of a Coal Miner's Daughter. But there's also stories in there like The Journal of a Louisiana Planter or The Journal of a Lumberjack.
So if you like, you know, his stories, you can get a whole slew of them. We'll have it linked in the description. Again, Strange Accounts from the American Frontier, well worth your time. And you can get it on, I was looking at the link, you can get it on Amazon as a paperback or on Kindle as an ebook. So be sure to support him. This story that we're reading today is not in the book.
I don't know. The story is not in the book, but again, everything we've read from him so far is great. So I'm excited to get into it. No comment on that. No. Oh, no, I was actually just patiently listening. I was looking up his book online and adding it to my cart. So sorry, dude. Yeah, well, you should because this is a show where we're supposed to. I'm fucking sorry, man. I'm fucking sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you've been, you know, globetrotting around the world, traveling, doing your big time stuff. For those who don't know, Hunter's been on vacation lately. He was, I think if I recall right, he was in, he was in Kentucky trying to get some charges reversed, which did that go well today? You said you were going to meet someone. Well, yep. This is a live show.
We'll talk about it. My bad. I forgot. We're live. We'll talk about afterwards, but yeah, he's been very busy, but you know,
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Chapter 2: Who is Travis Weaver and what is his writing style?
What does the Deloria mean? Like, what does Deloria mean? It's a name. Okay. So it's just, it's just a last name. Yeah. It's like a French fancy last name. Deloria. It's awful pronounced. Deloria. Yeah. Yeah, so I imagine, if I had to guess, 1930s French. This is going to be a New Orleans story. Now, it's going to be a New Orleans story. Might be back down on the bayou.
Might be down with old Mr. Welles, huh? You like that? Yeah. Well, very good. This is a one-of-two-parter. Pretty excited. Always nice dipping into strange accounts. I feel like we've had a lot of... I don't know, weird stories lately. I feel like this is going to ground us back down to reality. I'm pretty excited. Have we had a lot of weird? Ronald McDonald House, the sitcom. Okay, yeah.
Happy, happy. Yeah, yeah. You know what? After happy, happy within a month of this, this is going to be Shakespearean. The seismic shift that still is happening. The kind of the third tower that was hit, quote unquote, being happy, happy has been catastrophic for this fandom. Never has the story been quite so... I mean, like, I mean, divisive, I guess. I don't know.
People it's, it's, I don't know. The number of like comments I read that were like, uh, you know what today, maybe I work in silence or, you know what? This taught me to appreciate not listening to a podcast. Yeah. The amount of people that were just like, actually, I figured out that I don't like podcasts through that episode was, uh, was very harrowing to hear. It was, yeah. Yeah.
Someone hit us with the Justin Bieber copypasta, and it was like, I want to thank you. My sister's been in a coma for two years, and today while listening to Happy Happy, she woke up to turn it off. That's a Justin Bieber creepypasta? No, copypasta. Oh, copypasta. Yeah, the joke is like, I want to thank Justin Bieber because my sister got up to turn his music off.
So that's the levels we've got to now. Oh, that's good. there was somewhere, I can't remember where it was on Twitter or I saw it in the comment section or something where someone was like, it was in reply to us reading it. And they're like, happy, happy. Didn't cause nine 11. They just witnessed it. And it's like, all right.
You know, man, this is the, this is the, this is the dance we're dancing. You know, we're, we're, we're, we're, it takes two to tango and we are tangoing, I guess, as it was how it's supposed to be. We are, in fact, tangoing. Y'all like that little slide? That was cute, wasn't it? I saw that. I saw that. It was something. A Thousand Vultures shirt, though. That's hot. Oh, yeah, yeah.
Our boy, Dathan Auerbach, the pen pal man himself. You know, again, after Happy Happy, you got a refresh. I got my Thousand Vultures shirt on. I've got my... I'm reading strange accounts. You know, we're set up for success here. And no matter what, Hunter, you can't take this away from me. And that's what matters.
Even though the entire chat in the Patreon is saying the word SNF in all caps right now, doesn't bother me. It's not going to change things.
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Chapter 3: What themes are explored in the Delorier Invitation?
So... I am the one who said I appreciated it. I don't know why you're coming at me as if I'm one of them spamming stuff. I'm looking at the chat right now and it's just sniff and it's just like lips and other things that you have said about me that are going to follow me to the grave. Sniff lips and assholes. That last one has never applied to me. That's the meat you're made out of.
That's the bologna that makes you all together. Sniffs, lips, and assholes. This is awful. Sniffs, lips, and assholes. Also, I like that you're I like that your malformed fucking hand is all healed up now too. I'm glad to see that was Uh, this one's just kind of scarred a little bit. Yeah. This one's still like the scab is so deep. It just itches. I think it's going to be like that forever now.
So that's cool. You've been able to hop back on that dirt bike and really give her hell since then or now? Shut up. My buddy texted me. He saw a clip of, uh, you making fun of me, uh, cause he's been making fun of me religiously. And he called me just to be like, I saw that guy. You do a podcast with making fun of you too. And I just hung up. So I'm getting it everywhere from every angle.
No, I was getting it from everywhere and every angle. Okay. Sniffs, lips, and assholes. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. We're going to have a good time. We're going to have a good episode. All right. Are you ready, Hunter? Are you ready to get into it? Bless the weed. Let's do it. The Delorier Invitation, 1930. Monday, October 20th, 1930. The Invitation.
The post came in the afternoon, a bundle of political circulars and subscription flyers, and one curious envelope the color of bone. No return address. A gold seal pressed in the wax showed two wings spread inside a triangle. It had the sort of symmetry one finds in the blueprints of the new modernists, neither abstract nor realistic, simply exact.
Inside was a letter written in a precise, meticulous hand. The paper was heavier than common stock, faintly perfumed with something metallic, like freshly minted coins or struck brass. To the recipient Rowan McKally, you are hereby invited to document, as journalist and witness, the opening of my private estate in the northern forest of the Adridac Mountains of New York.
Your stay shall begin Friday morning and conclude Sunday evening. All provisions have been prepared. You will be housed and comforted and permitted full access to the grounds, provided you observe the itinerary enclosed within the main hall. Yours in art and order, A.D. The A.D. could only be one man, Auguste Delaurier. He was once the sovereign king of the Art Deco world.
His facades rose like temples across New York and Chicago. He had designed the grand atrium of the Pittsburgh Stock Exchange, the Ecliptic Theater in Chicago, and half the civic buildings between Albany and Montreal. Then he vanished in 1920, leaving behind no statement, no scandal, and no grave. For a decade, he has been a myth, half genius, half lunatic.
And now, ten years to the month since his disappearance, a letter arrives inviting me, of all men, to document his resurrection. I read the letter thrice before folding it again, torn on its authenticity. I had half a mind to toss it into the stove and be done with it, but this is the kind of story that wins a man an entire column, or better yet, the kind that writes his whole career for him.
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Chapter 4: How does the protagonist react to the invitation's authenticity?
HRAs are not ornament. They are vectors. They tell you where to walk, how to hold your frame, how to breathe. If you lose your bearings at any point, you'll stay, return to a sunburst and take instruction from its lines. Should that fail you, look upon the baseboards. You will find narrow inlays of dark stone. These are also guide marks. Let the room command you. Resist nothing from it.
The horn shimmered a little with the deeper vowels. I could feel it through my shoes. Now lift your head and consider the dimensions. The ceiling steps upward in three separate planes. Each step is a... Oh, fuck's sakes. Each step is pretty cool. Each step is pretty cool. Each step is diminuendo of order. Each step is Nintendo of order. Diminuendo. Nintendo of order. Each step is a dementor.
Is what it is. Each step is taken. I fucking do declare. Each step is taken from an entry in the Harry Potter series. Yeah, this is the Deathly Hallows, my friend. He's like, what? Yeah. Huh? Demonendo of order. Demonendo. Demonendo. Demonendo. It's alright, we see the word, we get it, it's okay. I raised my focus. There were indeed three tears that met me.
The echoes of the recording climbed into triplicate and gathered at the feet of the figures on the roof. I studied their empty visages while the record gave off its warm crackle. It almost felt wrong when the architect's voice returned. You have no doubt marked those statues above you, but you must understand that they are not mere men. Their ideas give them a crown. Do not describe their faces.
A face weakens an idea. Oh. Okay. Fired up. Lord help your fucking fingers and your thumbs, man. Rolling that putt around your hand must be exhausting. You can alliterate. You can talk about me enjoying a story without it being some masturbatory act. Then change the sound you make. Because literally every time I'll be like... I'll say, a face gives... What was the line that said?
A face weakens an idea. And I literally just hear... It's not the noise I made. It's on recording. People can hear that. It's not the noise I made. It's not. It didn't sound like that at all, actually. Can I, can I, this is a, this is a horror story podcast. Can a man enjoy a horror story? Okay. This is what I mean. You put me through happy, happy, your idea.
Uh, you put me through, uh, just even during good stories like the, the sitcom one where you are just hammering me about the lips and the dirt bike. And then, and then in this one, it's a perfect story. I'm wearing my thousand vulture shirt. Everything's going well. And you just have to find a way to bully me and to wedge yourself in.
For some reason, everyone I surround myself with in life bullies me. And I don't know why I do that to myself. Everyone I keep close is rude to me. Why do I do that? I will say, I mean, like, you know, I feel like it is very good writing, but I will say you are, you got two different colors of Play-Doh and you're rolling around in your hand. You can at least say that. Gross.
I felt as though more faces had joined the congregation above the glass, a sense of vertigo set over me at the mere scale. Your first hour will be simple. You may now proceed to the dining hall. Do not hurry. Your place has been set to your measure. There's a plate prepared for you. You will be hot and fresh. You will find the arrangement corrected to your liking.
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Chapter 5: What do the statues in the garden represent?
I stepped forward. The path carried beyond the eastern wing, down a flagstone staircase, and across a shallow terrace where warmth rose again from unseen vents. The woods ringed the property at a respectful distance. I followed the marker set into the paving until I reached a brass plaque that read simply, Court of Figures. Another gramophone waited beneath an overhang.
Here the house reveals what a dream... I walked the court while he spoke. In the center stood twelve statues, each caught between poise and torment. Their bodies were built of brass, onyx, and some darker alloy that refused to gleam even under the noon light. Each one caught in an attitude of movement, yet none appeared to move in the same direction nor toward the same end.
Some reached skyward with stretched limbs, others bent as if burdened by an invisible weight. Their faces were featureless masts drawn in long, perfect planes.
Chapter 6: How does the architect describe his creations?
The light touched their edges like a wound cauterized in gold. They rose at least twice the height of any man known in the world. Delorier's voice continued. When I first saw them in my mind, they were a flame. Not burning, but bright with knowledge. I've tried to shape that light here in hopes they may share some grand insights with those who view them.
Wind swept through the court and gave the statues a faint groan, metal shifting on its base. I took a step nearer to one and saw that beneath the polish of its chest, the seams seemed to ripple, as if something moved under the skin of the metal, trying to make room for air. I have stood here many evenings. The longer one looks, the more certain one becomes that they have not ceased their work.
It is amusing, you know, that we call them sculptures because they do not move. But I counter that thought. Perhaps they only wait for a proper invitation. And what invitation's that? Sound answered. Not from the horn, but from the cord itself. A faint creak of settling bronze. A brush of grit where nothing had stepped. When I turned, one of the figures had shifted. Only a fraction.
his chin tipped lower toward the paving and the light bit differently across its cheek I told myself it was heat or the play of shadow even so when I left I kept my back to the court of statues and did not look again until I reached the safety of the terrace he has put together these like these statues based on something he said he'd seen. So, you know, creatures, spirits or whatever.
And now he's given them life. And they're probably what's given him the power to create this place. And I guarantee the reason that he's only speaking through the, uh, the gramophone is because he's become a part of them. Like he's effectively been dragged down to the creatures he created. I was going to say, it seems like a man talking from the beyond or whatever. It's kind of interesting.
Cause it sounded like almost like a ghost, like having like a new groundskeeper, uh, or something. It's like that intimate. And like, I don't know. It's very interesting. Yeah. Yeah, man. The idea of the statues, he's like, when I saw them, they're beautiful and I've tried to recreate them.
And probably by recreating them is what did the, like the ritual quote unquote, that gave these things life.
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Chapter 7: What happens during the evening's gathering?
And they're probably what led to this place being abandoned and all the captive workers. It's why at the end it says stay. I imagine he's never going to leave Saturday, October 25th, 1930. I just noticed, by the way, it took me this long, but he posted this in r slash creepcast, which is pretty cool. That's pretty sick. The second night's rest.
The afternoon's rounds ended at the gallery door, where a fresh card waited in the same tidy hand as the others. Supper at seven. Took the corridor that kept the day's last light and reached the dining room. The lacquer table waited. Chandeliers cupped their bulbs in white bowls of glass. The tablecloth lay stretched tight enough that it would sing if a coin ran across it.
Vapor rose from a covered plate at the head of the table. I raised the lid. Prime rib, slices thick and red, a spoon of potatoes, dark gravy with a harbor sheen, a cup of tea stood steady beside it. I tried once more to catch the staff at work. Friend? I said, pitching my voice to the corners. Let me thank you in person. You've prepared another outstanding meal.
Timber eased under a draft and offered nothing else back. I ate at an easy pace. The dish held the same impossible freshness, as if the stove lived inside the table. When I lifted the napkin, a printed slip slid free. Retire at eight. I checked the watch. My bedchambers were already calling. I heated the note and returned to the quarters that bore my name. The chamber admitted me.
This time, the door did not wait before closing behind my back. The latch drew shut almost at once after I crossed the threshold. I tried the knob, knowing I would not like the result. As expected, no purchase. Very well. We are to repeat the same experiment for a second night. I lit the lamp and set my notebook on the desk. I began writing about the day I had just experienced.
The generator's lament once more spoke through the floorboards as the lights around the manor began fading. The machine gave the steady animal murmur of a draft horse in harness. Then the pattern changed.
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Chapter 8: What revelations occur about the staff and the house?
A soft roll came along the hall, the faint scrape of a cart. It paused outside my door and came to a perfect rest. A heartbeat later, a gramophone woke with the belt's small bite and the horn spoke. It was not with words, but with a noise that had no business in a human corridor. What rose was a rehearsal of noises that a man does not care to name, yet I must. Voices gathered, huddled together.
Not speaking any tongue I knew. Children at a schoolyard heard through a long pipe. A woman laughing until the sound broke. A man counting, but the numbers arrived out of order and then ran backward. Each noise overlapping yet distinct. A mass of individuals clawing for their own attention. I set my forearm to the panel as if to brace the door. Enough! I said and meant it.
You have made your point. The horn replied by pulling everything down at once. The pulse sank as if the floor had dropped away. Into the fall came a choir without words, mouths open, throats desert dry. A chorus of mouth sounds rose to the wet clack of lips trying on words that did not fit.
A scrape crossed the door, frantic and searching, as though the horn had growed a probe tip and a nail that sought an audience with me. "'Enough! By all that is holy, I said enough!' The static swelled. The chair creaked on the other side. The needle skated, then silence cut clean. The hall returned to the old stone. After some minutes, I steadied my thinking.
I set notes in order, trimmed the lamp, and lay atop the cover lay with my boots on. I kept the lock in sight. The earth outside pressed its face to the pane. Somewhere, a pipe clicked as it cooled. I heard only the soft grind of the earth under the foundations. The house had settled. I did not. Sleep eventually came for me despite my protest. Gosh, man. So sick.
There's so many, there's so many different elements. Like it kind of sounds like, uh, it sounds like, uh, the part of, you know, uh, it's like when fucking Dracula asked the, uh, the guy to come in and like, now he's being seduced by vampires and stuff. But it also has like remnants of like Poe of like house of Usher or something like that. There's so many different kinds of, uh,
different flavors that I'm getting with this story. It's very interesting. Do you think so? That almost sounds like punishment. Like he did something wrong. So now it's threatening him with like the voices of all those who have trapped or letting him hear hell or something like that. And he's like enough. You've made your point clear. Did he do anything wrong or anything to warrant that?
I think he's just staying, but also to be fair, he's done. He's bending the rules a bit. He keeps like, he keeps talking to the staff. He's done other things. Like he hasn't looked back, but I do think also just by staying there longer and longer, he's going to be more subjected to whatever's looking inside. Yeah. Yeah, I think maybe it's kind of like he's getting close.
So now it's coming to him and it's letting him hear sounds of people, maybe all the people it owns or spirits it possesses. And then it said, I love that description. A course of mouth sounds rose to a wet clack of lips trying on words that did not fit. It sounds almost like a Skinwalker-esque, like, you know, things trying to sound human.
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