The Curious Accounts of the Imaginary Friend

“Indulge in Gifford’s tawdry tales of deliciously wicked woe and let the Imaginary Friend ply your subconscious with ev...

Author: Gifford P S

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“Indulge in Gifford’s tawdry tales of deliciously wicked woe and let the Imaginary Friend ply your subconscious with evil twists. You’ll dream dark the whole night through. —John Everson, Author Covenant and Sacrifice

“When it comes to understanding what scares a reader—and where the reader wants to be after that scare—Mr. Gifford has no equal.” —Roger Haller, CEO Cowboy Logic Press

“The sheer madness of the Imaginary Friend’s various & deplorable acquaintances holds the reader. A gruesome, yet fun read.” Alesha Brunell, Horror Books ‘n Fiction

“P.S. Gifford brings a breath of fresh air to horror with suspense, adventure, gore, and knee-slapping laughter.” —Kimberly Raiser, Author Stranded

“P.S. Gifford’s stories are like being on the last seat of an out-ofcontrol rollercoaster—and the first carriage has just jumped the tracks.” —Paul Mannering BrokenSea Audio Productions

“A cross between Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King.”” —Lawrence Dagstine The Literary Bone

“Very cool and impressive!”

Nicholas Grabowsky, Author HALLOWEEN IV

The

Curious Accounts of the

Imaginary Friend P. S . G i f f ord

A V i rt ua l T a l e s B o ok

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.” This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The Curious Accounts of the Imaginary Friend Copyright © 2006-2008 P.S. Gifford (www.psgifford.com) All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. Cover Art © 2006-2008 Phillip Fuller (www.philipfuller.com) Edited by:

P. June Diehl (www.angelfire.com/biz7/iwriteforyou) Sheri Gormley (www.sherigormley.com)

A Virtual Tales Book PO Box 822674 Vancouver, WA 98682 USA www.VirtualTales.com ISBN 0-9801506-3-9 Second Edition: May 2008 First Edition: October 2007 Printed in the United States of America 9780980150636

Foreword

Y

ou are, no doubt, still a little uncertain about precisely whom the Imaginary Friend is. Perhaps you are holding this book in a store or a library

because its unusual cover caught your eye. Or perhaps you saw it sitting on a table at the home of an acquaintance and you could not resist picking it up. Or maybe you were browsing on the Internet for some suitable bedtime reading and the peculiar title piqued your curiosity. The Imaginary Friend, you must understand, appears in a diverse variety of guises. Sometimes I take the form of something seemingly innocuous—your domesticated cat, for example, or a goldfish swimming relentlessly around his bowl. Other times my appearance is significantly more sinister; a ghostly shadow or mysterious footsteps echoing behind you in the darkness. In any case, whichever way you choose to summon me, please do not be alarmed. It is my job to listen without prejudice or pronouncement of moral judgment of any kind. Indeed, the accounts confided to me vary from the pleasantly amusing to the ominous, from the bizarre to the diabolically macabre. Yet one thing I can heartily guarantee—once you have read these accounts, you will never view the world around you in quite the same light again. For within these pages you shall discover that nothing is as it appears to be, and no one is immune from holding a dark secret—even you! And if that is indeed the case, perhaps your own “curious account” may grace the pages of my next volume. Yes, that is correct! Even as you read this, I am busy assembling my next collection of curious tales, and I would be amiss if I did not extend a hearty “thanks” to those incredibly shrewd individuals who have already procured this book and prodded my publisher to request a second volume. For the present, however, I am single-mindedly confident that you will find the contents of this book to be wickedly entertaining. And if your thirst for these accounts is not satiated when you are done, take comfort in the knowledge that more are soon to come. in

Absolute Confidence

Your Imaginary Friend i

Contents

Foreword.............................................................................. i

1

Confessions of a Mad Man.................................................. 1

2

Mr. Barnaby........................................................................ 6

3

Long Memories................................................................. 13

4

Reaching Out.................................................................... 20

5

The Cucumber Man.......................................................... 26

6

Another Perfect Day.......................................................... 30

7

A Charming Bedtime Story............................................... 32

8

Mr. Farnaby’s Head............................................................ 35

9

The House Call.................................................................. 38

10

The Evils of Drink............................................................. 42

11

A Grim Affair.................................................................... 46

12

Wicked Intentions............................................................. 50

13

The Uninvited Night Visitor to Willoughby Hall............... 54

14

Spring Cleaning................................................................. 58

15

The Intrepid Journey to Enlightenment............................. 61

16

The Haunting Account of the Castlegregory Banshee ....... 64

17

The Old Necklace.............................................................. 69

18

Watts for Dinner............................................................... 73

19

The Fine Print.................................................................... 79

20

Inevitable........................................................................... 84

21

The Gastronome................................................................ 87

22

Home Is Where the Heart Is.............................................. 91

23

Julian’s Shadow.................................................................. 97

24

The Peculiar Account of Gary Hutchins........................... 102

25

The Nefarious Plan.......................................................... 108 ii

26

The Birthday Gift............................................................ 116

27

The Sticky Hand of Fate.................................................. 121

28

Cuthbert’s Epiphany........................................................ 127

29

The Opening Night......................................................... 132

30

The Effigy........................................................................ 138

31

The Perfect Man.............................................................. 142

32

The Walker’s Trip to the Countryside............................... 146

33

The Perfect Dinner Date.................................................. 152

34

You’ve Got Pictures.......................................................... 158

35

Death by Doughnuts....................................................... 165

36

Rekindled Memories........................................................ 169

37

The Prize.......................................................................... 174

38

Caverns of Blood............................................................. 179

39

The Fixer-Upper.............................................................. 184

40

The Invite........................................................................ 191

41

Worthy Inheritance.......................................................... 200

42

The Unwitting Soothsayer................................................ 204

43

The Ratings Game........................................................... 210

44

The Arrival....................................................................... 215

45

Horrible Quandary.......................................................... 217

46

The Trees of Idylcomb Village Graveyard......................... 223

47

Confession....................................................................... 227

P.S. Gifford Biography........................................... 233

Coming Soon from Virtual Tales........................... 234

iii

A l s o A va i l ab l e Dr. Offig’s Lessons

from

from the

P. S. G i f f o r d : Dark Side, Volume 1

C o m i n g S o o n F r o m P. S. G i f f o r d : Glutonlumps Presents Chilling Tales T h e F u r t h e r A cc o u n t s Dr. Offig’s Lessons

of the

from the

I m ag i n a r y F r i e n d

Dark Side, Volume 2

www.psgifford.com

This

b o o k i s d e d i cat e d t o m y f at h e r ,

Ernest Gifford, who inspired me more than he could ever realize.

Also

to my wife,

Sarah,

and

my son,

J o n at h a n ,

f o r t h e i r i n f i n i t e pat i e n c e , s u pp o r t a n d e n c o u r ag e m e n t , w i t h o u t w h i c h t h i s b o o k w o u l d h av e n e v e r b e e n c o m p l e t e d .

W

ho am I? Well, I am the Imaginary Friend. You know—the one you conjure up to talk with when you’re consumed with loneliness, greed or visions of eminent doom. And that’s how this manuscript came into being. I have listened to thousands of stories and it would be a shame if they just stayed with me, never to be heard again. Their subjects vary greatly, but I have chosen to share only the ones I found to be particularly curious. Take the story told to me by a man within days of his execution, for instance. I will relay it to you verbatim, just as he told me his tale…

n

1 C onfessions

of a

M ad M an

I

t is a curious—and one might say, tragically comical—set of circumstances that has brought me to my impending doom, sitting here on death row counting the hours to my execution. I am having a hard time eating my last meal: New York Steak, three eggs, hash browns, orange juice and coffee. My story began three years ago on a sunny spring Monday morning. I shall never forget it; how could I? I am, or rather I was, a knife salesman by trade. This forced me to travel constantly, but the lonely existence of the road was far more enjoyable than the unmitigated level of wretchedness I suffered when I was at home with Mildred. Mildred, please understand, was my wife of twenty-six years and I suppose I had loved her once. Yet as I strive to recollect the emotion, my search is in vain. All that I can bring to mind is her incessant and constant nagging that gradually etched away my confidence. Each derogative utterance chipped recklessly away at my increasingly fragile sense of self, but as I awoke upon that spring morning, I knew that things were about to change. For on this beautiful spring morning the

— P.S. G i f f o r d

events that were about to unfurl had been meticulously considered for months… We awoke that morning as we always did, and her mouth began moving the moment her eyes opened. The insults quickly began streaming out as I made her breakfast. I always made her breakfast, and served it to her in bed. As she examined the tray in front of her the usual bombardment of condemnation flowed. “Eggs too runny... Coffee too strong... Idiot... and Useless.” This was the typical routine, yet this morning my mood was so highly elevated that I cheerfully withstood the verbal pummeling. At precisely 8:30 a.m. I was meticulously packing my fine German knives in a large stainless steel case for a presentation later that day. I had in my possession a second case, and this one I placed on the bed, empty. Moments later I heard my wife singing some wretched show tune in the shower, something from The Sound of Music, I think, but with her it was difficult to tell. I calmly picked up the shiny butcher boning knife from my collection, which is a strong, long narrow knife, and as its name implies, is used to sever through bones. Perfect. As I approached the bathroom door, I heard her shrieking out her pathetic rendition of Julie Andrews over the sound of the gushing water. Holding my breath, I opened the door and entered. As I watched her flabby silhouette wobbling behind the floral shower curtain, I could not help but shudder. A moment later, and with a speed that surprised even me, I had thrown back the curtain and plunged the knife with exacting precision into the base of her neck. The shower continued to gush relentlessly, but the water was transformed into the most beautiful hue of red. Her death was almost instantaneous and relatively painless, I believe, and within a few moments she collapsed onto the floor of the bathtub. I watched fascinated as the blood continued to flow. This is why I had decided upon the shower, so that the blood would be drained away, and after about twenty minutes not a trace of red was left to be seen. It was then time for the next phase of my plan, and once more I turned to my trusted knife collection and returned the boning knife lovingly back into its place, spotlessly clean and shining. I removed a stainless steel meat cleaver and a butcher’s saw. My spirits were rather

T h e C u r i o u s A cc o u n t s

of the

I m ag i n a r y F r i e n d —

high at this time; I was enjoying this far more than I imagined I would. I turned my stereo on and the joyous sounds of Beethoven filled the diminutive bathroom. Perfect. As I set about my gruesome task, I imagined the conductor gallantly guiding the orchestra as they pounded out the Fifth Symphony. I took up the rhythm of the music and orchestrated my movements to it; I was starting to have fun, as her arms and legs came off with relative ease. However the head, which I had saved for last, was a little more trouble; in fact, it took me nearly ten minutes to finally disconnect each stubborn sinew. Finally, with one almighty whack from the cleaver the last ligament surrendered to my blade. I laughed to myself as I considered that Mildred was always making trouble; naturally her murder was not going to be an exception. The body had been cut and sliced tidily into small pieces. I took the suitcase, lined it with plastic bin liners and methodically positioned all of her body pieces in it. I placed Mildred’s head on top, and with much satisfaction at a job well done, jubilantly closed it. Perfect. I meticulously cleaned my knives and scrubbed the shower using copious amounts of heavy duty cleanser. After all of my efforts I surveyed the bathroom; it was spotless. Perfect. At this point it was almost 10:30 a.m., which left plenty of time for my drive to West Virginia for my presentation at the hotel association. By 11:00 a.m. I pulled out from the garage of my tidy little house in Ohio in my station wagon. I had the two suitcases crammed into the back, along with my overnight bag. I placed my favorite Mozart CD into the player, and as Piano Sonata Number Eleven filled my ears, I started to relax. Almost done. I had driven this same route many times over the years, and as I sped along the highway I knew precisely what needed to be accomplished. I came to the appropriate exit, which is located right in the heart of West Virginia, and took the adjoining mountain trail into the green hills. I needed to travel two miles. You see, I had already dug the hole where I was going to dispose of Mildred. I remember looking at my watch then; it was 1:45 p.m.

— P.S . G i f f o r d

Perfect. I had five hours before I had to do my presentation at the conference, which was plenty of time. I hummed along merrily to Mozart once more as I bounced along the logging road. Very few vehicles ever traveled out here so I considered it the ideal spot for the disposal. It was then that the unexpected happened. I felt the car veer sharply to the left and I realized at once what my problem was—a flat tire. As I hastily removed the contents from the back of my car to reach the spare and tools, I cursed nervously to myself. It was only a minor hitch and I still had plenty of time. Thirty minutes later, I was racing along the mountain road yet again. It had begun to drizzle at this point, and the road in front of me was quickly turning to mud. These sudden April showers were common enough, but I could not help but wonder deep down that some strange kind of bad karma was beginning to overtake me. I quickly suppressed the growing gnaw of guilt in my gut. This was not going to be as easy as I had imagined after all, and even though I was no longer enjoying the process, there was no turning back now. I finally made it to my chosen spot with the rain still falling. I hastily got myself out from the car, grabbed the case and dropped it deep into the awaiting cavity. I hurriedly scrambled to fill in the hole and slipped, falling directly on top of the case. As I clambered to my feet, I realized that Mildred would have gotten a good laugh out of this. I could imagine her cackling disparagements at me, “Useless, pathetic, feeble, stupid… ” It took almost an hour to cover her up. I hadn’t counted on it taking so long and I was really behind schedule now; I was going to have to hurry. I placed the inspiring music of Elgar into my player and turned the volume up to maximum as I once again bounced along the mountain road, back to the freeway and on to my convention. I managed to distract my unfocused, doubting mind by considering what lay ahead of me. The next couple of days were going to be fun, after all; hotel conventions always are. Two hours later, I hastily pulled into the Charleston Weekender Inn, where the convention was being held. I hurriedly checked in at the front desk, and as the reservation clerk handed me my room key, it seemed as though she was eyeing my dirty clothes suspiciously. Did


of the


she somehow know what I had been doing? Or was I simply getting paranoid? In a few moments I was in the hotel room, safely locking the door behind me. I unlocked the mini bar and poured myself a generous quantity of bourbon. As I took a hot shower I kept seeing Mildred’s face from the corner of my eye, silently mocking me and causing me to question my own sanity. I remember thinking that I had to pull myself together, that the worse was surely over. Just at the stroke of 7:00 p.m. I marched punctually into the auditorium, my confidence restored. Several hundred anonymous faces greeted me with polite applause. I studied the carcass of the pig on top of the stage, the expression on the dead animal’s face held a spooky resemblance and I shivered. I took a deep breath and lifted my trusted knife set next to the pig; my presentation on butchery was about to commence. Perfect. I opened the case and the auditorium instantly became hushed. At first I was unsure as to what had provoked such a surprising reaction. Then I saw Mildred’s face, smiling up at me. See, I told you it was kind of funny! You’ve guessed what mistake I made, haven’t you? Of course—I had gone and buried the wrong case.

n

W

ell? Not bad, I say. But this situation is nothing. Take the tale, for instance, told me by a man who was in no danger to die. But he needed me more than the other one. Yes, he did…

— P. S. G i f f o r d

A

s you can imagine, the life of the Imaginary Friend is never dull, for people have a great need for companionship. Once in awhile, however, even I have time to relax and enjoy myself between stories. One night as I opened a bottle of cold beer—yes, Imaginary Friends are no teetotalers—it happened again. I heard a man calling for my attention. He looked like a harmless chap, the scholarly type, you know. As soon as he became comfortable with me, his tale just poured out. And what a tale it was ...

n

2 M r . B arnaby

I

shall never forget that fateful morning. It was a typically bright and clear June day, and I sat contentedly in the early sun devouring the idyllic scene of Brixham rocks. The ocean seemed exceptionally soothing to my mind, or perhaps—just perhaps—the universe was for a few moments at peace, and for a few blissful seconds there was nothing but contentment in this world. Or maybe, far more likely, I conceded it was my own overwhelming sensation of well-being affecting my version of reality. It was, after all, the morning after I had received the contract from my publisher, my first ever. As I sat there enveloped in my perfect little existence, I was momentarily distracted by an unexpected gust of wind. This seemed to reel me hastily back from my daydreams and straight into the confines of reality. My concentration returned, and I noticed a slight figure of a man casually approaching from the hotel above. From the distance, he seemed an elderly gentleman, his posture crooked, and his clothes reflected a bygone era. Yet, as the mysterious presence loomed closer I saw that I had been mistaken, as I could plainly distinguish it was the face of a younger man with features much more youthful than my forty years approach-


of the


ing. I could not help but feel sorry for his hunched shoulders and poor posture. Possibly some sort of accident, or maybe a mutation? When the figure was all but fifteen feet from me, he smiled, revealing a remarkable and perfect set of white teeth. He spoke in a deep, well educated voice—again, not as I had anticipated. “Hello there!” he said enthusiastically. I nodded and countered the greeting appropriately. At this point I was unsure and, I confess, rather weary of the stranger. It seemed an odd set of circumstances, very odd indeed. In due course the figure stood directly in front of me, extending a hand. “Allow me to introduce myself.” The stranger spoke confidently, and soon was to be a stranger no more. “My name is Mr. Peacock, Mr. John Peacock.” I dutifully shook his hand as I am, after all, an Englishman and anything else would have gone against my breeding. “And my name is Barnaby, good sir, Philip Barnaby.” And there we have it, the unremarkable introduction of two men upon that rocky beach at Brixham. Little did I grasp that such an innocuous beginning would cause such woe and misery to soon beset me! How was I to realize that when this stranger had begun walking my way, I should have quickly exited that beach? Yet, I did not. I sat there and allowed the peculiar Mr. Peacock to acquaint with me a most unusual story, and in doing so transformed my life for evermore. Mr. Peacock’s story began, as most good stories do, at the beginning. He spoke of a time more than fifty years ago and yet conversed as if he had experienced the events personally, despite his young appearance. Was he a charlatan? Or worse, a madman? Yet, the soothing tone of his voice and the resonance in his gray-blue eyes convinced me against common sense, persuading me beyond my comprehension of reality that he spoke nothing but truth. Mr. Peacock told me of a time in the early twentieth century, an exciting period for the human race: the age of enlightenment and discovery. As a young scholar he had been caught up in the mysteries of the world, and as a result had become an academic of some note. He had embarked upon a journey of great mystery, attempting to find the elusive key of eternal life.

— P.S . G i f f o r d

He traveled throughout Europe, and beyond into Asia and Africa. He conversed with witch doctors, shamans, mystics, philosophers, and apothecaries. It was, I learnt, a six year trek to amass a vast source of knowledge from the wisest men on earth to uncover the everlasting truth to the secret of eternal life. And on a humdrum rainy October evening, whilst contemplating his dreadful lack of success over a liter of second-rate red wine in Venice, he felt a pair of eyes scrutinizing him, as if they were attempting to unearth his deepest thoughts merely through the power of staring. Mr. Peacock stared back at the man, who was very tall—at least seven feet—with broad, strong shoulders and dressed in the finest clothes that Europe had to offer. A long finely woven black cloak adorned his back, covering a white ruffled shirt; his trousers were cut from the finest of English tweed and his boots surely from the best cobbler in Italy. He had been terrified, yet intrigued all in the same instant. He apprehended immediately that this was no ordinary man; indeed, he believed the imposing figure to be nothing more than the greatest of men. The man beckoned to Mr. Peacock, who quietly walked over to his table. The stranger replenished his wine glass and prompted him to take a seat, and without introduction he began to speak. “I know of your great quest and I have knowledge concerning the answers for which you are searching, and indeed, answers to questions beyond your comprehension. The great trouble with the human race is that its constituents do not rightly appreciate the wonderful imagination they are granted at birth. It is imagination, recognized as a liberating power, that produces the gems of poetry and art, which we so much admire, and it is the mind properly guided by this power, which will elevate us all. “I do not believe in miracles, but I hold that the imagination has a wonderful and creative power. I hold further that if we let it soar in the world of spiritual and creative thought—and are not afraid to let it soar—it can create what truly seems to be miraculous things. Yet the imagination, like all things, is dual. Along lower lines, it is as disintegrative in its power as it is creative and constructive on higher lines. “You are looking for the divine secret of eternal life; you hold that answer deep within the connected intellect of all living creatures that have ever existed. Visualize! Visualize! You touch a mystic law when


of the


you create in imagination the picture of mighty things, for you open a door to new powers within yourself. Something in the way of potent energies is awakened and called into life, and strengthens both within and without you. “Make a mind-picture of your quest, a picture of the eternal life as you know it to be, and carry that image with you day by day. Cherish it as a companion. Carry it with you for breakfast, dinner and supper, and before you know it a new life will be born. Before you know it the ideal will become reality, and you will have taken your place as a creator, truly, in the great, divine scheme of life.” Mr. Peacock sat there silently for a brief moment, overwhelmed at what he had heard from the stranger’s lips. How could this stranger be familiar with so much about him, his imaginings, his pursuit, his journey? The other man seemed to perceive his new acquaintance’s trepidation. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he offered, presenting a large burly hand adorned with rings festooned with vivid ruby gemstones on every finger. “My name is Ozona, the great one.” His timbre was strong and confident, yet, somehow also gentle and heartening. Mr. Peacock responded almost flippantly to the firm handshake. “And I am Mr. Peacock—the inquisitive, yet, I feel confident that you are fully aware of this.” Ozona’s outsized iridescent eyes revealed that he did know this, and indeed, a great deal more! “I am in search of someone to share my great treasure trove of knowledge,” Ozona continued. “And when I say that vast knowledge is a burden, I do not embellish. It is a responsibility beyond the capacity of just one man—even a man as great as my imposing self! I need to find the precise individual to share this burden with—an inquisitive man, a man with high and noble ambitions, a man who has the capability and deep grounded acumen to grasp the vast endowment that I can proffer. A man such as you.” Mr. Peacock gaped, carefully dissecting the giant man’s features for further indications of his true intentions. Was he to be believed? After a few moments, he was convinced that the face he was staring at was undeniably telling the truth.

10 — P. S . G i f f o r d

“Where do we begin?” he asked Ozona, his speech pattern accelerating as the exhilaration churned in the pit of his stomach. “‘I have explored this magnificent world all over in an attempt to find the precise point to call home; a place where the earth’s energy is in concord, a place that can be a sanctuary. I did indeed find such an ancient mystical location, in England, your very homeland. In a place called Berry Head” “Berry Head?” Mr. Peacock echoed in amazement. Ozona’s face had, according to my storyteller, cracked into a large grin, revealing oversized pearls of flawless teeth. “Yes, Berry Head. Allow me to explain. I discovered that the Earth’s ley lines all directed me to that magical ancient place.” The large man took a deep breath along with a rather gentle sip from his wine glass. The taste evidently pleased him as the sparkle in his eyes seemed brighter. He continued in a hushed voice, as though to prevent anyone from over hearing. “Ley lines, I discovered, are alignments of ancient sites spanning across the Earth. I pursued and studied them. They led me to ancient sites and holy places ranging over every continent. A ley is simply an aligned placing of marker sites. I learned ley lines are more than mere meeting places of old; they are part of the Earth’s energy system. Taking it a step further, I found that ley lines are the energy grid of our Mother Earth. The Ancients, such as the Egyptians, Mayans and Druids, knew that the areas where these lines crossed over one another held the greatest concentrations of the Earth’s power, which is where places such as Stonehenge and the pyramids of ancient Egypt were built. These ley lines allowed the ancients to communicate. I discovered that an ancient great temple had been constructed at the strongest convergence of these lines. A vast temple lost and forgotten for a thousand years. That place, as you have surely surmised, is known today as Berry Head.” Mr. Peacock informed me that he believed that fate had created the meeting between himself and Ozona, yet now he felt it was something much darker and deeper. I considered a similar notion. “So that is how Ozona and I traveled here to Brixham, all those distant years ago.”


of the

I m ag i n a r y F r i e n d — 11

As he no doubt had studied Ozona all those years ago, I too studied Mr. Peacock. Why was he telling me all this? “You see,” Mr. Peacock continued, “I did learn the secret of eternal life. Ozona shared with me his great amassed secrets, and still does.” I shook my head in amazement. “Ozona is still alive?” I questioned. “How can that be?” “All shall soon become clear,” came the cryptic retort, “assuming that you, too, would like to know the secret?” My fear was quickly surmounted by my curiosity, my quest for knowledge. Imagine what books I could write if I had the entire wisdom of all mankind! Mr. Peacock stared at me intently and spoke in a hushed whisper, “The time for your answer is quickly fleeting.” I took a deep breath, and stammered my reply. “I want to know everything!” I bellowed into the night. Mr. Peacock seemed pleased. “So be it!” he announced jubilantly. “Please accompany me!” Ten minutes later, we had climbed the rocks up to the hotel and kept going. His pace was surprisingly quick and nimble, and it took every effort to keep up with him. We went beyond the hotel, to an old fort overlooking the rocks below. He began to climb down the rocks, and as I watched, he suddenly disappeared. I followed, not quite believing my eyes, and climbed down after him along the treacherous rock face. I discovered how Mr. Peacock had vanished in front of me, for there was a hidden cave. I looked about in awe. How could such a place exist? If you have ever read Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves you can envision what this cave looked like. It was filled with fantastic gems and gold, with satin sheets in vibrant colors adorning every corner and pillows lush and luxurious. Mr. Peacock sat in the middle of the cave on a red oversized pillow. There was a similar pillow in front of him and he prompted me to sit there. “This cave took thirty years to construct,” he explained. “Yet, it sits over the most critical place on Earth; as this is the spot where the Earth’s entire energy is most harmonious and strong. This is the place Ozona brought me to all those years ago, where he explained the

12 — P. S . G i f f o r d

secret to having all the knowledge you desire, and in doing so, how to live for eternity.” Hearing these words, I suddenly became quite scared. Mr. Peacock’s face began to morph in front of my eyes and within moments he turned into a large faced man. As quickly as I first glimpsed the image, it was gone. “Yes, that is Ozona,” Mr. Peacock explained. “And he shall live on forever in me, as the both of us shall live inside of you!” With that he grabbed both of my hands. The pain was excruciating, an agonizing throbbing overcame my mind, and I remember that I screamed. I have no recognition of what occurred after that. The next thing I knew I was lying on the floor in the cave, alone. Yet, I surely was not alone, as within my mind I heard the screams of hundreds of thousands. I heard animal cries, too—birds squealed, tigers shrieked. In the distance I could distinguish Mr. Peacock’s voice, louder than the rest. Was he laughing at me? That was ten years ago, and I eventually discovered that I could restrain the voices in my head, and concentrate. Ozona was there, as was Mr. Peacock, as indeed was every living creature on Earth. I can almost stand the pain now. Every time a creature dies I feel it. Hundreds of creatures die every single second of every single day. I feel all of their grief, and share in all of their misery. There is only one escape from this great burden; I must find a new carrier. I need to find the right person, someone imprudent enough to have a yearning to live forever, someone who is foolish enough to want to understand everything. Could that person be you?

n

W

ow! What a finish! My next tale is not about immortality. It’s about love and death. Well, not love exactly…


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I m ag i n a r y F r i e n d — 1 3

W

ell, your Imaginary Friend is back! What happens when a woman marries for money instead of love? Can she be happy? What if she finds that she can stand her husband no longer? Mary Higgins summoned me one afternoon and told me the beginning of the story. As I sat silently and took her tale in (for Imaginary Friends are avid listeners), the realization came upon me that I might never find out the end of her story! But as luck would have it, the man who found her called me one evening and told me how it all ended… but I am getting ahead of myself.

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3 L ong M emories

M

ary Higgins sat looking at the screwdriver in her hand, and then looked at the body of her dying husband at the site of the new house they were having built. It was a muggy afternoon: August 2, 1956. She had only married Sam a few months earlier; she supposed it had more to do with family convenience than love. Mary had never loved Sam, never had the slightest romantic interest in him, not even on their wedding night. No, the only reason she had married into the Nichols family was for money. Simply put, her family had none, and their family had plenty. Her father had worked down in the coal mines and died before his fortieth birthday, as had many others like him. She determined that it was a reasonable sacrifice; her happiness in exchange for being able to take care of her three sisters and aging mother. These were hard times in West Virginia. She had met Sam almost a year before, at a local church dance. He was immediately attracted to her, as most men were. The combination of a slim yet shapely figure combined with her raven black hair and green eyes aroused most

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men’s passions. Yet, Sam had what most men in these parts didn’t—a sizeable bank account. The first few weeks had been bearable. She had finagled to get an allowance for her unmarried sisters and as a result, they managed to keep a roof above their heads and food in their bellies. They had rented a small house on the outskirts of town, and Mary entertained herself in her garden. She also adopted a young black terrier named Eddie who never left her side—much to the chagrin of Sam. At first, Sam idolized Mary, for she was a fine prize; he paraded her around the fashionable places the way a proud farmer would delight in showing off his finest hog. The Nichols had made all their money three generations back in the lumber business; ravaging the land of its trees had helped them amass a small fortune. In his eyes, Mary was just another beautiful thing his money empowered him to possess. The newlyweds decided that a new house was to be built, or rather Sam decided, as he made all the decisions. It was going to be the largest and grandest house the city of Binkley, West Virginia had ever known. The house was going to have seven bedrooms and three bathrooms, on five acres of the greenest fields you would ever wish to see. It was on a Sunday afternoon when the construction was halfway through that it happened. This Sunday started off like every Sunday; the construction workers were enjoying their only day of rest, and Sam came to examine their work from the week. As is typical during West Virginia summers, the air was humid and hot. Mosquitoes were buzzing about with wild abandon; Sam had been bitten several times. It was funny that Mary rarely was bitten, yet, for Sam it was a regular occurrence. Perhaps this was nature’s way of seeking revenge on the family who had destroyed so many trees, and neglected to replant. Sam was in an irritable mood as he examined the work completed on the building during the previous week. He was becoming more and more dissatisfied with the project, constantly grumbling at the slow pace of the builders—and this from a man who had never completed a day of physical labor in his entire life! As was typical, Mary had been dragged along as well, and if she went anywhere Eddie was not far behind. The couple explored the new basement of the house; the walls had already been half bricked up. This was where the wine cellar was going to be, and as Sam prodded the masonry, Eddie accidentally got underneath his feet, and Sam


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fell. His head smashed into the pile of bricks and he squealed, then quickly pulled himself to his feet. Mary had seen him upset on many occasions, but what happened next was exceptional even for him. Perhaps it was the heat, and his nerves were raw, but Sam reached down, grabbed Eddie by the throat, and shook him violently. As the poor dog’s life was abruptly being shaken out of him, Eddie whined helplessly. Suddenly, Sam dropped the dog and keeled over. There stood Mary, and in her hand was the bloodied screwdriver, which she had used to stab her husband in the back of the neck. Eddie scurried to the safety of his mistress, who reached down to scoop him up with her empty hand. She looked down and saw that Sam seemed to be writhing a bit; so he was not quite dead. She thought about facing a charge of attempted murder, and as she had gone this far already, she decided that the best way out would be to complete the job. She spied a sizable piece of lumber and with surprising calmness and clarity of mind proceeded to smash it repeatedly on Sam’s skull. A horrified Sam tried to fight her off, but between the injury and the shock at being attacked by his prized possession, his attempts were futile. Now Mary had another problem. How was she going to dispose of the body? She realized that the answer was right in front of her… the bricks. She would simply place her husband behind the uncompleted wall and finish the job herself. Dragging his body was harder than she imagined. Sam enjoyed the good life, including fine food and wine in extravagant quantities. She finally managed to drag the oversized body towards the wall, and an hour later an exhausted Mary managed to situate Sam behind it. She considered the bricks and the mortar. She figured that about four to five hundred bricks were going to have to be laid to completely fill in the hole. Glancing at her watch, she realized that she had fourteen hours to complete the task before the workmen returned in the morning. Unfazed, she set about the grim task at hand. She awkwardly set the first few bricks in place and discovered it was much harder than it looked. Yet she persevered, for she had watched them laying bricks often enough and after an hour she became surprisingly proficient at it. At five thirty, as the sun was starting to set, with Eddie lazily sleep-

1 6 — P.S. G i f f o r d

ing a few feet away, she was ninety percent finished. All she had to do was fill in the final fifty bricks. It was then she heard it—her husband’s voice. As she gazed bewildered between the unfinished bricks, she screamed. Her husband’s glaring eyes were staring back at her. He had apparently been unconscious, and now realized his fate. “I swear I shall get you,” he hollered. Mary started putting the bricks in place a little quicker, perhaps not as meticulously as her earlier work, yet, nonetheless good enough. “Let me out of here!” she heard, a little fainter this time. Finally, the last brick was put in place. The faint muffled cry still managed to echo through the walls. “I will have my revenge… ” the voice whispered. Mary glanced at her watch, it was almost six. The workmen would be there in three hours. Would he be silent by then? She quickly cleaned up the job and with Eddie at her side hopped into the Lincoln Continental and drove back to their current residence. As you might imagine, there was a sizable investigation into Sam’s disappearance at first, and yet the truth of the matter was that beside his elderly parents, no one much cared about Sam. Mary concocted a story that he had spent the day hunting by himself, and simply never returned. A flimsy story perhaps, yet Mary’s attractive manner tended to help men believe whatever she told them. Two months later, Sam’s father unexpectedly passed away. His mother’s death followed a few weeks later; both apparently of natural causes. Young Mary went on to inherit the Nichols’ vast fortune, including the now completed mansion. Mary, it seemed, had gotten away with murder.

n It was the morning of Mary’s seventy-sixth birthday that was to change everything. As she swung herself gently on the porch in the now overgrown garden of the home she had lived in for almost fifty years, she could not fail to smile. She had never remarried, yet shortly after the house was finally completed she and her three sisters and


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their mother moved in. Only her youngest sister, Elsa, married, and she and her husband also lived in the house. She never once considered what happened to Sam after that day, for no one was ever allowed down into the cellar. It had been locked, sealed, and forgotten all these years, and yet, that very morning she was forced to reflect on it after all these years, for a government official had paid her another visit. Binkley had changed over the last half century, and now she was being forced to sell all but half an acre of the large grounds she thought she owned. Her attorneys had tried to prevent it, but the lease on the land was coming up, and she had been issued a court order to sell her home. Her house was destined to be knocked down and a modern condominium building was going to take its place, all in the name of progress. As she lingered over a sip of her iced tea, she knew that she was going to have to deal with her haunted past and explore the cellar. Despite being in her late seventies, fate had been kind and had blessed her with relatively good health. She was still sprite and nimble enough to get about and function by herself. Her latest companion, the fifth in a long line of loyal black terriers looked up lovingly at her. It was funny she often thought that this dog, Chester, could almost have the spirit of her first dog, Eddie, inside him. They shared a similar temperament, heart, and soul. Eddie’s eyes had concealed a vast wisdom in their deep brown hue, and so did Chester’s. She had outlived her sisters and mother, and for the last three years had been living with only Chester for companionship. The money had gradually been depleted, for she and her sisters enjoyed living well. Now the house was on its last legs, just as she surely was. Soon the house would be gone, and she supposed she would eventually follow suit. As Chester’s loving gaze followed her she opened the bottom cabinet in the kitchen, where numerous old keys were stored; her eyes were drawn to a sparkling key. It was the key of Sam’s old 1952 Lincoln. The car had long since gone, yet the spare key still sat in this drawer, where it lay hidden for nearly half a century. As she fumbled amongst old faded papers and miscellaneous junk, she finally came across the large brass key—the one that would soon be unlocking the cellar.

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The last time she held that key was several weeks after the incident, when the house had been completed. They had handed her a set of keys for the house. The very first thing she did was to lock that cellar door, and place the key in the drawer. Nervously clasping the key, she walked to the back of the kitchen and opened the door that led down to the cellar. Her nostrils were filled with stale putrid air, and it made her cough uncontrollably. Chester instantly leaped up and peered into the darkness himself; his mistress was evidently afraid of something, and he dearly wanted to protect her. Mary was not expecting the light switch to work after all these many years, yet, startlingly enough, it did. The dim bulb illuminated the descending steep staircase. Cobwebs adorned virtually every corner and crevice. Mary shivered. Memories of the incident raced through her mind, as clearly as if it happened yesterday. With Chester gallantly trotting at her heals she began her descent, grabbing the handrail for dear life. She had no idea what she was going to do. How could she possibly demolish those bricks, set with her own hands? She examined her hands, wrinkled and liver spotted; they had been so dainty once. It took her a few minutes to reach the bottom of the staircase. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the key in her pocket. It was then she heard it. Surely, that was a cry. Or maybe an old frightened mind simply playing tricks? She could not muster enough courage to place the key in the lock. Yet she knew she must, or else her long deep secret would be revealed to the world, and she would die in prison alone, without her best friend Chester. No, she had to find the courage. She reached down and tenderly scratched Chester’s ear. Chester responded by licking her hand encouragingly. She smiled to herself. Yes, this dog surely had Eddie’s spirit. Again, she heard a noise that sounded like a cry. No, no, it must be the wind! It had to be! Yet, she had a hard time convincing herself to place the key in the lock. Finally she did, but it was reluctant to turn, for its mechanics had long since been lodged in one place. She tried again with more force, her arms trembling at the exertion. The key began to gradually turn until it opened with a click. She reached up for the light switch, petrified as she tugged at the old string, but this time she was not rewarded with light. She opened


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the door fully, and the swinging light bulb from the stairwell behind her revealed haunting shadows that danced on the wall. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the muted light, she stared in total panic and disbelief at the place where she had entombed Sam. There was a hole in the wall, a gaping hole… Mary screamed and collapsed to the floor.

n “The body has evidently been there for several days,” the police inspector calmly explained to the reporters who were gathered outside the Nichols’ house. “We found Mary Nichols collapsed at the bottom of the stairs leading into the cellar. Her hungry and thirsty dog was sitting at her side, whimpering and licking the dead body. It was the strangest thing though; we initially thought it had been a terrible accident, that she had simply fallen over and hit her head. We were very surprised to find an old screwdriver sticking out of the back of her neck… ”

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M

ary’s husband was a man of his word, wasn’t he? But have you ever tried to contact a dead relation? A psychic once summoned me and told me a most curious story...

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B

eing a creature of the twilight, I know a few things about life and death. You mortals don’t disappear when your body stops functioning. In many ways, your “real life” begins after your body dies. As I was relaxing in front of a fireplace—don’t be surprised, Imaginary Friends like to be comfortable just like anyone else—a man walked into my sitting room. It took me a few moments to realize that he needed my services. As always, I listened intently. Here is his tale.

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4 R eaching O ut

I

have always held a fascination with the afterlife, especially since my mother unexpectedly passed away when I was twelve years old. I had a hard time believing she was gone, that she could really leave me and my father. I was determined to uncover a way to speak to her. From this morbid curiosity a career of sorts was started, though I never quite accomplished my goal of speaking to the departed. I took it upon myself to study the art of illusion instead. This I am not ashamed to admit; it actually afforded me a rather pleasant standard of living, and I became well traveled and quite famous. Still, my fascination with the afterlife remained. I studied every text I could find about the topic. I noted that several competitors were getting considerably richer than I was by performing séances, and I felt that it was my duty to discover if they were real or, as I suspected, merely charlatans. Fakers and opportunists you must understand were not only getting incredibly rich from taking advantage of poor people who had recently lost a loved one, they were also discrediting any factual basis to the genuine science of contact with the afterlife. Over the last several years I traveled near and far in search of these so-called mediums. Some of them were incredibly convincing in their performances, leaving me hopeful that I had uncovered the genuine article, yet I was always able to decipher the methods used for the


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swindle. Invariable it was nothing more than an assembly of clichéd parlor tricks. I wanted desperately to find someone with a real connection to the beyond. You see, there is absolutely no reason for any of us to accept spiritualism, which is indeed contrary to all our natural experiences and beliefs, unless we have unadulterated and tangible evidence. On this particular evening I traveled to Chicago to a small and almost derelict office building. I had come to learn of a renowned medium through a solid and trusted acquaintance of mine of many years, a certain Joshua LeBlanc. Joshua is a man of law and sound reasoning, whom I trusted completely. The excitement in his voice as he brought this particular fellow to my attention was quite remarkable. Joshua elaborated on how completely astounded he was by the fellow’s seemingly uncanny abilities. He had been led up several flights of stairs, and ushered into a small room which was set up with a make shift stage, including two dozen mismatched chairs. The room was bolted from the inside and heavy drapes hung over the windows. A solitary candle was lit, and overhead lighting was extinguished, creating an eerie glow on the face of our medium. Within moments, he began to hum quietly, the room was spellbound, and all eyes were mesmerized by the gentleman’s curious antics. Before long, the candle’s flame began to dance, and a cold gust filled the room. The medium began to whisper in a deep, almost inhuman voice. “Is there anybody there? Is there anybody there?” All at once there was a haunting sigh and a whispery “Yes, I am here… ” “Who are you?” “I am Edgar Pokes.” That response elicited a disturbingly shrill shriek from the seats and a lady dressed in black began to whimper. “My beloved Edgar, is that really you my darling?” Everyone turned to the direction from where the voice came; there was barely enough light to make out the shadow of a figure. “Yes it is me. I’m here to let you know that I’m finally free of pain, both in the physical body and of mind. Mildred, I am at peace with myself, and please know that I shall always be with you… always… always… always… ” The voice grew softer and softer until it was noth-

22 — P.S . G i f f o r d

ing more than a memory. The flame of the candle flickered violently and went out, leaving the room in total darkness. Moments later the overhead lighting was once again turned on, revealing that the door was still bolted from the inside and the medium, sitting upon his platform, looked exhausted. Joshua told me that Mildred stood up and informed everyone that she had recently lost her husband in a hunting accident, and for years he had been inflicted with painful gout, and she was convinced that it was indeed his spirit that came to visit. I could discern by the gleam in my friend’s eye that he also believed what he saw to be factual. This happened several more times, as several other manifestations apparently occurred, each with a message for an audience member, and each time the relative was convinced it was their loved one. As for myself, I wasn’t so confident that Joshua’s account was at it appeared. But I was so enraptured by his experience that I instantly made arrangements to see this medium myself.

n Three weeks later, I arrived in Chicago. Joshua arranged for me to travel under the pseudonym of Cedric Harrison, a successful New York businessman who had very recently lost his oldest brother and business partner to pneumonia. A small crowd of ten people stood at the appropriate address at nine in the evening. It was a particularly chilly evening and the notorious Chicago wind bustled about us. I was curious as to why such a successful medium would choose to operate in such a seedy, run down building such as the one I was now scrutinizing. In due course a gentleman approached us, bowing as he spoke, and introduced himself as William Crowder, the world famous medium. Despite his pompous voice, his appearance was spectacularly ordinary; he wore an ill-fitting cheap grey suit and a patterned tie that did not match. He was a skinny man and was, despite a relative young age, fast losing his hair. Above his top thin upper lip sat an equally thin moustache and the ends were twiddled with wax and made to stick out nearly an inch. We were dutifully led up several dingy staircases to the third floor. Everyone was silent, and to a casual observer what a strange proces-


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sion we must have surely made. A door opened and we all filed in to a generously proportioned old office, and as Joshua had warned me, after everyone was inside the door was bolted from within. It occurred to me that these respectable folks would never consent to being in such a vulnerable position under normal circumstances. We were advised by Mr. Crowder to take seats, and before I complied my eyes traveled keenly around the room in search of the smallest indication of how the trickery was about to be performed. I walked over, examined the window, and noted that nothing led up or down, so no one could enter the room from there. I looked up and noted that Mr. Chowder appeared to be scrutinizing me carefully, so I sat down. Next, the medium carefully explained that if the bolted door was somehow opened during the evening, we would instantly know by the bright light hanging in the hallway. Of course, I knew that it would a simple matter for any accomplice to switch the light off before sneaking into the room, yet I kept quiet, and continued to vigilantly observe. He made us all examine the room closely, which did not take long as there was no additional furniture other than the chairs we were sitting on and the chair and small table where the medium would be sitting. In addition, the room held no cupboards of any sort, and the floor itself appeared to conceal no trap doors, which would have been unlikely in a building such as this, I reasoned. He proceeded to hang a thick, double black curtain over the only window. “The spirits require darkness,” he stated in a very matter of fact tone as he performed the task. Yet, it was already dark outside, and certainly one curtain would have sufficed the task. This meant that my previous theory of the window being a key factor in how the illusion was going to be performed must be reconsidered. I scanned the faces of the other people who were there. They all had one trait in common; they were somber, but with a peculiar air of hope about them. It was obvious that they all had recently lost a loved one and equally obvious that they were desperate to contact them, just as I had longed to contact my dear mother, all those many years ago. They had, I feel I should mention, one additional trait; all of them had some degree of wealth, as each of us had been required to “donate” quite a hefty sum of money prior to being given the location for the evening.

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Just as Joshua had witnessed, a peculiarly scented candle was lit on a small table on the stage; the smell was both familiar and yet curiously unrecognizable. Mr. Crowder reached behind himself and pulled a cord, which extinguished the light, and sat in a solitary chair situated directly behind the table. Quite conveniently I thought the candle only gave off enough light to illuminate Mr. Chowder’s villainous face. Before long he began to hum and sway about in his seat, and I confess that I had to refrain from laughing. All at once a sudden gust of cold air swept through the room, and the candle flickered. I heard Mr. Crowder ask as all eyes were firmly glued to him, “Is there anybody there?” I knew that this was my prompt to investigate further. Discretely getting up from my seat, I quietly slipped my way back to the window, and peered behind the curtain. Just as I had suspected I now saw a ladder perched against the wall. This was obviously where Mr. Crowder’s helper entered the room, and the cold gush of air was nothing more than the window being opened. So I opened it, allowing a surge of cold night air to once more fill the room and with a firm push I sent the ladder hurtling to the ground. It was then I heard the enormous commotion behind me; no doubt, a commotion my actions had generated. I managed to race over, and before Mr. Crowder could prevent me, I switched on the light. Standing in front of me was a very embarrassed Mr. Crowder, and at the window was an equally embarrassed man of slight build, dressed in black, frantically looking through the window at the fallen ladder, which was his only reasonable means of escape. Mr. Crowder stared at me angrily, and I slowly saw a look of recognition form in his eyes. “But it is you!” he cried. “You’re the great Symboni! You are perhaps the finest magician this land has ever seen.” As he spoke the look of anger transformed into a far more interesting look, a look of fear; complete horror filled his eyes as he spoke. “But, it surely can’t be you; you died almost two weeks ago.” After that I simply vanished, right in front of the astounded Mr. Crowder’s eyes. After all, please understand I still had much catching up to do with my dear mother. It is peculiar though, isn’t it; I finally found the answer I was searching for all my adult life—in death. But


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I wasn’t about to let that stop my mission to expose charlatans; after all, I must confess, it was a frightfully fun experience.

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C

urious, isn’t it?

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I

suppose that an Imaginary Friend should not have favorites. But, I cannot help to get a warm and fuzzy feeling when I think back to my long chats with Harry Smith. He really is quite an interesting chap you know… I think that you will all agree after you read this account.

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5 T he C ucumber M an

H

arry Smith sat contentedly in his small allotment, poured himself another cup of steaming tea from his flask, and admired the site in front of him. His tiny council garden was full of the most beautiful vegetables you could ever wish to see—carrots, onions, radishes, cucumbers—they were all vibrant, healthy and peculiarly large. He smiled to himself with satisfaction as he examined his favorite—a giant cucumber resting beautifully in the middle of his plot. That is going to be my first place victory at the county fair. See if Alfred Jones can beat that one! It was a typical Yorkshire spring morning and the rain drizzled from the sky. Harry struggled out of his garden chair and ambled over to his trusted garden shed. He fumbled with his keys for a few moments before managing to disengage the rusty old lock. “Must get myself a new one,” he grumbled to himself. “Every man must have a private secure place.” He proceeded to turn on the dusty forty-watt light bulb and glance about. There were seven caps hung neatly on hooks by the door, all in various shades of gray. He picked up one that was obviously very well worn and placed it on his balding head. “That’ll keep me ‘ead warm,” he said as he continued looking about and performed a quick inventory: A sack of compost, a half bag of fertilizer, his old axe, two well used watering cans, his trusted wood


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chipper, a water hose, and his collection of spades and shuffles up, shears, clippers, his battered tool box and his old radio. Yes, everything is still there, you can’t be too careful. Harry turned the old radio on and was happy to hear Wally McGregor’s familiar voice, his favorite radio personality. He sat contentedly for about thirty minutes sipping on his tea and listening to the whimsical patter. Little did he know he was not alone on that rainy April morning as two allotments down Alfred Jones was also drinking his tea, listening to his radio and also planning. “Harry won’t beat me this year,” Alfred said. “No, not this year.” He looked at his allotment. Fine vegetables. Very fine indeed. In fact, they could be described as quite magnificent. But they were no match for bloody Harry Smith’s. He shook his head in disgust. Now, Alfred Jones was a mild mannered man, in fact, a more gentle and easy-going man you would be hard pressed to find. Yet deep inside this kind faced chap there was a fierce rage burning. He had retired nearly five years ago after 37 years at the civil service. Thirty-seven years of saying “Yes sir,” and mundanely going through the tedious motions that was work in the British civil service. When he was not working, he spent all the days’ hours in his little council house, with his wife, Hilda. That was when he decided to take up gardening. Not for flowers or anything like that, but to grow vegetables and to escape Hilda’s constant nagging. He had become quite an expert on the subject having spent hours pouring over books from the library. Every year he proudly took his prize beauties to the county show, and every year he left clasping onto a silver medal. At this point, Alfred, in his entire life, had never once lost his temper. Yet, as he was sitting there, hatred started to fester inside him. The rage slowly transformed him; finally he could stand it no longer, and he suddenly jumped up. “I’ll flippin’ show him!” he cried. “I’ll fix that Harry Smith once and for bloody all!” Alfred rushed to his shed, surprised by the sudden extra bounce in his stride. He quickly undid his rusty lock, and with trembling hands, went inside and switched on the light. As the bulb rocked back and forth on its chain, he scanned about for the perfect tool for the brutal task at hand.

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This is exciting. His attention was suddenly drawn to a rusty old chopper hanging amongst the cobwebs in the rear corner. Perfect. Absolutely bloody perfect. I will finally show that Harry Smith once and for all. Alfred grabbed the weapon and proceeded to march deliberately towards his neighbor’s plot. As he went, he proudly whistled Colonel Bogey to himself and as his pace quickened further, the whistling also intensified. “I haven’t felt this bloody good in years!” he said as he reached his destination. “This is grand. I should have done this ages ago!” As Alfred neared Harry’s plot his pace slowed and the whistling stopped. He stealthily examined Harry’s lot as sweat glistened on his brow. His old grey eyes opened wide in delight as he spied his target. He took a deep breath and began to creep closer—silent and deadly. As he was upon the target, he raised his blade high above his head. Completely and strangely unconcerned about the consequences of his wicked action, he grinned from ear to ear. However, before the axe demolished the giant cucumber, he felt an abrupt and sudden thud on the back of his head. Alfred Smith fell to the damp ground with a thump. “Tch, tch,” Harry Smith muttered sadistically under his breath as he gawked back and forth between the bloody hammer in his hand and the body of Alfred lying at his feet. Within moments, Harry dragged Alfred’s limp, lifeless body into his shed and closed the door. He affectionately removed Alfred’s cap, straightened it out, and placed it securely next to the rest of his collection. “Another keepsake,” he mused, grinning frenziedly to himself. He started up his trusted old chipper and rubbed his hands together gleefully as it shook and groaned into action. From one of the tied bags he pulled out several black plastic sheets and meticulously covered every inch of his beloved shed. When he was satisfied that the shed was dutifully prepared he reached down to his tattered toolbox, opened the lid, and removed a rusty handsaw. Harry examined the well-used saw and squinted his eyes. “One of these days I must get myself an electric one.” Then cheerfully set about his grisly task.


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n Two weeks later the county fair arrived. Harry Smith glowed with pride as he was once more presented with the first place prize. After the judge placed the gold medal about Harry’s neck, he looked at him in appreciation. “Fifth year in a row!” he exclaimed, gleaming at Harry. “Is there any chance you might divulge the secret to your success?” the judge inquired hopefully. Harry grinned wickedly, leaned in and whispered into his inquisitive ear. “Secret fertilizer recipe!”

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W

asn’t that one a delightful little tale? Recounting it has made me rather famished, in fact…

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I

see we still have a little more time together, how wonderful. So why don’t I share with you a lovely story I heard about true love. Yes, even Imaginary Friends can be touched by a good old-fashioned love story you know. Are you curious, dear reader? Why read on…

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6 A nother P erfect D ay

C

hloe idly stretched and eased herself out of her four-poster bed, and yawned as she made her way across the bedroom floor to the window. She pulled open the faded cotton curtains and allowed the radiant early morning sunlight to fill the dingy room. “It’s another perfect day in paradise, darling,” Chloe softly quipped. She gazed out of the window for a few moments studying her garden. Then she abruptly spun about and smiled broadly to her husband. “Aren’t you going to get up, dear? It’s a glorious day outside.” At that moment, she caught sight of a picture on the dressing table. Her smile dissipated. I wonder if he’ll call us today? It has almost been a year since we have heard from him. Oh well, I suppose sons are like that. She drew her attention once more to the garden. “Boy, those roses are coming along wonderfully, dear. But I must get out there later and get some trimming done. There’s always so much to do. The days simply race by, don’t they, Harry?” She returned to the bed, and bending down, kissed her husband’s brow. “How about breakfast in bed again?” She walked over to the bedroom door. “Thank goodness I still have you. Yes, I would go crazy if I didn’t, being all alone and everything.” Minutes later, she returned to the bedroom carrying a large tray with a couple of plates of toast, and two mugs of steaming black coffee.


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“Goodness Harry, you have an appetite today,” she said as Harry chomped down on the toast. “Still, it’s good to see you enjoying your food.” She wiped Harry’s chin. “We haven’t heard from anybody in months, have we?” she lamented, softly swinging her head gently back and forth. “Not in months... ” She placed another piece of toast into Harry’s mouth, and with her adept hands, she lifted the remains of his jaw up and down in a well rehearsed chewing motion. “Yes, with you, I don’t mind anything… I don’t mind that when I feed you, the food now falls out of the rotting flesh that used to be your stomach. I don’t mind the maggots that seem to so enjoy feeding on your remains, and I don’t even mind the smell of putrid decaying flesh... ” Moments later the plate was empty. She poured the coffee down his throat, and the liquid sloshed out of several places onto the stained bed sheets. “There, all finished!” Chloe smiled affectionately at her husband, reached over, and kissed him on what was left of his left cheek. She glanced at the bedroom clock. “Golly Harry, just look at the time, I best go and freshen up,” she declared. “I’ve got to keep myself looking my very best for you. Yes dear, I would surely go crazy if I didn’t have you—absolutely crazy.”

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he next story I must urge you as your Imaginary Friend, please don’t read just before going to bed. Please don’t say that I did not warn you. If it is daytime and you are not alone, then read on.

32 — P.S . G i f f o r d

A

s your Imaginary Friend I must hasten to warn you… The following tale is not for the weak-hearted or the timid. If you are prone to nightmares, or have a plethora of phobias I heartily suggest that you give the following story a miss, or at the very least do not read it alone…

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7 A C harming B edtime S tory

M

ary Billings could not sleep; she could never sleep when her husband was out of town on business, as she felt strangely incomplete. She sat and gazed through her bedroom window on the second floor and examined the rain cascading down; she was mesmerized by it. Jake had left early that morning, and was to be gone for just the one night. She had occupied herself by spring cleaning the house. Every floor had been mopped, every carpet vacuumed and every nook and cranny dusted, this was always her way of dealing with stress. It had been Jake’s idea to buy the house in the country, miles from the nearest neighbor. “The peace and quiet will do us good,” he had enthused when they first saw the house. “And besides, it is half the price of one half the size in the city, and I work from home most of the time anyhow, so you will rarely be alone.” As she was so very inclined to do, she had gone along with her husband. She glanced at the clock. “Damn, it is nearly three, and I still haven’t had a wink of sleep.” Deciding to get up and take some sleeping medicine, she slipped from under the covers and into the adjoining bathroom. The rain was really pouring now, and it bounced and echoed against the aluminum rain gutters. She took her magical prescription sleeping pill, gulped down a glass of tap water, and slipped back into the warmness of her bed. Shortly I’ll be passed out! She was pleased with the notion.


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Just as she felt sleep’s grip finally beckoning her, she became frighteningly aware of a strange noise from outside of the house. Straining her ears, she tried to detect what it might be. Focusing, she heard another sound, this one far more ominous, from directly below her. It sounded as if the back door had swung open, it had a distinctive squeak. Anxiety washed over her, and she found herself beginning to sweat. Remember what Doctor Murray told you. It’s simply residual trauma from your abusive childhood, from being left alone so often at such a young age. Nothing more. These things aren’t real. Not yet able to convince herself, she understood that she had no choice—to maintain her sanity for the night; she was going to have to go and investigate. “There has to be a rational answer,” she reasoned. “Maybe I did not lock it, and the wind blew it open.” Again, she left her warm cocoon-like environment, and walked over to the bedroom door and opened it. Too afraid to turn on the light, she stared blankly into the darkness and gradually made her way to the staircase landing. The old house seemed to mock her as she went. She took a deep breath and held it, afraid that her breathing might give her away; she began her descent as she tried to listen for any more noises. It all seemed silent now, maybe even too silent; the only audible sound was the continuous downpour of the rain. “It’s all in my head.” She allowed herself to breathe. She stood at the kitchen door, which was closed, for several long agonizing moments before she could summon the courage to turn the handle. Somehow fighting back every evil thought racing through her mind, she pushed it open. Without turning on the light she nervously peered in. She chuckled to herself with relief. The back door was closed. Mary, now satisfied, but once more doubting her sanity, yawned, and climbed back upstairs to her welcoming bed, and closed her eyes. The pill was definitely taking hold, and moments later, she plunged into a deep coma-like sleep. The next morning, she awakened feeling quite dazed, stared again through her window, and realized the storm had passed by.

34 — P.S. G i f f o r d

She remembered her nervousness from the night before, which now, in daylight seemed quite ludicrous to her. “How on earth could I have heard the door opening during a storm anyhow?” Her head throbbed, as it always did after taking sleeping pills, and she was desperate for her morning fix of coffee. As she climbed down the stairs, she laughed to herself out loud. “Wait until I tell Jake!” She shook her head in disgust. “He already considers me loony tunes.” She entered the kitchen and stopped suddenly. She could not move or even scream; fear had grabbed every last cell in her body. The back door stood wide open, and a set of muddy, enormous footprints lay upon her newly mopped floor leading into the study. But the most terrifying thing was that there were none leaving...

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ell I did warn you, didn’t I?


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T

he next tale I feel inclined to share with you is of a completely different nature. This poor fellow was quite shaken, let me tell you! Sometimes it is almost therapeutic to talk things over with Imaginary Friends. If you haven’t tried it, I highly recommend it. Read on please… read on.

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8 M r . F arnaby ’ s H ead

M

r. Steve Farnaby was a likeable and congenial chap, the sort of man that you cannot fail to have an immediate affinity for. Mr. Farnaby was kind, considerate and generous beyond compare. In fact, he was perhaps the most unlikely character to have a nightmare—but, indeed, a nightmare was precisely what he was experiencing as he lay in his resting place. He had gone to bed in the usual fashion after having sampled a couple of pints of ale, a rather tasty few slices of aged cheddar cheese, and some old English pickle. Steve appreciated the finest things in life. Now, however, despite being sound asleep he was still highly agitated. His eyelids fluttered beyond control and the debonair Mr. Farnaby was obviously experiencing the extreme radical rapid eye movement that accompanies dream activity. His body gently gyrated from side to side and glistening droplets of sweat began to form on his troubled brow.

n “Allow us to take a closer look. Let us slip into his mind and see exactly what he is experiencing. Are you feeling brave? Don’t worry, I shall be right next to you. I have experience in such matters. Now, imagine yourself entering his dream state and concentrate with me. Concentrate hard on each and every word in front of you. Ah yes, our journey has begun.

36 — P.S . G i f f o r d

“Here we are! That wasn’t so bad now was it? Where on Earth are we? Oh, everybody asks that at first. Don’t worry, as long as we can make it back to the front of the mind we can still get out. It’s a mystery to me how I began doing this. It first happened when I was about thirteen. I somehow enter through the conscious mind, which allows me to explore the unconscious. Yes, yes I know it is weird, but all rather exciting, don‘t you think? “Wow! What a place. All these different rooms, you can see, are the different parts of Mr. Farnaby’s mind. See that room over there with the angelic glow about it? That’s where he keeps the memories of when his children were born and his wedding day, the happiest times of his life. He visits that room often. Hear that? That is where he keeps his musical talent! Great beat to it, huh? Here’s one of my favorite rooms—childhood memories. Can you smell those cookies baking? Delicious! “But we are getting sidetracked, alas. We want to go where his nightmare is occurring. You see, if I find the source I will destroy it. If we are successful, he will no longer have the nightmares. I regard it as my personal crusade. Ah yes, just over this way; I can hear the screaming. Here we are! Just through here. A little bit further—are you still with me? Good! I thought I lost you for a moment. I’m going to need your help, I suspect. That is why I invited you. It is just through this gate. Here, give me hand. Thanks, boy, that’s one heavy gate. You can see he doesn’t venture down here too often; this must be the cellar of his mind. “Wow, this place is simply amazing! What a truly remarkable mind Mr. Farnaby has. He is without question one of the deepest thinkers I have ever encountered. “This is creepy! I’m surprised Mr. Farnaby hides an area like this within him. I expected dark and dreary yet this is beyond my wildest imagination. Be careful. He seems so pleasant! Anyhow, we shall soon discover his deepest and darkest fears. Come on, let us go in a little further. I know it’s kind of spooky in here, but you are quite right! Wait! Wasn’t that some kind of movement over there? What on earth is that? Oh God, it’s running towards us. “Wait… WAIT… Don’t… Please! What’s happening? “Oh my goodness sake, are you okay? It seems that we have stumbled on Mr. Farnaby’s biggest fear—spiders—giant bloody spiders.


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Most people’s fears are relatively small, and I have had no trouble defeating them. But these monsters? Oh no, what’s happening now? They are wrapping us in silk and I can’t move. Please, please don’t scream. We should not panic as I’m sure I can get us out of this. I’m sure I can.”

n A few hours later, Steve awoke restless and with a terrible throbbing headache, Yuck, too much beer last night. His wife’s melodious voice filled the room. “Are you all right, darling?” “Yes honey, I guess so, but boy what a terrible dream I experienced last night. It was all about giant spiders. I never did like those horrid eight-legged things ever since I was a little nipper and a bloody, gigantic daddy longlegs scampered across my cheek. I was too scared to move; all I could do was watch helpless. I’ve been terrified of spiders ever since, sweetheart.” “I’ll go and bring you a cup of tea and an aspirin, luv.” And with that Mrs. Farnaby scurried downstairs leaving Steve alone. He decided to shrug off the uneasy feelings and to get on with the mundane bathroom routine of his day. But as he began to brush his teeth, a rather peculiar thing happened. He looked at his weary reflection in the mirror, and was convinced that he could hear tiny agonizing screams coming from deep inside his own head.

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o what are you afraid off? Everyone, after all, is afraid of something—even me. Perhaps one day we should meet and I can be YOUR Imaginary Friend. But in the meantime, I’ll tell you another story that I heard recently…

38 — P.S. G i f f o r d

B

eing an Imaginary Friend I get to talk to all sorts of people, from small innocent children to mean, crotchety old men. And all things and everything in-between as this next tale will clearly show. Read on, kindly reader, read on.

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9 T he H ouse C all

I

t was almost 10 p.m. on that wet and stormy evening as Dr. Charles Goodman pulled his old, battered Ford into the overgrown driveway, three miles outside of town and half a mile from the closest neighbor. Dr. Goodman, who had quite recently graduated from medical school, had longed to be a doctor ever since he was a child; even then he realized that the town’s only physician, Jeremiah Green, was far behind modern times. When he heard that Dr. Green had decided to retire, he considered it was serendipity and promptly invested all the resources that he had into a modest property, modifying the downstairs into a surgery. However, upon his arrival, Charles discovered to his dismay that old cantankerous Jeremiah had reconsidered his decision to retire—at least for the time being. Now Charles had to make the most of whatever business he could muster up, which wasn’t much, especially as people in small towns are very reluctant to change, unless it is forced upon them. “A house call. I can’t believe I got talked into making a house call,” he contemplated as he climbed out from the warmth of the car and into the cold downpour. He pulled his raincoat tight about him. “And on a wicked night such as this to boot.” The coal black night sky was illuminated by a powerful streak of lightning and a roaring round of thunder seemed to shake the heavens themselves. Charles, somewhat startled, glanced up at the large Victorian house and managed to catch a brief glimpse of the gargoyles perched high up on the roof whose terrifying faces appeared to be mocking him. Scowling in disgust at his overactive imagination he


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hastily walked over the crumbling cobblestone pathway to the cover of the entrance way. Wiping the rain from his eyes, he studied the oversized mahogany front door for a moment. Suppressing his trepidation, he shrugged his shoulders and rang the bell. Haunting chimes echoed throughout the house once more rattling his frayed nerves. Rampant images formed in his avid imagination as he waited for a response; images created from the multitude of wild rumors about Mrs. Higgins—the house’s owner—that had circulated throughout the small town ever since he was a young child. Old Mrs. Witchy Higgins, they had appropriately nicknamed her. That had been almost twenty-five years ago and she had seemed ancient way back then. None of the children would dare venture too close to her house, afraid that she might catch them. He heard the door being unbolted and unhurriedly creaked open, and he found himself trembling. He took a long, deep breath before he was able to speak, allowing himself time to carefully examine the seemingly frail old lady that now stood in front of him smiling. Utterly harmless, he concluded to himself, ashamed that such an educated man as himself had been so susceptible to such childish superstitions. “Hello,” he said with a newfound assertion. “I am here regarding Mr. Carrington.” Mrs. Higgins’ expression suddenly transformed from a gentle smile into a warm welcoming grin. “Please, please come in from that horrid rain and cold,” she urged, ushering him inside. “What a truly dreadful evening this is.” Charles obliged and soon discovered himself in a dark hallway, which had to have been seventy feet long. The paneled walls were covered with dozens of wonderfully detailed oil portraits. “Please take off your wet coat and I will take you directly to Mr. Carrington.” She pointed to a coat stand. Her voice was buoyant and sounded as if it belonged to a far younger woman. “You see, it was really most naughty of him,” she continued. “He fell out of the tree while trying to escape. He’s such a mischievous boy, you know, and the poor dear hurt himself rather bad I’m afraid. This way, please. He’s just through here.”

40 — P.S . G i f f o r d

cat.

A cat! Charles thought, dismayed. She has called me out for a stupid

Mrs. Higgins led the now bewildered doctor along the hallway and as he cautiously walked along, he could swear that the meticulously painted eyes in the paintings were desperately trying to tell him something. All at once Mrs. Higgins swung about and there was a sudden flash. “What on Earth?” Charles yelled as he rubbed his now dazed eyes. “Just a photo, my dear. You see I’m a painter and I like to paint from photographs. It will be a sort of keepsake, you see, a way I can forever remember your wonderful act of kindness towards my beloved Mr. Carrington.” They arrived at the end of the passageway, which met a grand double stairway. Mrs. Higgins stopped. “Up here?” Charles queried, wishing now he had never come. “No, down there,” Mrs. Higgins said as she pulled open a door underneath the stairwell. This is a new low, he reflected as he stared down into the dark ominous cellar. “That’s right.” Mrs. Higgins rubbed her hands together with excitement. “Mr. Carrington is down there. There’s no electric light, I’m afraid. But here, use my flashlight.” Charles wanted desperately to turn and leave, but he saw the hope in Mrs. Higgins’ eyes. This cat is probably her only companion and it might kill her if anything happened to it. He tried to summon the courage this was going to take. He smiled at the old lady, reluctantly turned on the light, and began to climb the steep stone stairs downward. The flashlight that she had given him barely gave off any light and a disgusting, pungent smell of rotting flesh filled his nostrils. There must be dead rats down here, which the cat has killed, he reasoned.


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All at once there was a hideous piercing sound, and he became aware that something rather large was rapidly moving towards him. He frantically shone the light up in time to catch glimpse of an enormous claw as it ripped at his cheek. He hastily attempted to race back up the stairs. “I thought it was a tabby cat down there!” he screamed in horror as the sweat beaded upon his now bloodied face, He tried desperately to clamber back up the stairs. “Now whatever made you think Mr. Carrington was a cat?” said Mrs. Higgins, giggling as her faded eyes now sparkled. She slammed the door shut and bolted it. “Feeding time, Mr. Carrington,” she cooed lovingly. “Come and get it!”

n A month later, Mrs. Higgins proudly hung her new painting amongst the others in the hallway when she heard a familiar rumbling from under the stairs. “I think I should order a pizza,” she whispered as she began to cackle uncontrollably.

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uite the tale, I hear you cry! For my next offering, please allow me to present a tale that might appeal to those of you who enjoy a good pint once in a while. But then again, those who have never consumed a single drop of alcohol in their entire lives might appreciate it even more…

42 — P.S . G i f f o r d

I

have to confess in enjoying a good glass of quality beer. Not that mass-produced stuff, I hasten to add—I mean REAL beer. Here is a story to quench your thirst…

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10 T he E vils

of

D rink

J

osh sat contentedly near the roaring campfire, watching the dancing flickering flames and the crackling of the firewood, and considered the day’s events. Chester, his college roommate, had urged him to go on this trip. “A few days roughing it in the Canadian woods would do you good,” he had energetically cajoled, until Josh gave in. One of the highlights of the trip, as Chester had so enthusiastically explained, was the proximity of their campsite to a small multi-award winning microbrewery, which despite being miles off the beaten track managed to attract swarms of enthusiastic beer drinkers each and every day, all in search of the perfect pint. Josh could never understand this quest; he had always considered beer to be an insipid, gassy liquid. Yet after quickly setting up camp this morning with Chester passionately going on and on about it, they both trekked the mile and visited the brewery. As they drew closer, Josh noted that it was nothing more than an old shack, with several large barrels in back. Despite its appearance, dozens of seemingly educated, rational folks had also made the trudge through the forest and were jubilantly sitting on dirty old benches drinking large glasses of the stuff. Josh reluctantly accompanied Chester inside and ordered two of the samplers. Within a few minutes, two old cork trays with six small glasses filled with various hues of brown were presented to them. Back outside, they found an empty bench and Josh watched on, amazed as Chester keenly drank and spurted phrases like “Well hopped, beautifully balanced, and malty.” Josh attempted to do the same, but found the task unbearable. All of a sudden, a lofty man dressed in faded


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overalls, sporting a straggly grey beard and a balding head, took a seat next to them. He seemed pleased at Chester’s consumption and nodded at him, but looked a little dismayed at Josh’s six still nearly full glasses. “My name is Wilkins,” he informed them. “I’m the head brewer here. I see that you don’t like our regular offerings.” He again eyed the full glasses on Josh’s tray and sighed. A broad grin transformed his wrinkled face, and he raced off with surprising spryness, returning moments later to jubilantly place two large glass jugs on the table. “Please accept these gifts, our special brew. I like everyone who comes here to be satisfied.” With that he got up, slapped Josh heartily on his back and walked off, whistling.

n Chester began drinking his prize jug almost immediately upon completing the mile trudge back to the campsite. Within a couple of hours, his jug was empty and he was in a jovial, drunken stupor in the tent, obnoxiously snoring. Nightfall crept upon them and Josh sat alone near the campfire, his analysis of the day’s earlier events completed. As the full moon lit the cold night sky, he was determined to understand the attraction this local brew held over people. He examined the glass gallon jug. “Witches brew 6.9 APV” was the dubious name that was handwritten on the label. It looks innocent enough. Perhaps I should give the stuff a second chance. With that he unplugged the rubber cork and lifted the jug to his lips. “What’s the worst that could happen?” He took a long gulp. “Yuck,” he said out loud, but his mind was set and he continued to drink. When the jug was a quarter gone, his opinion began to shift. Songs from his childhood streamed from his normally quiet mouth, and a strange sort of unfamiliar sanguinity and cheeriness over took him. As he continued to drink the feelings only intensified, the sweet songs of his childhood replaced with bawdy Irish drinking songs that he was surprised he even knew. It was then he spied a light in the dark forest, a campfire in the distance. Glancing in the tent at his sleeping roommate, he decided to set off alone into the darkness to explore. What’s the worst that could happen? He set off into the night, his now half emptied jug firmly in his hand.

44 — P.S . G i f f o r d

As he trekked into the night, the distant campfire served as a beacon for him, and he continued to drink as he walked. Twenty minutes later, with the beer jug now empty, he reached the mysterious camp. His congenial manner was overtaken by nervousness. He was having a hard time focusing his eyes and difficulty maintaining his balance. He saw several men about the fire, and as he lowered himself into the safety of some bushes, he fell and landed awkwardly. A sharp pain shot through his left ankle. “Shit,” he whispered into the night, and examined the scene in front of him. No one seemed to have heard him. He drew his breath in horror as the scene before him assaulted his eyes. Three men, including the seemingly friendly brew master he had met that afternoon, were carefully attending to their task at hand. Over the fire a large wooden frame had been constructed, and a man’s limp body hung there. The hanging man appeared to be dead, and had been stripped bare and hung upside down. The brewers, using what appeared to be razor blades, were cutting slits in the dead man’s wrists. It somehow reminded Josh of syrup being drawn from a maple tree, slowly and delicately dripping. Despite his horror, he felt a curious urge to take a closer look. Crawling closer until he was only feet away from the camp, he saw that the blood dripped into a cauldron over the fire. He began to scream uncontrollably as his eyes focused on the words handwritten on the front of the cauldron: Witches

brew

6.9APV

The men looked up from their meticulous task and raced towards Josh, who was screaming hysterically. He attempted to get up and run, but the intense pain in his ankle and the overwhelming dizziness made him fall to the ground once more.

n Josh was never seen again. Three weeks later, Chester went back to the area in search of him, and as he sat in the brewery explaining to anyone who would listen about his friend’s disappearance, the head brewer amiably ambled over and offered him a free jug of beer.


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“I am sorry to hear of your friend’s disappearance, young man. Perhaps a sample of my latest brew will help ease your loss,” he said grinning.

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o can I buy you a drink? The next story I feel compelled to share happened in one of the most delightful English villages I have ever known. Who could imagine that such horrible crimes could be committed in such a picturesque spot? Curious? Read on dear reader… read on.

46 — P.S . G i f f o r d

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s an Imaginary Friend I often feel a responsibility to remind others of the consequences of their actions. Consider this story a warning if you plan to take the law into your own sweaty little hands. Read on dear reader, read on.

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11 A G rim A ffair

I

t was the quietest of Sunday mornings; in fact, if it wasn’t for the occasional bird chirping, there would have been virtually no sound at all. It was indeed such the loveliest of mornings in Waxbury that even the mere thought of something bizarre happening would seem extraordinarily out of place. Waxbury was a small, yet prosperous, village hidden discretely in the heart of the Derby Dales, the sort of town where time seemed to have simply stopped. All the usual businesses were found in this picturesque spot: a post office, butchers, news agents, greengrocers and a few other small, quite ordinary shops. One could also find a pub and a fourteenth century Church. However, looking off the main street, tucked away on the outskirts of the village, there was also to be discovered an undertaker’s office. Alas, every town needs one. On this particularly fateful morning, Archibald Higgins hummed to himself as he drank his morning coffee, sizing up the body in front of him. “A beauty this time,” he considered as a wicked grin permuted onto his corpulent lips. Archibald had amassed a small fortune from his chosen career, not just from his salary, which was admittedly in itself adequate, but no, his little nest egg had been accumulated from something far more sinister. Many years ago, he discovered that the departed souls that came his way were dressed in their grandest finery. This often included exceptional watches, jewelry (cufflinks were his favorite!) and even gold teeth—yes, gold teeth. Over the last thirty years, he must have


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removed and melted down hundreds of them, having elevated his technique to an art. Anyhow, business before pleasure. He drained the last few drops of coffee from his cup. It was time for him to begin preparing the paperwork that the Government required; copies of the death certificate, burial arrangements and the final release form—this was all his responsibility. After all, he would be the last person who looked into the coffin before finally sealing it. Name

Burial

D e c e a s e d : J e s s i ca C h r i s t i n a B r o w n C a u s e o f d e at h : H e a r t at tac k A g e : 72 D at e o f d e at h : J u l y 22 n d 200 4 site: Waxbury Church, Waxbury High Street B u r i a l t i m e : 1:00 p . m . of

Archibald signed it, and left complete, yet mundane, instructions for the body’s transit to the final resting place. As was his custom, he attached it to the brass handles on the casket. This was the best coffin he carried; he chuckled as he recalled her poor husband. “That chap was so drowned in grief he would have signed anything!” He began to closely examine Jessica’s body. On her right wrist she wore the largest tennis bracelet Archie had ever seen. But his eyes grew even larger when they next fell upon the oversized diamond on her fat ring finger. “This is my lucky day!” he said out loud, as he licked his lips and his excitement grew even more profound. Hanging solemnly from her ear lobes were the most exquisite earrings Archie had ever seen. Bloody Jackpot! As was his curious practice, he reached into the casket, which sat on the oversized mahogany table, and grabbed her cold clammy hands, pulling her up into a sitting position. Breaking into a slight sweat from the exertion, he lifted up the stiff body. This was always the trickiest bit of the process, but experience had taught him to thoroughly examine each body, and removal from the casket was essential. Some of the greatest discoveries were often hidden discretely on the unfortunate person.

48 — P.S . G i f f o r d

As he reached into the casket, it shook ominously. “I’m getting far too old for this,” he huffed. The lid quivered back and forth as he raised Jessica abruptly from her resting place. He maladroitly carried her over his shoulder into his private quarters, which were through a short corridor at the rear of the property, and laid her clumsily on his kitchen table. Rubbing his hands together with excitement, he set about the task at hand with evident glee. He glanced at the clock and realized he was going to have to hurry, it was already after nine and they would be coming for the pick-up by ten. The bracelet was easily and promptly unclipped. The ring gave him more of a struggle; it took a few minutes, and a little bacon fat, to finally remove it. Now it was time for him to retrieve his prize: the earrings. “One is missing; it must have fallen off whilst I removed the damned body.” Glancing once more at the clock, he said, “I’m going to have to hurry.” He sped back along the corridor, mumbling as he went, and peered into the coffin. “Ah, there it is.” He saw it glistening on the silk that lined the coffin. Archibald reached in and tried to retrieve the prize, and being rather well rounded, but not the tallest of men, he could not quite reach. “Blast, blast, blast. I’m going to have to get into the bloody thing.” He gracelessly pulled himself up, and within a few moments he was on his hands and knees inside the encasement, grunting and huffing as he went. His awkward, stubby fingers grasped for the jewel. After he retrieved it, he jumped back excitedly, and hit his head on the propped up lid. A vibrating jolt shuddered throughout the casket and it slammed shut with a thump. The substantial weight of the lid promptly met with the flabby tenderness of the back of his bald head. Archibald groaned once, and then there was silence. At the allotted time the hearse pulled up outside to take the coffin to its internment. The four men, who were running behind, desperately needed to make up time. They confirmed the paperwork, and as everything appeared to be in order, they promptly lifted the casket out of the parlor and put it onto their vehicle. Archibald suddenly awoke, momentarily confused as to where he was or how long he had been out. As his memory returned, panic and fear overcame him, and he pushed with all his strength against


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the lid. Yet it refused to move. His dread heightened as his breathing deepened. Archie concentrated fully on his task, and pushed again. Once more it refused to move, not even a fraction. Desperately, he banged his fists ferociously against the silk lined lid. Tears filled his eyes, and he screamed as he began to comprehend the grim fate that lay before him. It was a modest funeral. A dozen stoic people watched on as the coffin was gradually lowered into the musky earth. As the vicar read the appropriate words, as he had so often done, there were those amongst them, however, who could have sworn that they heard the faint, muffled sounds of somebody screaming. The days quickly came and went after that, and everything in Waxbury carried on completely as normal. It wasn’t for almost three weeks that the disappearance of Archibald became apparent. He was, after all, not a well-liked man. In fact, it was only when his services were required that anyone bothered with Archie at all. So, if it had not been for poor old Mr. Roberts dying in his sleep, they would have never bothered to search for the undertaker. Upon investigating, the police reluctantly went to the funeral home. They knocked upon the door and after no one answered, they broke it down. The first thing they noticed was the putrid stench; it had been a particularly warm summer. They quickly discovered the horrible scene—Jessica’s decomposing corpse still on the kitchen table. “Funny thing about the corpse, though,” remarked the constable as he contained his urge to vomit, “I could have sworn she was… well, smiling.”

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hat a way to go, eh? Served him right, I reckon. I am, as so many of you surely are, a soppy romantic at heart. Well, as an Imaginary Friend I have gotten to hear many a lonely soul’s fantasy. Here is a tale that will renew your faith in marriage.

5 0 — P.S . G i f f o r d

W

elcome back! I have been expecting you. In my vast experience, there is nothing that motivates a person more than the unbridled power of love, as this next story clearly indicates; a tale which is guaranteed to give you that warm fuzzy feeling. See, Imaginary Friends can be romantic, too, please understand. Read on dear reader, read on.

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12 W icked I ntentions

H

arry lay in bed next to his wife, Mildred, quietly contemplating, just as he had done so many times over the last twenty-six years. “Twenty six years,” he muttered out loud, without realizing it. Mildred, still half asleep, turned to him questioningly. “What was that, Harry?” she murmured from her dream-like state. “Just thinking where time has gone dear, that’s all. Just thinking where time has gone.” Harry mused over the strange events at his office yesterday. He was a journalist by trade, nothing glamorous, just a small time hack for the quiet town of Suffolk, New Hampshire—population 26,000. A smile came to his lips, and he had to fight back the urge to chortle as he remembered how an ordinary Friday had unfolded in an extraordinary way. Sally came to visit him again, and as was their routine they secretly snuck off for a quiet, intimate lunch together. They had first met three months earlier at a birthday party for one of his wife’s best friends, Marge. Sally had been the only thing memorable in a night filled with dismal conversation, ill prepared appetizers, and an over consumption of cheap vodka. He had noticed Sally instantly. Hell, what redblooded man wouldn’t? She was in her mid twenties, and her perfectly proportioned, freckled face was deliciously framed by a delightful crop


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of natural blonde hair. Her figure was lean and athletic, and she wore a white sweater, which snuggled her shapely figure enticingly. He thought she looked rather bored, and he watched quietly fascinated as she ambled gracefully away from the chatter of conversation and gossip into the kitchen. Gulping down the last of the vodka in his glass, and deciding that cheap vodka was not so unbearable after all, he took a deep breath and followed her. He used the ruse of looking for ice in a clumsy attempted to strike up a conversation. Surely, she would see through this? As he fumbled awkwardly with his wedding band and stared at her nervously from his graying blue eyes, she flashed him an encouraging smile. Her reaction had the strangest of effects on him; it made him feel alive again. She introduced herself, saying she was a niece of Marge’s and was visiting with her aunt over the summer in an attempt to rediscover her life’s focus. She added that she had just gotten out of a horrible relationship under gruesome circumstances, and she was finished with men. Her facial gestures seemed to Harry to contradict the words he heard. “So, Harry, tell me about yourself,” she cooed. So he did, for the next forty-five minutes, in fact, and she listened intently to every word. He told of his mundane childhood, attending the local college, getting his job at the newspaper, and marrying his first real girlfriend. As he spoke, she actually seemed engrossed, and made him feel interesting for the first time in his life. He narrated to the enticing stranger how the first few years of married life were blissful. But in time, the spark burnt out, and reduced his existence to nothing more than a series of boring routines. She nodded, knowingly and understandingly. He would have talked for much longer if Mildred hadn’t come in search for him. As the door of the kitchen opened, Harry turned around to see his wife staring at the two of them, in what seemed to be an attempt to analyze the situation. He watched as she shot a knowing glance towards Sally, grabbed his hand, and quickly ushered him back into the sitting room, and back to the dozen or so dull couples. Harry walked over to the makeshift bar and replenished his drink. Strangely, he knew that things would never be the same again.

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5 2 — P. S . G i f f o r d

Over the next few weeks, Sally often came to Harry’s office, and engaged in long conversations over lunch. They had never kissed, yet somehow Harry felt that fate had decided to deal him a much better hand, that Sally was his destiny. Today, however, had been startling different from the others, as this had been the day that Sally made the suggestion. She proposed that Harry killed his wife. He remembered his first impulse; he had actually found the idea exciting. But within a few minutes, his proper Lutheran upbringing cleansed his thoughts in that proper Lutheran way, and his enthusiasm quickly waned. Sally seemed to sense his reservations; she reached out and clasped his hand firmly in hers, and stared straight into his eyes. “Kill her and I will marry you.” She smiled. “It will be surprisingly simple. Trust me. You see, I have devised the perfect plan.”

n So here he was, and there was Mildred next to him. He ran over the words that Sally had confidently shared with him earlier. “The simple plans are the best ones,” she had whispered. Harry looked at the clock—7:00 a.m. He gradually climbed out of bed. It was time. He glanced at Mildred, still half asleep. This is going to be easy. He put on his black leather gloves in the bathroom, just as Sally had instructed him, and removed the knife from the plastic bag that she had given him yesterday. He returned to the bed and hesitated for a moment. In his head he imagined how wonderful it would be to awaken each morning next to Sally, and regained his composure and motivation. He took the long, thin blade and gingerly started to edge closer and closer to Mildred. Suddenly, Mildred’s eyes sprung open, and there was a loud unexpected sound of gunfire. Harry recoiled with horror awash over his face. He fell to his knees, lost in surprise, and collapsed onto the bedroom carpet. He desperately, but hopelessly, attempted to hold back the gushing red blood with his leather clad hands. “Where did you get a gun?” Harry asked, trying frantically not to succumb to the desire of slipping into final unconsciousness. “Sally, my new lover,” Mildred blurted. “She told me that she would be mine forever if I killed you. She told me that she had a plan,


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a simple plan. If I shot you in self-defense, I would get away with murder. She told me she loved me.” Harry closed his eyelids for the very last time.

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ell! What goes around comes around as my dear old mother used to say. Yes, even Imaginary Friends have mothers, you know. And he certainly got what was coming to him, don’t you think, dearest reader?

54 — P.S . G i f f o r d

H

ere is a story about a not-so-distinguished gentleman who receives an unexpected visitor. After reading this tale, you might want to make sure that your front door is well and truly locked!

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13 T he U ninvited N ight V isitor W illoughby H all

to

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eremy Watson sat contentedly in his well-worn leather chair in the study of his family home, Willoughby Hall, beautifully situated on several of the greenest acres in all of Yorkshire. If you were so inclined to examine him, you would have clearly noticed that he looked all of his sixty-seven years. His face was weathered and beaten, and surely you would have detected subtle evidence of the wicked life he had led. Perhaps it was his crooked smile, or maybe the smug expression which seemed permanently etched onto his dismal, drab features: his drawn out eyes, his sunken cheeks, his ill-proportioned thin nose which came almost to a point, and the distinctly grey tone to his flabby skin. He was bald except for small tufts of white hair above each ear, and he was dressed in a long dark dressing gown. The flickering of the roaring fire in the generously proportioned fireplace was the only illumination in the room on that chilling October evening. He drank a liberal measure of fine single malt scotch from a crystal goblet, and allowed his mind the luxury of dwelling on the events of the last few weeks. “I cannot believe it has been three weeks. I have certainly got away with it yet again,” he said as he gazed into the flames. His idle contemplations were harshly interrupted as the door of the study swung open. Jeremy’s eyes had difficulty focusing on the curious figure that proceeded to enter the study. Insufficient light kept him from determining who this unexpected visitor was, and all he


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could see was that the figure was tall, slender, and dressed in a long black cloak. “Who the hell are you, and how on earth did you get into my house?” Jeremy vociferously cried as he fumbled for his oversized walking stick, which was propped against his chair. “Your eyes may adjust to the darkness, but they will surely regret it if they do,” the stranger replied in a voice that Jeremy somehow recognized, but failed to place. There was an exaggerated pause before the intruder continued, as if the visitor delighted in the apparent and unmistakable unnerving of Jeremy. “We have unfinished business. Surely you did not forget?” the stranger added with a sturdy and self-assured tone. A deep barreling, sinister laugh escaped the stranger, which made the hairs on the back of Jeremy’s neck stand up even further. “B-b-b-but,” Jeremy stammered. “Who are you?” He attempted to pull himself from the chair, but maybe it was that he had consumed too much scotch, or because his injured leg was acting up, or possibly something far more sinister that held him back—as he found himself unable to pull his body up. Now utterly terrified, he desperately, once more, tried to focus on the stranger’s face as he slumped back into the chair. With fake bravado, he again brandished his walking stick in front of him with as much menace as he could muster. “Leave me alone!” he bellowed. “Whoever you are, you surely have no business here.” Again the stranger laughed. “But, how wrong you are, sir. Oh, what a fuss the press made didn’t they?” the tall, dark figure of a man said thoughtfully. “When they found yet another bludgeoned body, I mean! That was undoubtedly the biggest news story we have had here in this quiet part of the world in years! Fancy—a serial killer right here directly in the heart of Yorkshire. I can remember clearly what they said and wrote about the condition of the mutilated body parts. How could I ever forget, eh?” The figure chuckled again. “They even showed color photographs of the mutilation. Yes, the media seemed to almost relish how the body of a man had been viciously butchered into well over a dozen body parts. The arms and

56 — P.S . G i f f o r d

legs had all been not so neatly hacked off, and then lacerated again into even smaller chunks and had been buried in lime at the back of Bolton Castle. They say that the lime virtually destroyed any evidence of who performed the heinous, bloody crime—even who the poor victim was. Hell, even dental records were of no use, as the murderer had sadistically pulled out each and every one of his victim’s teeth.” The figured paused and moved closer to Jeremy, who slouched back further in his chair. “Can you imagine how much intense pain the victim must have endured? Being tied and bound with cord, and having his teeth slowly and clumsily extracted, one by one, with nothing more than a pair of rusty pliers? The news reader on the television tried his best to disguise his delight in the story. But I could tell it was there.” “But how can you know all those details?” Jeremy cried in disbelief. “Did you spy on me? Is this what all this about? You have come to blackmail me. Please tell me how much money you want from me.” Again the stranger laughed. “No, it is not money that I seek; I have no use for riches anymore.” Jeremy tried again to pull himself up, but his efforts were in vain. Just then the fire cracked as the final remnants of one of the logs caught ablaze, and for a moment a flash of light further illuminated the room. Suddenly, Jeremy witnessed clearly the features of the stranger, and shrieked out loud in recognition and horror. “But—it can’t be you—I killed you… ” At that moment, Jeremy noticed six more figures now circled all about him.

n The next morning, the cleaning lady of Willoughby Manor found Jeremy’s cold, lifeless body slumped in his leather chair in his office. His toothless mouth was disturbingly wide open as if he was still trying to scream. The police officer who came to investigate found the journal on the desk and discovered that it described in lurid detail six other victims, who they were, and where their remains were buried.


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The coroner listed “heart attack” as the cause of death; despite Jeremy having no previous history of heart trouble. He had, however, no answer for the missing teeth. No one but the now dead Jeremy could have explained what happened that night, or even explain why a man with the wealth and means such as Jeremy would turn into such a vicious killer. And now it was too late, wasn’t it? As people certainly never listen to what the dead have to say… do they?

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a! Another frightful tale, don’t you think! You see, being an Imaginary Friend, I get to hear and even witness the most unlikely of crimes, even those committed by ghosts. But my next tale is not about the dead. It is a simple tale about the joys to be discovered in cleaning. Please read on, dearest reader… read on.

58 — P.S . G i f f o r d

N

ice to see you again! For the next tale I would like to share with you, allow me to introduce Edna Willington. A quite ordinary lady to look at—but as you might have discovered it is the most ordinary people that have the most extraordinary tales to tell! Well, what are you waiting for? Read on dear reader, read on.

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14 S pring C leaning

E

dna Willington stood quietly in the hallway admiring her handiwork with a satisfied look upon her tired face. Dressed in a purple polyester floral dress, she had a pink apron neatly and perfectly tied about her waist. Her grey shoulder-length hair was tied back with a yellow scarf. Bright yellow rubber gloves went all the way up to her elbows. Directly by her side sat a large bucket of warm sudsy water, a scrubbing brush, and a sponge. The strong, but comforting, scent of disinfectant permeated throughout the generously proportioned five bedroom Georgian house; a house that was perfectly perched in the most fashionable part of the Oxford countryside on a three acre lot. Edna continued to sit there examining the hallway, contemplating her life. The mock marble tiles shone, the baseboard sparkled and the recently painted beige walls were completely spotless. After six days of scrubbing, cleaning, polishing and buffing the whole house was now finished, and she could finally relax. Edna, always one to maintain a clean and tidy home, took particular satisfaction in doing what was traditionally known as spring cleaning. At sixty-four years old, she had never had a career of her own. She had raised two children, which she and her husband had early on in their marriage. The children had grown up all too quickly and were now married, leading successful and independent lives. Whilst the children were at home, she had a sense of purpose; there was valida-


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tion for her existence, but they had left twenty years since. Over those years maintaining an immaculately clean home had been the only satisfaction she had derived. This worked rather well up until two months prior. She would not soon forget that particular Friday, as that was the day the unthinkable happened. Yes, on that fateful, life altering day her husband of the last forty-nine years, Alfred Willington, retired from his position of senior managing director with a building society. Edna had found it acceptable taking care of him for breakfast and in the evenings. Breakfast was a structured routine; she simply presented him with toast, marmalade, fresh orange juice, a pot of tea and his morning paper. He would occasionally grunt, quickly consume, and then be gone. He would arrive home in the evening, and she’d have the customary large gin martini chilled and awaiting him. Then she would run his bath, and as he soaked, and enjoyed a second martini, Edna would make the evening meal. Even the weekends were more-or-less bearable. They always did precisely the same things as she knew that Monday was just around the corner, and that Alfred would be going off to work in his classic Mach 2 Jaguar by precisely 8:20, with his Financial Times under his arm and a briefcase which carried barely more than his cheese and tomato sandwiches and a flask of tea that she prepared for him. At that time, her organized cleaning routine ran smoothly. But that had all changed since his retirement. Now he was constantly underfoot. What compounded matters further was the new hobby that Alfred had seen fit to adopt to fill in his newfound spare time—gardening. For whatever reason, Alfred had decided to let the gardener go and took up the task of marinating their substantial gardens himself. What is more, he expected Edna to supply continuous pots of tea. This also meant that Alfred was continually in and out the house; his bladder not being quite what it once was. As Edna stood there, her contented look was to be short lived. All at once the front door swung open to reveal Alfred. He wore a dress shirt—a shirt that the night before had been painstakingly hand washed, starched and pressed perfectly. He also had on a pair of light brown corduroys, which were covered in stains of varying hues and intensity—some were green, others were brown and others

60 — P.S. G i f f o r d

she couldn’t bring herself to imagine what they might be. On his size eleven feet were his favorite pair of Wellington boots, caked in mud. “Put the kettle on please, dear,” he said confidently as he marched through the door and plodded along the hallway. “I am parched, and could murder a decent cuppa.” Edna watched on in complete horror as he tore off his Wellington boots at the foot of the stairs, and leaving them in a pile, continued to march up to the second floor. She studied the mud trails on the mock marble tile, the mess he left as he walked up the stairs. She studied her heavy duty scrubbing brush. Suddenly, an overpowering urge transformed her and, without thinking, she abruptly grabbed the brush and chased after him. He was halfway up the stairs and stepping onto the landing when she smashed him on the back of the head. He was understandably startled and turned around to confront her. He opened his mouth to speak, his perfectly manicured moustache trembling over his pudgy lips, but before he could say anything she hit him again. The brush landed directly onto his temple with considerably more force than the previous blow. An agonizing moment of silence followed as Alfred’s expression transformed from confusion, to anger, and finally an empty stare. The moment was broken by a series of thumps as Alfred fell down the steps. Edna looked where Alfred lay unmoving, his arms and legs unnaturally contorted. It was only then that the complete horror of what she had done penetrated her confused mind. She looked at the blood gently easing out from his balding head and she headed back to her bucket of sudsy water. “Another mess to clean up,” she said out loud in a methodical, matter of fact tone. Then she began to whistle cheerfully…

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nother charming story, don’t you think dear reader? There is absolutely nothing wrong with being clean and tidy if you ask me. Of course, I’m not saying what she did was right, or wrong—I am, after all, just an Imaginary Friend and I have no opinion either way on such matters…


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or my next story you shall learn how a horror writer’s mind works—something many of you must surely be curious about. Horror writers, so I have discovered, are an interesting lot. Quite recently I learned a valuable insight as to how a bestselling horror book was inspired by a walk in a London market. Would you like me to share it with you? Then it is simple…

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15 T he I ntrepid J ourney

to

E nlightenment

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n a trip I took to England last year I, as you might imagine, spent a lot of time in antique shops in search of all things uniquely English, particularly old horror books and memorabilia. On one such adventure, I found myself at the rather famous Portobello market in the quirky Notting Hill district of London. I spent the time idly perusing the various books, and actually purchased a delightful antique edition of The Bleak House by Charles Dickens, bound in some of the most magnificent leather I had ever seen. I examined my prize on my way to a nearby pub for some well deserved lunch when, just off the main market on a quiet narrow street, I happened to notice a peculiar sight—a stall keeper who immediately caught my eye as he appeared to be about ninety years old, and dressed in one of those suits covered in buttons. The stall itself was nothing more than a rickety camping table, covered in an old moth bitten blanket, with various items placed on it. I had every intention of walking past the curious gentleman, as I had already spent more than I had budgeted for on my last purchase, and besides, the tantalizing notion of a pint of bitter and a steak and kidney pie danced through my mind. However, as I proceeded to pass on by, he sharply and with impressive volume hollered out to me. “Hey, guv’nor—you dream of being a successful novelist, don’t you?” Both amazed at his prophetic intuition and wary of a possible scam, I smiled politely at the old fellow as I cautiously began to

62 — P.S . G i f f o r d

approach him. I reasoned there might be some solid entertainment value in engaging in conversation with the oddball fellow. Perhaps I might find some sort of inspiration for my new book, I considered, for I had been experiencing writer’s block for several months. His crabby expression morphed into a gregarious smile as I crossed the street to his stall. “Got your attention, didn’t I, mate?” His cockney accent cracked, evident of a lifetime of smoking. “Apparently,” I replied, humored, but still remaining vigilant. “I reckon I’ve gotten something that might interest you then,” he cackled, revealing a mouth half full of rotting teeth. As I watched on in amusement he, with exaggerated gesturing, seemingly vanished under the shabby faded blanket, presumably onto the cracked pavement below. Seconds later he popped up again and in his wrinkled, tobacco stained fingers he held a shoe-sized dilapidated wooden box. “I don’t think so,” I said and was about to turn around, figuring that nothing more than a sales pitch awaited me, and walk away. However, the charismatic gleam in his eyes intrigued me enough to continue further along with the facade. “Okay, so what historical gems are in the box?” I questioned. “Perhaps the very last quill that Shakespeare ever used. Or, maybe, just maybe, Edgar Allen Poe’s solid silver moustache trimmer that you have had in your possession since you were a small boy and now feel compelled to sell it to an unsuspecting American tourist? Or how about possibly even an unfinished manuscript penned by none other than H.G. Wells himself that you would sell for the bargain price of a few hundred pounds. Well, what is it?” He stared intensely at me with penetrating, unblinking eyes that were a curious shade of green. “First you must swear to me that you desire to be a horror writer more than anything else, and you are prepared to sacrifice your sanity to fulfill such lofty ambitions.” The somber tone of his voice and the sudden remarkable transformation of his facial features should have frightened me away. I should, I am convinced, have turned and run off to have my lunch as I had intended—yet his mesmerizing gaze somehow captured my curiosity further. “I swear,” I heard myself saying ominously, almost as if a stranger spoke. “I swear.”


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With that he stood up and leaned towards me. The insipid foulness of his body odor and breath made me gasp. However, as he unlocked the peculiar box and exposed its contents I gasped for another far more ominous reason. The box clicked open to reveal a seeming thousand rays of light and each one seemingly penetrated deep within the darkest regions of my subconscious. I began to scream at uncontrollable, intense pain, yet no one paid me any attention. Was it possible that my screaming was only inside my own brain? As I trembled with agonies that I could never, ever have imagined, I suddenly became aware that the elderly tradesman was laughing. He was not only laughing at my plight, but he was deftly jigging from one foot to another. I somehow managed to regain some sense of reasoning and focused intently on his every word as tears flooded my anguished eyes. “To be a successful horror writer you need experiences, guv’nor. That box we opened unleashed the tortured souls of ten thousand or more unfortunates. Each horrific, atrocious memory has now been permanently etched deep within your psyche.” In front of my eyes, just as I attempted to reach out and grab the fiend by the throat, he simply vanished. I swear it. There was no sign of the button man or of his stall. I sat on the curb and sobbed as the full dreadfulness of my fate presented itself. A chorus of a hundred deafening shrieks bellowed agonizingly from within my cranium. All at once, however, despite my vivid torment, I abruptly envisioned a narrative bursting with dread and misery such as the world had never seen. I hastily seized my pen and notepaper from my pocket and I began to fervently write. And so that is how I came to write the international best seller— The Order of the Eldritch Disciples.

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ascinating stuff don’t you think, dear reader? There is no art without pain, is there? The next tale I feel inclined to share is one guaranteed to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, for I’m about to introduce to you the Castlegregory Banshee. Intrigued? Then read on, dearest reader. Please read on.

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S

o, we meet again! Fancy that! The next story is about someone even older than myself—none other than the Castlegregory Banshee. You haven’t heard of the Castlegregory Banshee, you say? Then read on, dear reader… please read on.

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16 T he H aunting A ccount of C astlegregory B anshee

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hen I was a young girl, all those many, many moons ago, my grandmother often told me the most captivating tales. That was back in my native land, Ireland, during the 1940’s just after the war. Yes, I shall never forget how she lulled me to sleep, eagerly spun tales of many marvelous legends, lyrically lolling me into my deep slumber. Those tales of wonderment carried me into equally extraordinary dreams and other enchanted places within my imagination. I had not been back to Ireland for nearly fifty years, not since the “incident,” yet here I once again find myself. All because of a two minute phone call I received two days ago. I find it remarkable not so much in what has changed here, but more so, in what has remained almost exactly same. Now as I sit here, back in Castlegregory, off the wild and glorious Dingle peninsula, I marvel at the splendor of the untamed thrashing ocean. I am once more in my upstairs bedroom, with precisely the same furniture and I am instantaneously carried back to my childhood, to this very bed. As a cold, westerly wind blew across the frigid ocean, was that the eerie wail of the banshee, dancing her slow waltz of death upon the ocean tips? As I closed my eyes, I cried once more as I remembered my grandmother’s words. My grandmother told of when she was a girl, when—according to her—the world still held onto its purity. A time when the legends of ancient times were respected, treasured and even venerated, a time when goblins, ghouls and gnomes coexisted, a world where magic


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could and did perform wonders and a time when a banshee’s cry sent even the bravest soul whimpering, cowering, and hiding in the shadows. It was common knowledge that whenever an unfortunate person heard the agonizing wail of a banshee, he understood that death was imminent. If he was unfortunate enough to catch even the most fleeting glimpse of her long white hair streaming behind her skull-like head, floating upon the winds of fate, there was no place he could find sanctuary, as before the morning sun broke he would be dead. My grandmother was a mere girl of eight when she was first told of the legend. She had awakened in the wee hours of daybreak by her mother, who was awash with grief and tears. There had been an accident and they needed to get over to Doctor Riley’s house quickly. Her mother had learned that there had been a fire in the night— in one of the local thatched cottages, and that they had called upon her father to help combat the hungry blaze. But the blaze, despite the efforts of the local men, grew and grew as if possessed by the devil himself. She had learned that he had ventured too close to the violent flames in an attempt to stop the fiery rage spreading and destroying more property, and in an instant had been hit in the head by a falling timbre, alive with glowing embers. The men had rushed him to the doctor’s house, where they, too, must now hurry to be by his side. As the horse-pulled carriage hurried them along the dirt roads, the morning sun began to rear over the horizon. It was then she first heard it—the ghastly, unnatural wailing. As the cries grew louder and louder, penetrating their ears, her mother pushed the horses faster, and faster still, desperately trying to elude the agonizing wailing. Tears ran down her mother’s cheeks, and she knew that he was dead. When they reached Doctor Riley’s house, the old frail doctor was outside, standing in the winter sleet, shaking his head in disbelief. Hysterically, her mother sped from the carriage to the door, but the somber faced doctor held her back as he whispered to her. “He’s gone, but his very final words were, ‘Tell my family I love them.’” I will never forget my grandmother’s tale and I hung onto her every mesmerizing word, yet as I listened to her I had no idea that one day soon I, too, would also hear the terrifying cries of the Castlegregory Banshee.

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66 — P.S . G i f f o r d

It was a December night very similar to tonight, and the frigid coldness of the dark, the silence of winter, and the myths and legends contained in Ireland’s history all played their part in the horrific circumstances. My father was out playing cards that fateful evening in Cavanaugh’s Tavern on the outskirts of Castlegregory. Yes, my father was there, playing poker with his younger and only brother, and as the whiskey was consumed, the gambling increased. My father, they said, had been winning—the anger always present in his younger brother apparently intensified. I can recall with remarkable clarity that my grandmother and I had sat at home, waiting and worrying. My father, grandmother, and my uncle were all the family I knew, for you see my own mother had died in my traumatic childbirth, dying just two hours after I entered into this world, with me crying in her arms. As the candlelight danced ominously about the kitchen, we heard it—the unholy howling and wailing of the hellish banshee—who drew ever nearer in the night to Castlegregory on her appointed path of death. Who had she come for: a father, a mother, or perhaps some helpless, sick child? We did not know; we simply huddled together as the last of our logs burnt and cackled in the stove as we waited and prayed, afraid to steal a look out of the window for fear that we might stare straight into the banshee’s seething blood red eyes filled with tears, tears for the dead. Later and later it got; more and more we feared who the banshee was calling for. Eventually, at a little after three in the morning, the local constable gave a reluctant knock on our front door and all at once we comprehended. I realized that our worst fears had been realized. My uncle claimed that it had been an accident—that they had been walking home and my father had lost his footing on the well worn path and fell and smashed his head. Yet deep in our souls and hearts, we knew what had really happened—he had been murdered. My uncle inherited my father’s estate, as the law of that day prohibited females from inheritance. My uncle, remaining true to his nature and lack of character, wasted no time in moving out of his run-down cottage into our fine house overlooking the rocks to the ocean. My father had earned every penny of the small fortune he had amassed with sweat, hard work and ambition, and now his brother, ten years his junior, was about to gain it all free and gratis.


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Several days later, it was offhandedly announced over breakfast that I was going to be shipped off to Chicago, in the United States, to some distant cousin. Apparently they had not been graced with children of their own, and certainly it was going to be for my own good. My heart broke on the morning of my departure. As the horse and carriage arrived to take me away from the only home and family I loved, I held onto my grandmother, tears racing down our cheeks. I knew that this would be the last time we’d ever see each other.

n This had all happened a lifetime ago; my grandmother apparently died soon after I had left. My uncle never married and as a result lived alone. As there were many suspicions about the quality of his nature within the village, he became practically a hermit, shutting himself away from humanity, apart from his weekly journey into the market. He became a miser, despite his inherited wealth, choosing to wear tattered clothes and shoes with holes in them. Instead of eating the finer, more exquisite cuts of meat, he chose to eat the viscera and innards. In due course, I established a fine existence in Chicago; my new family was warm and welcoming, and wanted to hear all the tales from the homeland. I came to consider them as my parents, and in many ways was appreciative of being sent to the land of opportunity. Yet, a large part of me despised my uncle, and I could never begin to forgive him for the horrible crime I was convinced that he had committed. I grew up quickly, attended a college, and married. Yes, Chicago had treated me rather well. I now had three fine children and five even grander grandchildren. Yes, Chicago had treated me rather well, and it came as a surprise when I received the phone call two days ago, from a solicitor in Castlegregory. Apparently my uncle, who was now in his late eighties, had fallen desperately ill, and only had a few days to live. After much searching, they discovered that I was his closest living relative, and the laws had long since been modernized—allowing women equal status in all things. I was in line to inherit his estate. I caught a flight that very day, to discover my uncle, or what was left of him, in the master bedroom being attended to by a local doctor. Now, as I sit here in my father’s house, the house that I had been banished from all those years ago, I listen. It is then I hear it, more

68 — P.S . G i f f o r d

and more distinct. I naturally recognize the sound at once—the Castlegregory Banshee. As her anguished howls intensify, I am far from afraid this time. In fact, I think I am actually smiling…

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nother corker of a tale don’t you think, dear reader? You sow what you reap—that’s what I always say. Speaking of folks getting their just desserts, that brings to mind another ghastly tale I recently was told. This one is all about an old necklace.


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here you are! I’m awfully glad that you have joined me again. Please understand that being an Imaginary Friend, you have no idea of who you are going to meet—and I get to meet all sorts of extraordinary people. You will be surprised to hear who sometimes wants a good old chat with me. None more so than the folks featured in my next grim tale, so read … please read on.

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17 T he O ld N ecklace

R

ebecca Dagstine stared vacuously at her harsh reflection in the cracked mirror. What a way to spend my twentieth birthday, working my shift at Chuck’s Seafood. She teased her long, flowing red hair with her slender, calloused fingers, shiny black polish adorning the nails. She giggled wickedly at the image, as she realized it was just as evil as ever—perhaps even more so. Placing a menthol cigarette to her thin lips, and blatantly ignoring the no smoking sign hung in the restaurant break room, she lit it as she remembered fondly when she first succumbed to her desires. It was on her eighth birthday, twelve years ago to this very day. She lived at the orphanage that had taken her in after her young single mother had died bizarrely, apparently by strangulation. Closing her eyes, she vividly recollected repeatedly bashing the head of her young, delicate blonde-haired roommate with a softball bat. The authorities and counselors said she had almost killed the girl. The other children said she was a she-devil. In fact, they said lots of cruel things. They claimed that her mother had been just as evil, and that is why she had been murdered. But as the memory of the bloodletting replayed in her mind, she smiled sadistically at how the sweet, glorious scent of the blood had made her feel. She had gotten caught for that one, with the bloodied bat still in her hands, laughing hysterically. After that they sent her to

7 0 — P.S . G i f f o r d

that special home. That day had taught her a valuable lesson—don’t get caught again. She, by some means, managed to endure the home for the next six years by somehow suppressing her increasingly mounting dark desires and whims. On the day of her eighteenth birthday, she had been released to the world under the watchful eye of a probation officer, Mr. Brookes. He had found her this pathetic job as bus girl at Chuck’s, a job she hated with a passion, yet it allowed her to be free. He also had found her a dingy, cramped apartment on the harbor a mile from the restaurant. I cannot believe I have worked here for two years. Just then Mr. Richards, the pompous restaurant manager, blasted into the employee break room and barked at her. “Break was over five minutes ago, Becky. We have a full house of dumb-ass tourists to feed out there, damn it. Move it!” Three hours later, her disconsolate outlook suddenly changed when she saw it—or more accurately, was drawn to the peculiar and exquisite necklace adorning a woman’s scrawny neck. She was dining alone, and for good reason by the look of her, as she appeared somewhat terrifying to Rebecca. She must have been in her late sixties and wore a long black gown; her graying hair hung scraggly halfway down her stooped back. No indication of makeup appeared on her somber, sagging, colorless face, and her flabby cheeks quavered as she greedily chomped upon her bowl of clam chowder. However, her deep set gray eyes were the most unnerving of her features. To Rebecca, those gray eyes seemed to be permanently glaring unblinking about mercilessly. Yet, the dazzling strange lure of the necklace dangling from this palpably frail creature became increasingly tempting. It would be a perfect addition to my ever-growing collection. It took several failed attempts and the unnerving old broad’s third cocktail before Rebecca managed to strike up a conversation with her target. After some light and mind-numbingly trivial banter, the woman begrudgingly divulged to Rebecca that she was traveling alone. Once she began to chatter, she didn’t stop. She introduced herself as Mildred. Rebecca fawned and acted concerned at her alcohol consumption, and Mildred assured that she was not driving, but that she was staying in a nearby bed and breakfast attending an annual


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reunion. As she cackled on, Rebecca’s mind formulated her brutally simple plan, as she had done so often before. At the end of her shift, she noted happily that Mildred had finished her fourth drink. This is going to be all too easy. She mindlessly restocked the glasses in a side station. After her list of closing duties was hastily completed, she clocked out and waited unnoticed in the unlit parking lot. Rebecca did not have to wait long before Mildred also left. Being a cloudless night, the full moon provided plenty of light and shadows for Rebecca to both stalk and conceal herself. She contemplated her plan fervently as Mildred made her way with surprising swiftness and agility along the tree-lined Harbor Street. Rebecca followed for a few minutes, awaiting the perfect opportunity. Shortly, she was rewarded as Mildred foolishly took a short cut through a darkened alley. Rebecca pounced as agile as a cat, and Mildred crashed harshly to the graveled ground, and her head smacked against a sharp rock. Rebecca became satisfied as the blood began to copiously flow, and without hesitation or remorse, ripped the necklace from the limp body. Then, and without a single glance back, she began to run. As she silently raced home adrenaline began to pump excitingly through her veins. If she had bothered to look back she would have gotten a big shock, as Mildred had pulled herself up from the ground and was laughing hysterically. Twenty minutes later, Rebecca arrived at her dingy apartment and opened herself a can of beer. She felt the necklace in her pocket. This isn’t such a bad twentieth birthday after all. She walked over to the bedside table, and placed the necklace lovingly next to the dozens of other pieces of jewelry spewed carelessly on the dusty veneer; rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings and a gold watch were all assembled there. Each piece held a memory of a brutal act, and each one she cherished. Grabbing a second can of beer, she switched on her television set and sat on her bed. “Happy birthday to me,” she softly sang as Vincent Price came onto the screen in some old, late night creature-feature movie. Ninety minutes later Rebecca finished her fifth and final beer as the closing movie credits began to roll. Getting up and stretching lazily, she once more examined her new prize, which seemed the most valuable of all. It was a heavy serpentine gold chain and attached were

7 2 — P.S . G i f f o r d

a dozen strange and fascinating charms, in designs she’d never seen. Feeling a sudden, overwhelming compulsion she picked it up, giggled excitedly, and placed it around her neck. The clasp easily closed, and the coolness of the gold prickled the hairs on her bare flash. Examining her reflection in the bedroom mirror she was satisfied with her night’s efforts. “Poor Mildred,” she whispered, “poor old Mildred.” Suddenly, she grasped her neck. The necklace gradually began to tighten. Panicking, she frantically attempted to remove it, fumbling for the clasp. Frantically, she tried to undo it, yet all her efforts were hopeless. Horrified, the chain penetrated her flesh, which began to tear with the pressure and blood started to slowly trickle and drip onto her carpet. Within moments the drips transformed into a steady stream. Whimpering, terrified and desperately fighting for air, Rebecca finally collapsed upon the blood stained carpet.

n A few miles away Mildred sat in her room at the bed and breakfast, as fit as ever. And as an ancient grandfather clock in the gothic-themed parlor began to jubilantly strike midnight, she sat contentedly with twelve of her dearest and oldest friends as they had done for over one hundred and fifty years. They sat about a round table in the historical bed and breakfast in that most infamous of towns, plotting and enacting their revenge on the Dagstines, the very same bloodline that began the devastating witch trials so long ago. And as the annual meeting of the Salem witches meeting commenced, they clasped hands, and Mildred chanted appropriate and revengeful incantations.

n

G

ood riddance… that’s what I say about that! So dear reader, if this story teaches us nothing, the next time you see a nice old lady I hope that you remember your manners. And speaking of manners, dinner manners just happen to be one of my pet peeves. Yes, please understand, even Imaginary Friends have pet peeves. The next tale is about some folks who simply didn’t know how to behave around the dinner table. Read on, dearest reader… please read on.


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A

re you feeling hungry? To tell you the truth, I’m absolutely famished and could eat just about anything. Which brings me to the next story, which is about a charming, yet extraordinary, dinner party. What could make a dinner party so extraordinary, you say? Well read on, dear reader, and find out…

n

18 W atts

for

D inner

T

he doorbell rang; a deep somber chime that echoed through the large Victorian house, discretely positioned miles from its closest neighbor. Edgar Watts methodically gazed up from the pot he was stirring, stared at the kitchen clock, nodded to himself and exited the kitchen. The kitchen was located at the rear of the property and he unhurriedly made his way along the long dark hallway, which led to the front door. As the doorbell chimed again, he paused for a moment to straighten his black tie in the hallway mirror. Finally, seemingly satisfied that he was presentable, he opened the door. Standing there, huddled on the entrance way, stood four couples. “Finally,” a cry came. “It’s bloody nippy out here, and we thought you would never answer the door!” Edgar simply smiled and waved his hand in a beckoning motion. “Welcome and please do come on in everybody.” The small party quickly shuffled inside, and Edgar dutifully took their coats and systematically placed them in the front closet. He led the small party into the dining room. At the far end of the room a fireplace cracked away with burning logs, and a few of the party walked over to warm their hands. “Where’s Emily? Is she still putting on her finishing touches for the party?” Audrey asked as she rubbed her slender fingers together over the inviting flame.

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She always asks far too many bloody questions, Edgar thought as he glanced at her. “Something unexpected has come up,” he said. “Do you mean she’s not here?” Albert, Audrey’s equally annoying husband, said as his pencil thin moustache twitched. Edgar smiled at him; a sinister smile that made Albert back up. “Don’t worry,” Edgar answered as he looked at each of his guests in turn. “Emily will be making an appearance this evening, I assure you.” The eight of them were directed to sit at the dining table, obviously curious at Emily’s apparent disappearance. It was, after all, her party. It was always her party. And these were her dearest and closest friends assembled. It had been planned months ago, as an opportunity for Emily to brag about her latest travels. Apart from Audrey and Albert, there were the Wilkins, Steve and his third wife Samantha, Cuthbert and Hilda Sizemore, and finally, Alan and Julie Kent. “So how was the trip to Africa?” queried Cuthbert. “Another rollicking adventure for you, eh Edgar!” Edgar gave another flimsy smile. “Naturally I was not as keen as my good wife about taking this trip. On her insistence, as you know, I have traveled to all sorts of bizarre places. But I cannot quibble, can I? It is, after all, her inheritance she is squandering, and her poor deceased father’s astounding ability to earn money has given me—I mean us—a fabulous lifestyle. A lifestyle that, I must confess, I’ve grown exceptionally accustomed to. “However, I happened to find this particular trip most educational. You see, my passion for old books led me to discover an historic manuscript of ancient recipes. Of course, it wasn’t in English, but I had one of the old-timers in the village, after some considerable persuasion, translate it for me. Legend has it that the natives in this particular village used to live to well over a hundred years of age. All frightfully interesting stuff, I can tell you, and I could simply not wait to get home to experiment.” He chuckled to himself, and then, almost as if he was afraid that he had said too much, quickly added, “Who’s up for a glass of claret? I’ve uncorked a particularly fine specimen.”


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The carafe was hastily passed among the guests. “Dinner is ready!” Edgar watched his guests with disgust as they gulped down the last of the wine without having the decency to appreciate its complex nuances. Edgar proceeded to go back to the kitchen and after a few minutes returned carrying a silver plated soup tureen. He tenderly placed it onto a buffet table situated adjacent to the dining table. As he lifted off the tureen’s lid, he seemed delighted as its sweet and delicate aroma wafted throughout the room. With obvious satisfaction Edgar, as all eyes were upon him, served the steaming hot broth into matching silver soup bowls, and sat a bowl in front of each of his guests. “Silver does not interfere with the soup’s distinctive flavor, please understand,” he informed them as he watched his guests eat. “Awfully good soup, Edgar,” cooed Samantha. “Yes, I simply must get the recipe,” added Alan as Julie nodded in agreement. Edgar did not eat the soup himself, but simply attended to his guest’s needs. He uncorked a less complex red wine, refilled the carafe, and poured glasses of sparkling water. “The water will help cleanse your palate between courses,” he explained. The appetizer was served up next, again on silver plates. “This is a dish that I’m particularly fond off.” Edgar presented a plate to each guest in turn, but did not eat with his guests. “You might be able to discern some of the obvious ingredients, the red peppers and capers, for instance, but I am quite confident that there are other, more complex flavors you might not be able to determine. Keeping secrets is a chef ’s prerogative, I’ve always felt.” As more wine was served, hushed theories began to be whispered amongst the various couples. “They’ve probably had a big fight again, just before we arrived,” Audrey said to Albert as she placed an unladylike heaping forkful into her mouth. As she chewed she continued, “I am sure that she’ll be down anytime now.” “I’m delighted that everyone has eaten every bite so far!” Edgar said as he cleared the emptied plates. “I just hope that everyone has

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saved plenty of room for the final course. It is an exceptionally special and unusual dish.” Edgar once more left his dinner guests alone, and headed back to the kitchen. Several minutes elapsed, and the guests began to feel anxious. Finally, the door swung open and Edgar pushed into the dining room a serving cart with a large pot on top. He trundled the cart next to the buffet table, and wasted no time in serving the dish. “This is a rather exotic meat stew,” he explained as he generously portioned it out into bowls. “I’m quite certain that none of you have ever tasted meat like this before.” The bowls were served. “Enjoy!” Edgar proclaimed. For a moment they sat there, looking suspiciously at Edgar, and then one by one they picked up their forks and began to eat. “I say, another great meal!” Steven said. “Yes, this meat is absolutely delicious. And so tender,” Samantha added. “But why aren’t you eating, Edgar?” Hilda questioned as she noted that once more Edgar was simply watching them eat. “Oh, I shall later,” Edgar answered. “And besides I created this particular feast especially for all of you.” “So you say that this recipe was in that old recipe book you found, eh Edgar?” Cuthbert pressed. “What exactly is this strange meat we’re eating?” “As I said, a good chef is allowed to have his little culinary secrets. Let us just say that the Angini tribe had quite the adventurous palate.” “The Angini tribe? But surely they are the tribe infamous for cannibalism?” shrieked Cuthbert. He was a scholar of such matters. “Damn it man, please tell us what we are eating!” Steven cried, as he spit out his mouthful of food. “And where is Emily?” Just then the dining room door once more swung open.


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“I am here” she answered. “I was upstairs making preparations for your stay here.” As she spoke she walked slowly over and affectionately kissed Edgar on the cheek. “I don’t understand,” said Cuthbert. “What in the heavens is going on? Oh my God, what is happening to me? I am beginning to feel strange.” “I expect you all need an explanation,” Edgar said thoughtfully. “You see on this trip Emily and I found we had something in common after all, a desire to live for as long as possible. This shared passion added vigor to our marriage such as it had never known before. We actually fell in love all over again! We had heard of the Angini, as you had, Cuthbert; how they were rumored to live beyond a hundred years and more. We simply had to discover that secret.” Edgar talked at a frantic pace and beads of sweat formed on his pulsating brow. The dinner guests, who were now desperately attempting to remain conscious, frantically tried to hang on to hear every word. “We discovered that recipe book,” Edgar continued. “Yes, it does indeed describe cannibalism. Only you don’t cook the flesh, apparently that destroys the remarkable benefit; you simply devour it raw, seasoned with a few subtle herbs and spices. In that enlightening manuscript we also unearthed another astonishing secret recipe. A sort of sedative and preservative all-in-one, concocted from the flesh of a certain stripe-bellied sand snake. You see, that was the delicious meat that you ate. Within a matter of minutes your body will turn into a zombie-like coma. Don’t worry, your sense of pain will be numbed, at least somewhat. But I’m afraid, alas, your mind shall be completely conscious and you will unfortunately be able to hear and watch everything.” With that Emily reached under the buffet table, and picked up a gas powered chain saw. “It is time for our romantic dinner, Edgar,” Emily sweetly announced. “It looks like we shall have enough food for about a month.” “Thank you, darling.” Edgar replied as he blew her a kiss. “Please allow me to carve.”

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ell, well, well, if that one didn’t get your appetite going, I don’t know what will. But, before you go off to prepare a delicious meal, might I suggest that you read my next little story? I am sure that you will enjoy it… Read on dear reader, please read on.


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H

ere is a story I heard from a very distressed lady, very distressed indeed. She woke up in a hospital and you will never guess what happens next. Well dear reader, you don’t have to guess! Read on, dearest reader, read on…

n

19 T he F ine P rint

J

enny Winter’s terrified eyes peeled open. “Where am I?” she cried.

A thin, tall lady wearing a perfectly pressed and spotless white uniform was standing at the foot of the bed Jenny was lying in. She nodded at her and slowly approached. “You’ve been involved in a dreadful car accident, my dearie,” the lady whispered in a soft, comforting tone. There was something both unusual and yet familiar about the voice. She’s a nurse, Jenny realized at once. Her tired eyes began to focus and she tried to comprehend her surroundings. Without moving her head Jenny’s eyes quickly scrutinized the room. What appeared to be a chart hung on the wall, directly facing the bed. The small room’s walls were white—a bright shining white. To her right there was a white door which was closed. There was nothing else in the room besides the bed and the chart—not a window, a picture, a trash can, a fire extinguisher—nothing, not even a clock. She soon realized that her back was bandaged, and the slightest movement caused her acute pain. Her arms were scratched and bruised. She wore a crisp white hospital frock, and the material felt harsh against her skin. How long I have been here? I need to go… I have so many things that I need to do… People are going to worry. Do they know where I am, for Christ’s sake? I wonder if Brad knows?… My god, my Brad… She attempted to sit up with a sense of urgency, but the immense pain in her lower back made her recoil and she collapsed back into the

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bleached white linens. Glistening diminutive droplets of perspiration trickled from her forehead and stung her eyes. “It so hot in here!” she murmured. “So damned hot.” The nurse stared at her without any discernible expression on her nondescript face. It was then that a strange thought struck Jenny—if someone asked her to describe the nurse, she would have difficulty as the nurse had no distinguishable features, no imperfections, yet the face, despite being without flaws was not a pretty face. “That’s just the fever you have, dearie. You’re burning up something terrible and you have been for days,” the nurse said. She paused for a moment as she looked at Jenny, and pulled a white packet from her uniform’s pocket. “We are going to have to take a vile of blood, I’m afraid. If we are going to help you, we’ll want to run some tests. It’s for your own good.” She smiled reassuringly at Jenny and added, “Just routine you understand, dearie. It won’t hurt a bit. I promise you. Not a bit.” Jenny grimaced as the expression on the nurse’s face seemed to contradict her words. And besides she had heard that old clichéd line all too often before and when spoken, pain always followed. She directed her eyes to the name tag pinned neatly upon the lady’s white jacket: Lilly. Lilly walked over to the chart, and examined it for a moment. Jenny observed powerlessly as Lilly turned and proceeded to take an ominous large needle from her white jacket pocket, and advanced towards her grinning. Jenny’s eyes enlarged within their sockets as she watched on in terror as Lilly reached over her and awkwardly thrust the needle deep into her arm. “Shit!” Jenny shrieked. “Be friggin’ careful, that hurts like the Dickens.” Lilly simply sardonically smirked back at her almost mockingly, “Almost over, dearie… almost over.” Jenny trembled as she watched the vile fill up with her blood. “Why are you taking so much?” she asked. Lilly did not respond.


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Finally with her facial expression revealing that she was contented by the result, Lily heavy-handedly pulled the needle from Jenny’s arm. Holding it in front of her, looking satisfied, she, without acknowledging Jenny, walked to the door, opened it and vanished outside, closing the door behind her with a slam. She was gone, leaving Jenny Winter alone with her arm throbbing, trapped with her thoughts. That’s odd, Jenny realized. It’s totally quiet in here… In fact, it’s so quiet I can hear my own heart beating. Once more she studied the room, as her mind began to try to decipher the maddeningly illusive series of events that brought her here. What the hell happened? She frantically tried to remember. What the hell happened? It was then that a vague image darted through her memory. She desperately tried to seize it, to examine it, albeit, just the briefest of moments. She closed her eyes and focused upon the scant imagery that now haunted her mind. “Yes, yes it is coming back to me now.” She almost smiled at the sweet memory. Yes, it was a most gorgeous summer day. We were speeding along in my 1976 red MGB. I was driving and Brad was in the passenger seat giggling and teasing my hair with his masculine fingers. We raced down the mountain road full of life and vigor singing merrily along to some silly old song on the radio. We had just spent the weekend together at his family’s cabin in the mountain, and he told me how much he loved me. Yes, it’s all coming back now… It’s becoming clearer. I remember the truck heading towards us. It was going so fast, so very fast. It’s going to hit us, I remember thinking. It’s going to damn well hit us. All at once the contented expression on her face was replaced by one of terror, and tears of sorrow trickled down her pallid cheeks. Oh God, I remember the earsplitting screeching of brakes and the horrific sound of smashing steel, breaking glass as the vehicles collided. I remember the pain I felt in my back and I remember the blood. Dear God, how I remember the blood. I can clearly recollect the moment just after the accident. I remember that my sweet darling Brad’s head had gone through the windscreen. He wasn’t moving. Why hadn’t she insisted

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that he wear his seat belt? Why… why… why… ? God, now I remember feeling dizzy, so very dizzy. I tried to hang on, but the smell of those dark fumes filled my lungs. Yes, I remember trying to hold on, being unwillingly dragged into a state of unconsciousness. But most of all I remember that I screamed out loud… I’ll do anything if Brad lives… anything. She opened her eyes to discover Lilly standing over her again. “The powers-that-be need your signature, miss, I’m afraid. You know what bureaucrats are like. They say if they’re going to complete the tests you must sign this.” Lilly placed the electric bed into a sitting position and Jenny slowly whirred upright. The pain in her back made her cry out. A heavy pen was thrust into her hand, and a short form was positioned in front of her. She tried to focus on the print, but her stinging, aching eyes refused to cooperate. “Just routine, miss,” Lilly said in a matter-of-fact tone, “just routine.” Again, she paused before continuing. “Besides, when you sign it we’ll be able to give you some pain medicine, and then we’ll let Brad in to see you. He’s waiting outside, you know, and he has a lovely bunch of brightly colored flowers. You would like that, wouldn’t you? “Brad’s here?” Jenny asked. “Oh my god—thank goodness—that means he’s okay… that he survived the crash. I was sure that he—I mean I could have sworn that he was—” Lilly cut her off mid sentence. “Trust me, Brad is completely healthy.” Jenny, despite her pain, smiled at Lily, and grasped the pen in her shaky fingers. “Show me where to sign,” she said. Moments later she had signed her name in three places on the document, and noticed something unusual about the ink. “That’s funny,” she said as Lilly quickly pulled the document away and began to fold it. “That ink, it was red… a deep, dark red.” Lilly leaned over, placing her now laughing, sneering, contorted face within inches of Jenny’s and whispered, “Oh no, that’s not ink, that was your blood you signed this very special document with.”


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The door opened and a dark haired man in a black suit entered. He walked over to Lilly and grasped the document in his fingers with his long, black pointed fingernails and studied the pages. He said, “Excellent job, Lilith, yet another soul. Mine for all eternity… ” They began to laugh, and as the demonic laughter bellowed from them, echoing through the room, the once white walls began to turn a deep, intense blood red. Jenny, now fully understanding where she was, and what that document she had signed in blood meant, began to scream…

n Brad stood above the grave and read the inscription out loud. Jenny Winter 1982-200 6 A

s w e e t a n g e l i c s o u l ta k e n f r o m u s f a r t o o s o o n ;

M ay

s h e r e s t i n e t e r n a l p e ac e .

As Brad placed the brightly colored flowers next to the stone he didn’t attempt to fight back the tears that fell. He whispered out loud, “The doctors said it was a miracle that I survived. But surviving without you beside me, my sweet dear Jenny, is certainly not a life worth living… ”

n

A

nd the moral of the story is, dear reader, always be cautious when you sign anything. Read that fine print! If you think that was a gruesome little story you should read the next one I would like to share with you. Read on...

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A

s I said previously, this is a gruesome little tale, inevitable in nature. Please read on, dear reader.

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20 I nevitable

G

raham shook his head from side to side. “Damn!”

“Whatever is the matter, darling?” Mildred answered in her most patient and understanding tone. Having being married to him for many years she knew all too well he was prone to tantrums. “I still haven’t finished this story, and I simply must do it. I know this is the one that is going to sell, and finally, the world will realize how awfully talented I am! I feel like I have been working on this bloody project for years,” Graham replied with frustration evident in his voice. “I’m sure you will come up with something appropriate, darling. You always do,” Mildred said in her softest tone. Graham looked up at his wife, who always managed to both encourage and inspire him, and suddenly resumed his relentless taptap-tapping upon his keyboard.

n Phil Rogers liked graveyards. In particular, he enjoyed them in the middle of the night. It was far more exciting admiring them by moonlight. So here he was, in the very heart of the glorious Yorkshire dales at just before midnight, standing fascinated next to a tomb. It was quite an ordinary tomb to the casual observer; constructed out of modest white local stone. Yet he knew, oh so well, that there was a wonderful and disturbing dark secret attached. He took out his Flanders ghost hunters travel guide and re-read the account that had made him drive up from Oxford to investigate.


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n Graham Chance wanted to be a writer. In fact, his desire was so great that when he inherited his rather substantial family estate, the money was quickly spent in an attempt to realize his illusive dream. He self-published four novels, printing off thousands and thousands of copies, sure that they would sell and that he’d be heralded as one of the greatest writers of all time. Yet poor Graham missed one crucial element required to make this dream a reality: talent. His books were scorned and ridiculed by the critics and simply ignored. Barely a single copy ever sold. He did, however, have one devoted fan; a certain Mildred Roberts. Mildred was a humble farmer’s daughter and not only did she love Graham at first sight, she also believed him to be a brilliant writer. They were quickly married and lived a modest existence together in a small Yorkshire home. Rumor has it that one fateful day, Graham began writing a new story for his upcoming self-published book and he desperately wanted to woo the critics with this one, which he considered his finest. He spent six days and nights without a moment sleep attempting to write and rewrite each clumsy sentence. Each change he made became increasingly worse. Finally, Graham went completely out of his mind. They say that he began to scream feverishly from his writing desk and ripped large chunks of his hair out. As his beloved Mildred came rushing in to see what the commotion was, he reached a wild state of rage and madness, and as she tried to restrain him, he fought her. Moments later, as he slowly began to regain his sense of reasoning, he saw to his complete and total horror that his true love and only fan lay silent and motionless upon the faded carpet. Her head was positioned against the stone mantel and the delicate curls of her flaxen hair were covered by her own blood. Graham apparently was so distraught by the comprehension of his gruesome actions that he took his letter opener, the one that had opened countless rejection letters over the years, and without hesitation thrust it deep into his heart. They were buried together in the heart of Yorkshire.

n

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Phil abruptly stopped reading and examined the nondescript tomb in front of him. Is it my mind and ears playing tricks on me? Surely that is the sound of gentle tapping. Phil shuddered and tried to regain his composure.

n Graham stopped typing. “What’s wrong now, dear?” Mildred cooed. “I’m sure I can hear someone outside,” he whispered, picking up his letter opener. “I think I’ll go out and see who’s disturbing my writing.”

n

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nother corker of a tale that last one, didn’t you think?


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ou must understand and appreciate that being an Imaginary Friend with firsthand experience, I have come to understand fully that things are not always as they first appear, and people do not always act as you would expect them to. Contrary to what you might expect, it is the most ordinary of folks that often perform the most extraordinary undertakings. Take the next charming story, for instance. If I hadn’t heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, to coin a phrase, I would have hardly believed the rather astounding tale to be genuine. So what are you waiting for, dearest reader? Please read on…

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21 T he G astronome

I

am what you might call a gourmand. Food, please understand, is my complete and obsessive passion. I dropped out of school and began working in kitchens prepping vegetables and washing dishes when I was twelve years old — and gradually worked my way up to the very top of the trade. I am proud to say that I’m a chef by trade and after many years of hard work, study and dedication, I managed to rise to the impressive status of a four star Michelin chef in my native country of France. During my fifty-six years I have traveled the earth several times over in pursuit of the ultimate culinary delicacy, and have felt thusly inspired to have written three bestselling travelogues of my eating adventures. (You are no doubt familiar with my name, yes?) I’ve eaten some bizarre things on those travels, allow me to tell you. I have consumed items that would surely make you recoil and squirm, everything from pickled monkey brains, deep-fried cockroaches (surprisingly good), poached pigs’ feet, and many other epicurean delights. One particular delicacy I experienced in China, however, carried me to new lofty culinary heights. Please allow me to explain…

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It was four months ago and my three week tour of China was quickly coming to an end when, and after much discussion with the guide I’d hired for my culinary excursion, he begrudgingly informed me that there was one taste unrivalled by any. Yet, he hastily added, this dish was certainly not for the squeamish or the faint of heart and required a certain amount of self sacrifice. Legend had it, if prepared just right, the dish was by far the definitive gastronomic experience. So that is how, to cut a long story down to size, we ended up traveling at night by train to the heart of the country. I managed, aided by several generous measures of Red Star Erguotou Chiew (I keenly recommend it), to doze on the journey only to be awakened at the station. The journey continued, to my amusement, by a cow-pulled cart along dusty roads for almost two hours to a very isolated Shuizhang village. My tour guide led me to an obviously ancient stone house on the very outskirts of the small village. I could not help but think, as I affectionately gazed about, the Chinese must have lived liked this for centuries, and whereas the big cities were becoming increasingly modernized, the modern world had had minimal impact here. Inside the stone house, I met with a tantalizing array of curious aromas. A woman of undeterminable age, nodded to me in greeting as she stirred pungent greens over a wood fire. I inhaled the smell of smoke infusing the straw baskets piled along the walls and the slabs of pork drying from the rafters as the sound of cows and chickens filtered through the floorboards from a pen beneath the house. I profoundly understood that whatever I was about to eat, it was going to be nothing if not memorable. I soon discovered that the lady didn’t speak French or English, and as I unfortunately do not speak Chinese, all communication had to be done using my guide as a translator. I watched in greedy expectation as the lady dished some dark green broth into a bowl and placed it in front of me. She muttered something, and the guide informed me that this was going to soothe me. I lifted the clay bowl to my nose and breathed in its peculiar aroma. I prize myself on having excellent powers of fathoming ingredients purely by the aroma of the dish alone, yet this one defeated me. I placed the vessel to my lips and tasted it. It was acidic and spicy and rather refreshing. I soon finished the bowl as the lady and my guide watched on with evident approval.


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I must confess what precisely happened next I cannot recall. I must have fallen asleep, sound asleep, presumably drugged. I awoke to find myself sitting at a wooden table. I had no feeling in most of my body, and my fingers felt alien as I ran them over the wood. I tried to stand, but I had no strength. I was angry; I looked around in desperation for my tour guide. It was at that moment that a horrible thought struck me—I was miles from anywhere, in a strange stone house in the middle of a tiny village, seemingly isolated. What was worse, the only person who knew I was here was my now missing tour guide and the strange lady. However, soon the lady appeared carrying a covered clay pot and once more smiling at me. She placed the tureen in front of me and, after giving me a very curious look, removed the lid. I was instantly overcome by the most sublimely seductive fragrance I have ever experienced! I peered in to discover that the meal was some sort of a stew. There were various root vegetables and small chunks of meat in an almost translucent gel-infused broth. I found that lacking sensation in my hands made it hard to eat, but I clumsily persevered. I managed to coax a piece of the peculiar meat into my eagerly awaiting mouth. Oh my goodness... There are not simply enough superlatives contained in the language to explain how divinely exquisite the flavor was. It was delicate, balanced and subtlety sweet. I did not recognize the flavor yet somehow, on some level, it was strangely familiar. By the time I devoured the entire contents, the feeling returned to my hands and feet. It was only when I chanced to glance downward that I screamed… I suddenly became horrifyingly aware as pain now thwarted my every rational thought. You see, my left foot was gone. What remained was nothing more than a stump wrapped in blood stained bandages. At first, I was incredibly angry. The pain was intense. I attempted to stand with every intent of placing my hands around the lady’s neck, a lady who now cackled wildly at me. But the taste of the meal still lingered in the back of my mouth. Whatever pain I was experiencing, whatever permanent infliction had been done to my body, I strangely felt myself craving more. It was a desire and compulsion I had never experienced before. At that moment my tour guide sheepishly re-entered the room. He cautiously examined the expression on my face. I nodded, and he came and sat by me at the table.

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He explained that human flesh is the tastiest meat to the human palate, and flesh from your own body is the sweetest of all. As I said, that was four months ago. I need to finish this, as I am just about to eat my favorite meal once more. Both of my legs are entirely gone now, and I am considering just how much I need my left arm…

n

W

ell, dear reader, I am sure that story got your appetite all revved up. I know mine is. One advantage of being an Imaginary Friend is I don’t have to worry about pesky things like calories, and I must admit to having a ferocious appetite. For my next tasty tale I wish to share with you a startling story of an American visiting a quiet town in the north of England. What on earth could possibly happen that is so startling, I hear you ask? Well… .read on, dear reader… please read on.


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W

elcome, dear reader… Welcome. Have you ever had a compelling dream? A dream so tantalizing that you needed to follow it? Well, dear reader, here is such a tale. And you will never guess where this man’s dream lead him… And guess you do not have to, as all you have to do is read on, dear reader…

n

22 H ome I s W here

the

H eart I s

T

he alarm clock went off and rudely threw him back into consciousness. He was angry for a moment, but remembered why he had the alarm set for such an ungodly hour as 5:00 a.m. Today was the big day. James Ingrid had long held onto a bizarre dream—to catalogue several of the most haunted graveyards in Yorkshire, England. He had always held a peculiar, perhaps even irrational, love for that part of the world. On the day of his thirtieth birthday he decided to make this dream a reality. This day had been planned for months, as today was the beginning of a two week vacation from his high-powered job at the Blyton advertising agency in Los Angeles. All the appropriate arrangements had been dutifully completed, and after showering and dressing he filled his travel mug with a steaming cup of Yorkshire blend tea, walked outside and locked the door. He took a rather large sigh… The airport limousine was obediently awaiting him, precisely on time, and promptly rushed him down the 405 freeway and onward to the Los Angeles airport. The flight was surprisingly comfortable and as he sat there dreaming of the days ahead he studied the maps and old travel guides he had accumulated since childhood. Eleven hours later, the plane began its descent into Heathrow Airport. Staring out of the window, he found himself overcome with the beauty and charm of the green fields that surrounded it, being a

9 2 — P.S . G i f f o r d

vividly sharp contrast to the grey, freeway-riddled landscape of Los Angeles. James swiftly made his way through immigration and customs and retrieved his luggage. He checked his itinerary. Ah yes, Economy plus rental cars, there apparently should be a courtesy booth just along here. He looked up towards the exit and sure enough, he soon spied it. The bubbly redhead behind the desk flirted with him gregariously as he signed the forms “Are you ‘ere for business or pleasure, luv?” she said as her green eyes twinkled. “Purely pleasure!” he replied as she continually smiled at him. “I think I am going to love it here.” He winked cheekily back at her. Within an hour James cruised down the left side of the motorway in a brand new red convertible sports car, which the clerk had upgraded without extra cost to him. He gazed at the speedometer, a steady eighty-five; he felt an excitement he hadn’t experienced since he was an adolescent, and an uncanny air of anticipation filled him. This is going to be quite an adventure. James had always held a strange obsession with two things—Yorkshire and graveyards. He could never quite understand exactly why. However, he received a key indication the Christmas when he was fifteen. That was when he had discovered he was adopted. It had come as a complete and absolute jolt. Try as he might to discover the identity of his “real” parents, the only information years of asking questions revealed was that he was born in Yorkshire, England, in the very heart of Wensleydale. Apparently, something unusual had happened to his biological parents, and someone had decided that it was in his best interest that he be brought to live in California with a distant cousin. Try as he might to discover more on the matter, his adoptive parents either did not know, or were hiding the truth. After several hours he arrived in York where he quickly found a charming pub on the river bank. As soon as he entered it everything felt strangely comfortable to him. He sat at a booth by the window and enjoyed an exquisite ploughman’s lunch, including several local cheeses and a pint of real Black Sheep Ale.


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As he finished his feast he studied his map. He reckoned it was about an hour’s drive to Middleham, and Leyburn, his final destination, was just beyond that. He checked his watch; it was 2:15. Perfect. I’ll still have a few hours of daylight after I arrive. With that he once more set off speeding towards the Dales. Within no time he found himself on winding, narrow roads weaving in and out of the marvellous green hills and fields. Eventually, he noted a sign for Witton, and knew his accommodation was blissfully near. Then he spied it, the “Wensleydale Plough Hotel,” his home for the next two weeks. Following the sign he parked the car in the back, after driving along the narrow side of the hotel and the adjoining building. Bloody lucky I am, driving a small car, he thought as he pulled in. He took in a deep breath of the fragrant Yorkshire air. Terrific, he mused. So much better than the smog I breathe in everyday. He was greeted warmly as soon as he entered the hotel. “Ah, Mr. Ingrid!” Mr. Pratt said, studying him. “We have been expecting you. Welcome to Yorkshire. My name is Thomas Pratt. I run this humble hotel,” he added, thrusting his hand out. James shook his hand. “How do you know I am Mr. Ingrid?” James queried; both alarmed and pleased by such an enthusiastic welcome. “We don’t get too many Yanks in this here part of the world,” Mr. Pratt said, still shaking his hand, “and I reckoned by the way you were dressed you were the American we’ve all been anticipating.” James smiled, finally released Mr. Pratt’s grip, and carefully examined the character standing in front of him. Late fifties, a little stout, plump red face, with a tuft of white hair and he was draped with an ill fitting suit, perhaps purchased several years ago when it had a possibility of actually fitting. Yet the man seemed sincere in his joyful manner and James felt at ease. “Should I give you a copy of my driving license and a credit card?” James questioned, used to the formality of American hotels. “No thanks,” came Mr. Pratt’s cheery reply, “we’ll be needing none of that.”

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With that he handed James a rather large and heavy key emblazed with the number twelve on it. “Top floor, at the end,” Mr. Pratt informed James. “Just up that staircase over there.” Mr. Pratt pointed to an eerie looking wooden staircase with thread worn red carpet, which reminded James of a set from a 1950’s English horror movie. “Dinner will be served at six.” And with that Mr. Pratt disappeared into a back room. James found his room to be just as he had expected it; modestly sized with a four poster bed taking up most of the space, and an adjoining bathroom. He flung his case onto the red velvet bedspread and peered out the window. The view was breathtaking; green pastures seemed to go on endlessly, bordered by the obviously ancient stone walls. Somehow, he felt that he belonged here.

n At 5:45 p.m. James had showered, finished dressing, and was growing hungry. He made his way back down the staircase and saw Mr. Pratt again beaming at him. “Would you like to sit and eat in the restaurant or the bar?” Mr. Pratt asked James looked at the welcoming fire in the bar and his mind was made up. Within a few moments, he enjoyed a lamb stew and his second pint of Black Sheep Ale of the day. His jet lag was beginning to catch up with him, and the warmth of the décor and the heat from the fire were having a marked impact on his attempt to keep his eyes open. He was half dozing when he heard a voice. “So you are him, are you, mister?” James looked up into the gaze of a well weathered man of about sixty in overalls and wearing a grey cap. “I say, so you’re him, are you, mister?” the man repeated. James sat upright and attempted to wake himself up.


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“Depends on who you think I am,” he replied cautiously. “You’re the American everyone’s been expecting.” His blue eyes appeared to penetrate James. “You’ve come to make our old graveyard famous.” This caught James’ attention. “Yes, I am him. Now tell me more about it.” All signs of jet lag were removed by the excitement of the mysterious graveyard. “I’ll do better than that, me lad, I’ll show thee… ” And with that, the curious stranger led James out of the hotel bar. As James looked behind him he could swear that everyone in the bar was watching him… and smiling. “My name is Mr. Price,” the odd man added. “It’s just a bit of a walk I’m afraid.” The two men set out into the night. It was only 7:30 yet darkness was beginning to invade the daylight, and the cool night air seemed to go straight through James’ flesh to his bones. He shuddered and tightened his jacket around him. After about fifteen minutes, Mr. Price spoke again. “Right through this old gate, mister.” He pointed to an ancient wrought iron gateway. The gate groaned as it slowly swung open, seemingly in complaint of being disturbed. By now, darkness was complete and the only illumination was from the moon overhead. James examined the shadowy site that met his eyes. “Yes, yes… This is perfect!” he exclaimed. “This shall make wonderful photographs.” He began to examine the ancient tombstones more closely. “This cemetery dates back to the seventeenth century,” explained Mr. Price. “But there is one gravestone in particular I want to share with you.” Mr. Price led James to a far corner of the graveyard and gleefully pointed to a headstone. “Here lay the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Withers,” Mr. Price said. “They were buried here 28 years ago.” Mr. Price’s expression suddenly looked forlorn as if he was reliving some ghastly experience.

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“They were pure evil… Straight from Hell its very self. They were Americans full of foreign ways… We had to kill them. We had to. They were going to destroy the village as we knew it. They were exposing the youngsters in the town to all newfangled and horrible ideas. They questioned traditions that we have held sacred for centuries… Centuries I tell thee. What would have become of us all if people began to heed these fanciful and misguided ideas?” James listened intently. “Trouble is though, they had this baby, see… A few of the local lady folk seemed convinced he should live, and they smuggled him out of the village.” James went white and shuddered in fear. A noise caught his attention and he looked up straight into the cheery face of Mr. Pratt carrying a pointed stick. The rest of the faces from the bar were there also and all with similar ominous weapons… Mr. Price pointed to a grave which evidently had been freshly dug. James read the inscription on the small characterless headstone and screamed… James Ingrid 1976-200 7 M ay

god forgive him

“We’ve been expecting you.” Mr. Pratt’s voice chanted as the mob circled him. “We’ve been expecting you.”

n

A

nother charming story don’t you think, dear reader? I am sure that you are considering or maybe even reconsidering your vacation plans this very moment! Perhaps you might do better staying at home and working in the garden, just as Julian decided to in my next jolly tale. Are you curious about what happens to dear old Julian? Well, you should be—it is rather grisly, I must admit. Read on dear reader, please read on.


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I

t is funny where danger lurks, don’t you think, dear reader? I was told the following tale not so long ago. This one involves a mild mannered chap working in his garden. What possible dangers could exist in a man’s garden, you say? Well, read on, dear reader … Read on.

n

23 J ulian ’ s S hadow

J

ulian Clarke stood there in his pajamas, consisting of black silk shorts, a matching top, and a pair of sheepskin house slippers, with his oversized copper watering can in his hand precisely as he had done every morning since retiring from his modest job at the bank two years ago. Having never married he enjoyed a quiet and sedate existence without the interruptions that married men so frequently need to endure. Choosing to spend his free time precisely as he so desired, he listened to Baroque classical music, read literature, and lovingly tended to his pride and joy—the perfectly manicured secluded back garden of his detached bungalow on the outskirts of Barlow, Yorkshire. Despite being sixty-seven years old, he was a surprisingly sprite and agile chap, never succumbing to any bad habits in his life such as drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes. What is more, he exercised regularly by taking long, brisk walks in the surrounding countryside and maintained a healthy balanced diet. As he stood there that morning, affectionately gazing at the various vegetables, flowers, bushes and shrubs through his stainless bifocals perched on his slightly oversized nose, he could not help but smile as he examined his favorite specimens. It was a typical September English morning. The previous evening’s light rain had refreshed the air, which smelled fragrant and clean as Julian inhaled deeply. This is the life, he considered as he watched the soft, gentle breeze playing with the tall branches of the numerous trees that surrounded

98 — P.S . G i f f o r d

his secret garden. In the highest branches a variety of vibrantly colored songbirds gaily sung their joyful melodies. He watched on, satisfied at the idyllic scene, and took another gulp of steaming hot tea from his mug. He began enthusiastically, humming a rousing rendition of the epic overture to Handel’s Water Music as he focused on the enjoyable duty at hand. Refilling his watering can from the garden faucet, and adding a perfectly measured amount of fertilizer to it, he once more set about his morning ritual. He was just watering the famed Rollings heirloom yellow tomato plant when a sudden and unexpected movement captured his attention from the very corner of his bespectacled eye. He abruptly turned, uncertain as to quite what to anticipate, and as he did so he dropped the watering can from his right hand, resulting in him spilling the hot tea from the mug in his left hand, allowing a small quantity to slosh and spill from his mug and splatter onto his bare leg. “Jiminy Cricket!” he exclaimed out loud, apparently loud enough to startle several birds from their branches, who responded to the unusual outburst by soaring from the trees and into the sky with a flurry of activity. Julian dejectedly watched on as his feathered friends left, making a mental note to refill his bird feeders when he had a chance. Returning his focus, he further examined the place in the garden where he was convinced there had been strange movement just moments before. “My own shadow. I’m jumping at my own bloody shadow,” he said out loud in disgust at himself as he scanned the area closely and saw nothing out of sorts. “Must have been a squirrel or something…” He retrieved the watering can from the grass, placed the tea mug securely onto the safety of the patio table, and continued with his task. His burned leg was now a constant reminder of his jumpiness, and he rubbed it, aggravated. No more bleedin’ tea for me today, he mused. A few minutes later, Julian once more busied himself with his morning routine, again energetically humming. He was about to water his prized cucumbers when he again noticed some sort of movement from his peripheral vision. This time he turned more quickly, quite convinced now that he hadn’t been seeing things the first time, and determined to try and catch it, whatever it might be...


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Once again there was nothing to be seen behind him other than his own shadow. Yet, as he studied the space more intensely than he had before, something seemed oddly amiss. He stood there, puzzled and somewhat uneasy in his usually tranquil garden, and vigilantly further examined the sight in front of him. It was at this curious moment that he became highly aware of all the other shadows, which now seemed to Julian to be encroaching from every nook and cranny of his beloved sanctuary. He had certainly observed the very same shadows countless times and never once before gave them even so much as a second thought. Nonetheless, there was something strangely disturbing about them this day. It seemed to Julian, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, that the eeriest of them all were the ones flickering upon his recently constructed garden wall. He had built the wall to separate his vegetables from his beloved roses, and he had painstakingly spent three months constructing it by hand. He had been delighted to discover the ancient, weatherworn rocks being sold off at a very reasonable price at a local church auction. The rocks had apparently been recycled from the grounds of the nearby centuries-old churchyard to raise much needed funds for a new church roof. “That vicar did seem so awfully keen to get rid of them,” he muttered out loud as he once more examined the old stones and bricks. He returned his gaze back to his shadow, and was about to continue on with his chores. What was that? Julian’s mind screamed to him as he stood there motionless. My shadow surely jumped… Agitated by the unnatural sight he was convinced his eyes had just witnessed, and going against everything he had ever believed in, he diligently waved his watering can swiftly up and down and side to side, endeavoring to trick his pesky shadow. Yet, it obligingly, and somehow now annoyingly, followed his precise movements and gestures with undeniable precision. All at once Julian abruptly stopped, standing as still as a statue, and so did the shadow. He began to flap his arms wildly up and down, as if trying to take flight and the shadow matched his every move. Despite Julian seeing nothing out of the ordinary, qualms somehow managed to embed themselves in his reasoning, and he began to experience strange and paranoid thoughts unbefitting his normally

100 — P.S . G i f f o r d

logical calculating mind. My shadow is mocking me. He shook his head as his rational self once more dominated his thinking. I am going nuts, he thought, shaking his head. That is it—no more late night horror movies for me. They’re surely having a profound and definite affect on my sense of reality. Concluding that it was indeed his overly active imagination, he once more returned his full focus to the pleasurable task at hand, watering, and in doing so turned to face the morning sun, leaving his shadow behind him. Moments later, as the earlier qualms began to be suppressed; he felt it—a sudden tightness around the nape of his neck. He frantically endeavored to turn to see who—or what—was attacking him. His spectacles fell of his face and the garden became a blur... Fear unlike he had ever known filled his every sense. Feebly, he attempted to scream, but the air in his aching lungs quickly became depleted, and his scream ended up as nothing more than an agonizing, desperate moan. Moments later, as he fell to the grassy ground with a thud, crushing his glasses, he experienced an intense sharp aching sensation in his chest. As he desperately tried to breathe, he kept his eyes open, trying to decipher the blurred images. He could just make out, to his horror, a now familiar dark blob scurrying from his side and through his tomato plants. In one precise movement, it leaped towards the garden wall where the other shadows appeared to be dancing wildly in celebration…

n T hree

months later

As Mr. and Mrs. Ward stood next to the estate agent in the small kitchen looking out into the overgrown back garden, Mr. Ward sighed. “So you say the last owner of the house died of a heart attack in that back garden, eh?” “Yes, I am afraid so, and they say he was in tip-top health to boot. Just goes to show you never know what the future holds,” Mr. Cleven, the realtor, said thoughtfully. “But please do take into account that is why the house is being sold below its appraisal; it seems a lot of folks


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have been put off by that. But I have a feeling that you aren’t superstitious, are you?” He smiled. “And you have to admit the house is in perfect condition, and is well suited for a young couple starting out with a family.” He glanced at Mrs. Ward’s bulging stomach. Mrs. Ward laughed, “Aye, I’m due in just under three months, so we need to get something sorted quickly. This is by far the best house we’ve seen and the price is certainly right.” She looked out the back window. “And that garden, after John cleans it up, will be absolutely splendid. What a charming and safe environment for our child to play in. She’ll be safe as anything out there. And that old wall, how gorgeous is that? We’re going to have to keep that, it looks as if it belongs out there… ” Mr. Ian Ward looked at the radiant smile on his wife’s freckled face, and then to the eager look in Mr. Cleven’s eyes, as he diverted his eyes from the garden he failed to see the shadows gleefully celebrating the arrival of new owners. Reaching out a hand to the realtor, he spoke confidently, “We’ll take it. Show me where to sign; it’s absolutely perfect… ”

n

P

oor old Julian, don’t you think? I suspect that with the new family moving into the house that this story might not be over. My next tale, dear reader, is another corker, if I say so myself. Gary Hutchins is about to discover what I’m sure that all of you know by now—what goes around comes around. Well, what are you waiting for? Read on, dear reader… please read on.

102 — P.S . G i f f o r d

P

lease allow me to bid you a warm and hearty welcome back, dear reader. In acknowledgment of you sharing your precious time with me again, I feel rather inclined to reciprocate the goodwill and share with you a tale so gripping that you will not soon forget it. This one is all about a charming fellow I spent a few hours with not so very long ago. Well, what are you waiting for? Please, dear reader… Read on…

n

24 T he P eculiar A ccount

of

G ary H utchins

G

ary Hutchins sat alongside the pool at the cheap Vegas hotel in a faded pink colored lounger, drinking even cheaper bourbon. Despite the fact that he could afford better places to stay these days, he somehow felt more comfortable lodging in dive hotels and motels. And besides, in these kinds of joints he paid cash up front and no one asked any pesky questions, like what his name was or why he was in town. He was dressed in denim shorts and a grayish-white tank top, which exposed the elaborate tattoo of the devil on the entire length of his right arm to the very best affect. Gary was in particularly high spirits, in fact, he was celebrating. Over the last four days he had held up six different liquor stores all over Las Vegas and had accumulated more than six thousand dollars from his villainous spree. Not too shabby, he considered as he took another sip from the highball glass. And so what if I had to shoot that old man, it was his damned fault for trying to stop me. What was he thinking—trying to draw his pistol on me? That old revolver of mine has saved my ass many a time now. “Come join me, Gary!” he heard and he stared at the old pool and saw Jenna splashing about, the fake blonde washed-up bimbo he’d met two nights ago in the dimly lit hotel bar.


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“I can’t, baby. I can’t swim, remember?” he replied, shaking his shaved head. He watched for a few moments, without any sign of emotion, as her generous, well proportioned figure splashed in the old pool. Something about the scene made him disconsolate. The image of Jenna in her tight bathing suit sparked a memory he desperately tried to repress. Yet there was that memory now, replaying in his mind as if it had only happened moments before, to a time thirty plus years ago to when he was four. He had been playing with his mother in their back garden pool; it was a stifling hot and humid August afternoon. The phone rang and she climbed out of the pool and raced to answer it, forgetting all about him. He had almost drowned, he remembered his young lungs filling with water and choking. He remembered the harder he tried to paddle to safety, the more water he inhaled and the more he seemed to sink. He remembered feeling light headed, as if he was going to fall asleep and in an act of desperation he somehow summoned all the last of his energy and let loose one enormous scream. And finally his mother returned, dived in and dragged him to safety. He remembered her sobbing as she sat next to him in the ambulance. From that day forward, he had never been in the water, not even a bath… He managed to snap himself out of his memory, and realized that tears had formed in his eyes, looking strangely out of place. He looked at his watch. Damn, look at the time… I have gotta get moving. I have always gotta get moving… Can’t risk hanging about here any longer… She’ll want to come with me, he thought as he studied Jenna. They always do. “I’m going to take a shower, baby. I’ll be back in a while,” he lied as he downed the last of his drink. Thirty minutes later, his suitcase was packed with his meager belongings, and he drove his black 1970’s Cadillac out of Vegas. Phoenix, here I come. It was one o’clock on a typically scorching hot Nevada August afternoon and the four bourbons he had had for breakfast were having a marked impact on him, yet he didn’t care, he knew that he had to move on.

10 4 — P.S . G i f f o r d

He flashed a toothy grin as he considered what he was leaving in his wake this time. Six robberies, one old security guard in intensive care, and yet another in a long string of sad lonely women in their early forties looking for one more chance at love. He snickered to himself. And not a single shred of evidence left behind connecting it to me. If he took the main roads, the drive would take him in a roundabout way and the trip would take at least six hours. Yet, according to his old map, there was a much more direct option, if he made use of the old abandoned mining roads. That would save at least an hour… he thought, satisfied. Forty-five minutes later his old Cadillac bumped hazardously along the mining roads, the well worn shocks bouncing perilously up and down. Shit, maybe this wasn’t the best idea I ever had, he considered as he studied the dirt road in front of him. Despite the air conditioning, Gary was beginning to get uncomfortably warm, and according to his engine light, so was his vehicle. “Come on, baby! Don’t give up on me now! I’m miles from civilization,” he yelled at his car. Then as he thumped angrily on the steering wheel, the Cadillac began to lose speed and steam began to force its way from the broken radiator to freedom in the sweltering Nevada air. “God-damn it!” he bawled as the vehicle finally came to a complete stop. He sullenly climbed out of the vehicle onto the dirt road and into the hot dryness of the desert. He kicked the side of the Cadillac with as much force as his frustration could muster and immediately winced at the pain in his foot. Cursing under his breath, he limped to the passenger door, opened it, and clicked open the glove box. He pulled out a map and his revolver. He jammed the revolver between his shorts and his waist, and opened the map on the hood of the car. He half smiled as he studied it. Heck, my guardian angel hasn’t deserted it me quite yet. If I’m not mistaken, there is a very small town just a few miles up the road! Grabbing his suitcase, the last half a liter of bottled water and a duffel bag crammed with the stolen cash, he set off on foot along the old mining road. After the first hour, he found that he had depleted


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the water bottle, and angrily tossed it to the ground. As it bounced along the parched sand it startled a scorpion that quickly scurried for shelter in a hole. As he continued his marching he became aware that his mouth was becoming increasingly dry. I’ve got to keep on going. That blasted town can’t be too much further. After almost three hours, he was sure that he must be getting close. By now he was experiencing dizziness and his legs were aching unbearable. As feelings of desperation began to overtake him, he suddenly noticed something—an old wooden sign, and despite the burning in the back of his throat he somehow managed to whisper it out loud. “Welcome to Willoughby.” A look of relief washed over his sun burnt face, and he scurried towards the town. Thank God… .I am going to live, he kept repeating in his mind. Gary scampered hysterically up the final length of the dirt road and through a wooden gate leading to the town. In disgust, he looked all about him: derelict buildings and not a single sign of life. Everything had long since been abandoned. All at once Gary screamed as the realization of what this town was etched itself within his reasoning. It’s a god damn ghost town. He fell down onto his knees and succumbing to exhaustion and dehydration collapsed completely onto the dry, dusty ground.

n Gary had no idea how long he laid there. He was awakened by a deep voice; he stared up through blinking eyes, relieved to see that the intensity of the sun had finally relented. A tall man with a narrow face stood over him, dressed entirely in black and smiling. “Howdy, stranger,” the peculiar looking man said. “Please, sir… I need water,” Gary mumbled as he endeavored to make his aching eyes fully focus on the figure. “I see!” replied the stranger as he casually scratched his head. “Got any money?”

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Gary scrambled to his knees, and took the duffel bag from his shoulder and pulled out a wad of bills and proffered them to the stranger, in a begging pose. “Please, please, take it all,” he whimpered. “In the name of mercy, just give me water!” The stranger eyed the money, reached down, grinned, and snatched away the bundle. Gary gasped as he noticed the long pointed fingernails. This time as he attempted to scream no sound came out. “As you so desire!” the stranger said as he began to cackle, revealing a long forked tongue… and then, as Gary watched on in complete terror, he vanished into thin air… Gary passed out.

n Gary opened his eyes and all he could see was water reaching far beyond the horizon. Stretching up he stared in every direction, to discover precisely the same vista—nothing but water. He comprehended to his complete horror that he was floating on a small wooden raft in the middle of a vast ocean. Where the Hell am I? Once more the sun was high in the cloudless sky burning down upon him. His thirst was beyond unbearable, and he could barely move his lips through the blistering. After the realization of his fate was completely apparent, Gary reached into his pocket, pulled out his revolver, with the very last of his energy placed the nozzle to his forehead, and squeezed the trigger.

n As the young couple raced back from the truck with the ice water, they watched on helplessly as the man they had just found moments before lying in the desert shot himself. “My god, why did he do that?” Sherry Wilkins said with tears in her eyes. “Couldn’t he see we were trying to help him?”


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Steve looked at his wife, and at the man who had just blown his brains out. “The sun has a strange affect on the mind, luv, I reckon all that heat and dehydration just sent the poor bugger crazy…

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ou see as an Imaginary Friend I get to chew the fat with a vast array of various individuals, from the rather dull and ordinary to the exceptionally deviant and infamous, and all sorts in-between! The next story I wish to disclose to you is about something that has most surely crossed everyone’s mind at some point in their life—yes, even yours, dearest reader—revenge! Read on, dearest reader… please read on.

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G

ood to see you again. I do appreciate our time together, don’t you? Here is a tale that I cannot wait to share with you. I must warn you that this is a particularly gruesome anecdote, and isn’t recommended for the faint of heart. This is a classic tale of revenge, but as you might imagine things aren’t always as they first appear. Read on, dearest reader… please read on.

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25 T he N efarious P lan

E

ric Bell took one final glance back at the grey-walled prison. “Seven-and-a-half years in that god forsaken dump,” he murmured into the bitter Chicago morning air. Breathing in deeply, he pulled his old pea coat tighter about his frame. When he had arrived years before at the prison the coat had been a snug fit, yet now it hung loosely on his now diminished and weathered physique. Seven damn years, he considered for a second time as he shuffled purposefully down the deserted morning street to the bus stop. As he made his way he played over the iniquitous circumstances of his incarceration repetitively in his mind, and now as a free man, he could finally seek his overdue retribution. That odium had sustained his motivation to survive the ordeal, next time; the outcome was going to be different. Eric Bell, once upon a time, had everything—a solid, respectable job at a bank with promising prospects, a modest apartment situated in the most fashionable part of town, and his most important prize of all… a fiancée. Sally Higgins was all he had ever desired, and yet so very much more. They had loved each other at that very initial awkward fleeting gaze, at the back of his college accounting class, and their love had continued to flourish every wonderful day thereafter, until that most flawless of days when he had finally proposed, and she had without hesitation accepted.


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As he waited at the bus stop, with an aloof impassive expression chiseled on his prematurely aged face, he smirked sadistically on the inside. Revenge was finally going to be his, and he would savor every nefarious moment. Avenging his beloved Sally had become his only reason to continue breathing. When the bus eventually pulled up, the driver cast him a knowing, cold glance as he boarded, obviously used to just-released prisoners taking his route. Eric solemnly headed towards the back of the vehicle. As he stumbled along, the morning commuters avoided his stare, afraid to make eye contact with him. He winced at them as he sat knowing what ghastly thoughts about him must be racing through their imaginations. My God, what have I become to instill this fear? Have I now become such a monster myself, with my festering hatred? Regaining his focus, he continued to contemplate over the one day that would haunt him forever, allowing its miserable memory to motivate him on his mission. For him, life was worthless without Sally.

n Eric and Sally had been out celebrating their engagement, drinking and exuberantly enjoying themselves in their favorite local pub— Murphy’s. They were young, they were immeasurably in love, and they were blissfully happy. As they drank and giggled, Eric barely paid attention to Paul and Liam Mitchell, consuming their numerous pints of Guinness and ogling his betrothed. Scrutinizing the generous curves under her clinging pink cashmere sweater, how her thigh teasingly exposed itself as she crossed her exquisite nubile legs, not perceiving that each time she tantalizing licked her painted red lips, a primeval passion stirred deep within the brothers’ alcohol-sodden minds. As it was a beautiful, summer Chicago evening, Eric and Sally decided to walk home as was often their habit, still relishing each other’s company. As they meandered and chitchatted along the familiar downtown streets back to Sally’s home, they were completely oblivious to the fact that they were being stalked. Upon arriving at her doorstep, Eric kissed Sally softly on her lips, and allowed himself one more intoxicating breath of her fragrant

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hair before he began his walk on home alone. Just as he let go of her embrace, still locked in her eyes, the door swung open and Sally’s mother, Faye, coughed politely to get their attention. They chuckled, and with Faye peering on approvingly they finally said good night. As Eric walked he began to whistle. He was beyond happy; life at that moment was utterly flawless. It was then he heard a familiar and callous laugh. What are you doing?” the oldest Mitchell brother said as he puffed on his hand-rolled cigarette. The younger brother laughed again and took a generous swig from a half empty whisky bottle. He cringed for a moment as he recalled how they use to pick on him. Once a bully, always a bully, he thought as he continued his stroll back to his apartment. I am best off just ignoring the bastards. Late the following morning the phone rang. It was a Saturday, and Eric yawned lethargically as he answered it, so very sure that it was his Sally. Yet, he was wrong. It was Faye, and he realized in an instant that something horrific had occurred, by the cold quivering timbre of her tone. “Something dreadful happened last night,” she confirmed as if she had to force the words out. There was an uncomfortable pause for a few moments, and she continued on slowly. “My very worst nightmares have been realized.” Eric suddenly felt his world collapse about him, and his body began to tremble. The phone went silent, as if more words were too arduous a task. Eric immediately told her he was coming over and flung out of his bed, threw on an old pair of jeans and a shirt, and drove frantically to Faye’s house. As he pulled up, he noticed two police cars and an ambulance were portentously parked outside, and several neighbors were standing outside their homes whispering to each other and pointing. Eric raced into the house and discovered Faye in the living room, trembling and weeping, talking to a young police officer. “Is this Eric, her fiancé?” she asked Faye, who solemnly nodded in response. “Come with me,” the officer said, as she led Eric into the kitchen. “I have terrible news. There is no other way to tell you. I’m afraid… Sally is… dead. Faye discovered her this morning. She had been bound


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by her ankles and arms, and she had been,” she paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue, “sexually assaulted. I know it’s extremely difficult, but I need to ask you a few questions about last night.” As he gave her a detailed account, he wished that it was he who was dead. His grief-stricken mind screamed in agony. Who would do this? Why? It was at that very moment, with the police officer looking on inquisitively, that he suddenly remembered the Mitchell brothers. He remembered seeing them in the pub. He remembered that he had kept catching them staring at Sally, but most of all he remembered seeing them just after he left Sally’s house. It was at this precise anguished moment that he understood it was they who had done this. The police, however, despite a barrage of circumstantial evidence, were unable to uncover any solid clues or facts to substantiate Eric’s theory. The district attorney allowed it to go to trial nonetheless, and for two long weeks Faye and Eric sat silently in the courtroom watching the brothers stand in the dock and lie. They listened to the defense attorney manipulate the jury with one carefully conceived lie after another. Finally, the brothers were acquitted of all charges. Eric’s life quickly spiraled recklessly out of control after that day. He began drinking increasingly more in a futile attempt to ease his insufferable pain. Yet his hatred only persisted, to inflame further until he could not stand it any longer. As a result of his disturbed state of mind he lost his job a month later, his boss sympathetic to his plight, but steadfast in his decision. Two long, miserable months passed and Eric spent the last of his final paycheck at Murphy’s pub when he saw them, the Mitchell brothers. They were drinking, playing darts, and acting as arrogantly as they always had. Eric’s pent-up anger suddenly spawned into insanity and something snapped deep at the core of his reasoning. He suddenly smashed his empty beer bottle violently against the bar top and lunged at the youngest brother, Liam, with the jagged glass, screaming maniacally as he went. Overtaken by rage, he thrashed his weapon against Liam’s neck, and he was rewarded by the sight of warm gushing blood. Eric experienced a strange euphoric sensation of satisfaction. But then he felt a hard thump on the back of his head as the older brother, Paul, slammed a bar stool over it.

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Eric awoke to discover that he was handcuffed in the back of an ambulance, and a police officer was standing over him. “You’re lucky, buddy,” the cop informed him. “That fellow you attacked is going to live.” And that is how Eric had come to be sentenced to prison. For nearly eight years, he had sat silently in his grey-walled eightfoot-by-six-foot cell and considered his plan. As he ate, showered and exercised each day. He continued to manipulate the increasingly brutal details in his twisted, yet coldly conniving mind, of how to instill the perfect revenge.

n The bus pulled into its final stop, riveting Eric back to the present. Murphy’s pub was just half a block from the stop and despite being nine in the morning, it was already open and half full. As he entered to have his first Guinness in seven years, he studied the room. It had not changed since the last time he had been here all those years previous. As the bartender poured his pint he examined him with distrustful eyes. Eric decided that before he fulfilled his plan, he should go and visit with Faye. She had always been so tender and accepting of him, and she was the only other person who could identify with his torment. He must tell her of his intended revenge, and let her know that the Mitchell brothers were about to be dealt with, once and for all. He finished his pint and nodded goodbye to the bartender, who eyed him suspiciously the whole time he had been there. Once more, he walked the several blocks to Faye’s house, the same walk he had made so many times before. He paused as he reached the driveway. This house had been so very beautiful once, perhaps the finest on the entire street. The garden had been abundantly alive with a mass of brightly colored flowers and always so impeccably maintained. Yet now it was badly neglected and was nothing more than an overgrown mess. The house itself, once so neatly manicured, was also starting to show distinct signs of ill repair. Paint was beginning to chip, siding was missing in various places, and the windows were covered in thick grime.


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He made his way slowly up the paved entrance way, beginning to wonder if seeing Faye was really such a rational idea after all. It was entirely possible that she might even call the police, and tell them all he was about to share with her, yet he somehow felt compelled. As he stood outside the door, on the very spot he had last seen and touched Sally, he paused for a few moments, closing his eyes tightly shut and reliving the joyful memory. Finally, he rang the bell. There was no response, no sounds of movement from within. He tried again and stepped back down the entrance way getting ready to leave. Just before giving up hope, he heard the door being unbolted from the inside and it gradually opened, creaking portentously. Eric was taken aback by the figure that stood in front of him. Surely this must be Sally’s grandmother, and not the elegant Faye who always took so much pride in her appearance. Her shoulders were stooped, and her face dirty and wrinkled. Gray, sunken, vacuous eyes stared down at him, and then blinked as a slight sign of recognition flickered deep within them. She said no words, but nodded and beckoned him inside. He walked up the steps and entered the house, which held for him so many warm glorious memories. The air smelled stale and of a fetid stench that he could not recognize. He allowed his eyes to slowly examine the front room, in an attempt to uncover the cause of the revolting odor. It was precisely the same furniture as he remembered, only now it was covered with thick layers of dust, which made it somehow appear haunting, almost as if the house itself had died. He fixed his gaze upon the sofa where he and Sally had used to sit, hold hands, and giggle at the simple delight of each other’s company. Once more, the unbearable ache of intense abhorrence towards the Mitchell brothers began to fashion itself in his gut. He fully understood that only one course of action would diminish his anguish—their deaths. Faye perhaps noticed the strained expression on Eric’s face, or even somehow sensing precisely what he was feeling and considering, suddenly gazed straight at him and spoke. “There is something that I desperately need to show you.” Her voice was weak and strained, yet strangely calm. Faye walked from the sitting room and through to the back room, and on into the adjoining kitchen. As he watched, she proceeded to lift up a door, which was set in the middle of the floor. It was funny though, he

11 4 — P.S . G i f f o r d

had been in that kitchen a hundred times or more and he had never noticed it before. But he assumed that it must lead down to a cellar. “Follow me,” she whispered as she turned on a soft overhead light and began to take herself down the old stairs. Bewildered and yet oddly intrigued, he dutifully followed. As he made his way down the staircase the stench made him want to vomit, yet he somehow forced himself together. He was baffled as to why he was being brought here. Moments later, they stood at the bottom of the stairs on the cold concrete floor and he understood the source of the putrid odor. Chained on the ground, were two bodies or at least what was left of them. Faye suddenly smiled. “You see, the Mitchell brothers have been down here for over seven years,” she said as Eric tried to comprehend the complete horror of the demented scene in front of him. “It was rather a simple affair, luring them here. I merely told them that I had found out who had really killed Sally and wanted to show them the evidence. Putting rat poison in the Guinness I served them upon their arrival was also far easier than I had planned. The strange thing is no one even missed them. The hard part of the task was dragging them down the damn stairs and shackling them to the ground. I think I did a fairly decent job considering I’m a little old lady, don’t you?” She gave a macabre giggle and continued. “The first thing I realized was that I had to stop the buggers from screaming, so before they awoke I decided to chop out their tongues. It was rather easy, actually, and I have to admit quite enjoyable. I used that thing over there.” She pointed to a rusty pair of garden shears. Eric studied the brothers closely. Paul looked up at him with terror in his only remaining eye. It appeared that both of his arms had been clumsily removed, and half of his right leg was also gone. By his side lay a bloodied hacksaw and several large buckets of what he presumed was the primary source of the revolting stink: rotting flesh. Liam still had both of his eyes. His flesh, however, on his arms and legs was just a festering mess of putrid puss. Next to him was an electric carving knife, a hand drill, an oversized pair of pliers and a variety of odd-looking bottles of chemicals, one of which he could read as being sulfuric acid.


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Faye continued in a distinctly matter-of-fact tone of voice. “You see, I realized that death was far too good for those goddamned sons of a bitch. So each and every day, for at least twelve hours, I am to be found down here torturing them. Over the years I’ve come up with all sorts of bizarre and different ways of accomplishing my task. I’m rather proud of myself. It is interesting, once you begin looking into it; there are so many excruciating ways to inflict immense pain on the human body. “Although they can no longer scream, I can gauge the degree of agony I’m inflicting by the level of torment in their eyes. The hard part is keeping them alive; death, you understand, would be far too good for these bastards. I often have to force food and water into their bodies with a funnel, and I have even had to nurse them back from the brink of death a few times, before I could get them back on to their regimen of torture. I suspect I’ll have at least two years left before their bodies finally quit, if I’m lucky.” As Eric continued to examine, with growing satisfaction, the Mitchell brothers writhing in agony, the ache in his stomach, which had been there for all those years, finally dissipated. Faye handed him a red-hot branding iron that had been sitting over a gas flame, and as he held it in his trembling hand. He gradually made his way towards the prisoners, with them grimacing at him, horrified and totally at his mercy. He found himself actually chuckling as he watched their eyes get wider as he approached. They still tried to scream reflexively, but the only sound produced was an odd, almost comical, gurgling noise. Yes, he at long last understood there was, indeed, justice in this world.

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nd Faye seemed so very pleasant when we first sat down to chit-chat over a nice cup of tea! It just goes to illustrate how wrong first impressions can accurately be. Here is a more uplifting account for you; this one is all about a blossoming office romance and a particularly unusual birthday gift… Curious? As you should be… Please read, on dearest reader… read on.

11 6 — P.S . G i f f o r d

I

am sure that all of you like to receive gifts, don’t you? I know that I certainly do. Yes, even Imaginary Friends have a weakness to the finer things in life. Not all gifts, though, are wanted, as my next tale clearly indicates. Are you interested as to what that unwanted gift might be? Of course you are! Well then, read on dearest reader…

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26 T he B irthday G ift

S

imon gleamed at the small crowd gathered in his over-sized corner office on the twenty-fourth floor of the prestigious Webster’s Advertising Agency. “You guys,” he exclaimed as he scanned the assemblage of employees. “I can’t believe that you actually remembered my fortieth birthday! I’m touched.” Just then Simon’s very shapely blonde secretary, June, who was dressed in a tight white blouse and a particularly short red skirt, entered the room, and confidently marched over and boldly kissed Simon softly on his surprised lips. “Well,” she declared with a coy wink, “aren’t you going to open your lovely presents?” Simon, smiling broadly, looked at his oversized mahogany desk where a dozen neatly wrapped packages in a variety of sizes, shapes and colors were neatly assembled. I am a lucky man, he thought. Not only do I have the number one sales position in the entire company, the best office with a splendid view, a top-notch group of colleagues, I have a gorgeous, young secretary madly in love with me to boot! A few moments later the office’s trash can overflowed with a bounty of high-end wrapping paper. A selection of compact discs, books, bottles of scotch and ties were neatly arranged on his desk next


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to a pile of birthday cards. He smiled smugly at his gifts. It was then he noticed it. One final small package sitting on his leather desk chair; he had strangely failed to spot it before. He picked it up and examined it. This gift was completely unlike the other glitzy packages for it had been innocuously wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. On the front, his name was printed in bright red ballpoint ink. “Odd,” he remarked to the now curious onlookers, “who is this one from?” He glanced in turn at each of the dozen employees still grouped in his office. No one spoke. He gently ripped at the paper. “It looks as if it is a picture or maybe something in a frame.” Then his smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of disgust. “It is a framed death certificate… a damned death certificate!” He cried, shaking his head in disbelief as he examined it further. “It’s even made out in my name, and appears to have been signed by an official coroner. Look.” He showed the certificate to June. “It has the California state seal on it.” June looked at the certificate. “Look at this,” she said. “It has today’s date on it.” Simon angrily looked up at the now shocked faces, seeing if he could detect by their expressions who might have played such a depraved prank. “How about you, Harry?” he yelled.” You were always jealous of me, weren’t you? Did you do this?” Harry shook his head from side and side, and muttered something. The mood of the office shifted instantaneously from one of celebration to an uneasy air of uncomfortable awkwardness. One by one his colleagues quietly and slowly filed out of his office, leaving June and Simon alone. “Well! That was a party pooper, wasn’t it,” Simon joked as he laid the framed certificate onto his desk. “It scares me.” June purred as she lovingly grasped his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Oh, I’m sure it’s just someone’s idea of a joke—a god-awful distasteful joke—but a joke nonetheless,” Simon countered, not completely convinced by his own words. “I still think it has something to

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do with that Harry Cushing. He always has been jealous of me—for years. And besides, I think he’s got the hots for you!” “Silly or not,” June said,” I say you should call it an early day for once in your life and come back to my house to spend the rest of the day there and stay with me till morning. You’re caught up with all your files, and no one is going to question the workaholic Simon Stevens if, for a change, he went home a little earlier than usual. And besides, I have a final birthday surprise for you.” The flirtatious look in June’s sparkling green eyes made Simon’s decision easy. Allowing his gaze to gently survey June’s ample figure he reached over and whispered in her dainty ear. ”How could any redblooded healthy fellow possibly refuse an offer like that?”

n Later that night, as Simon and Julie lay engulfed in each other’s arms on her queen-sized goose down bed, neither of them could sleep. They watched the clock ticking menacingly closer and closer towards midnight. They knew it was silly, and that the death certificate was surely some sort of a twisted hoax, yet the seeds of doubt had been well and truly planted, and were steadily beginning to flourish in their imaginations. The harder they tried to dismiss it as supernatural nonsense, the more the notion embedded within them. Each sound seemed to grate their nerves. At 11:45 they began to hear a peculiar screeching noise from outside the window. Their grip on each other tightened as they listened intently. A second screech sounded, louder more urgent than the first. Suddenly, they realized what it was. ”It’s just a damned cat,” Simon said. “A damned cat, almost scaring me to death… ” After what seemed like an eternity, the two of them watched the bedside clock as it ticked down the final seconds towards midnight. With each passing tick the intensity increased. The beating of the clock now seemed strangely in sync with the beating of their two hearts. With each passing moment more and more sweat began to drip down their anguished faces. Again they desperately tried to convince themselves that it was silliness, a juvenile prank, yet fear had taken hold


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of them. Finally, as if waking from a maddening nightmare, it was midnight. “See?” June said. “I told you that there was absolutely nothing to be alarmed about.” They lay there for a moment giggling at their own foolishness. Exhausted, they soon fell into a deep, blissful and peaceful night’s sleep. They awoke seven hours later to the startling sound of the alarm, feeling refreshed, still tenderly clutching each other. “How about I take you out for breakfast, young lady?” Simon asked. “Of course, boss,” Sally replied. “Anything you say!” Forty-five minutes later they were showered and dressed, and left June’s apartment. It was a lovely, clear summer morning. “How about fresh baked croissants and a cappuccino, dear,” June said. “I just happen to know the perfect little French-styled café bakery and it’s only a few minutes walk across the street.” “Sounds absolutely perfect, darling!” Simon replied. “In fact today everything seems perfect, and you, my love, most of all!” As they happily began to cross the intersection contentedly handin-hand they were so caught up in the blissful moment that they entirely failed to notice it—a speeding car which was racing recklessly towards them. When the car was only a few feet away, he furiously shoved June back to the safety of the curb. Simon, a split moment later, was harshly ripped from the ground by the vehicle and flung several feet into the air. June helplessly watched from where she lay on the curb as the man she loved flipped and flopped and finally landed with a resounding thud onto the solid tarmac. A steady gush of blood oozed copiously from his head. June pulled herself to her feet and raced over to him. “Nooooo!” she screamed as she sat down by his side. “This simply can’t be happening.” Within minutes, a crowd gathered around the gory scene, the ambulance and police dutifully arrived. June stared on in disbelief as they examined the bloodied body that lay motionless and shook their heads ominously. As she watched, the teenage driver of the car, apparently uninjured, was taken off in the back of the police car. One of the medics, spying June sobbing, walked over to her.

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“I have some dreadful news,” he said. “He’s dead.”

n Later that morning, Simon’s battered body lay in the storage facility at the coroner’s office. There was to be an argument between two men in the room. “You’ve done it again!” said an older man dressed in an expensive looking grey suit. “I’ve warned you about this repeatedly.” The other man, dressed in doctor’s scrubs with bloodstains on the front, fidgeted. “What have I done this time?” he asked. The man in the suit sighed before he answered. “There is a young lady here to pick up the death certificate. And you have only gone and done that stupid same mistake again. The poor, unfortunate man died on the thirteenth, not the twelve as you have indicated… ”

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et another corker of a tale wouldn’t you agree, dear reader? That one gave me quite a surprise when I was told it for the first time, I have to admit. As an Imaginary Friend sometimes I find it awfully hard to maintain the expected poker face as people tell me their stories. The next story is all about a chap taking his rather chatty wife for a quick getaway to the country. Rather thoughtful of him, don’t you think? Read on dear reader, and discover his shocking motivation for such a pleasant action.


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W

elcome back, dearest reader, welcome back indeed. Here is a tale sure to warm the very cockles of your heart; a story about a romantic camping trip to the Scottish coastline. Yet, as you may have already guessed, there is a jolly lot more to this particular tale than you might at first imagine. Curious? As you should be! Read on, dearest reader… please read on.

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27 T he S ticky H and

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F ate

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dgar and Edna Buttonwood were a typical middle-aged couple living in an equally typical semi-detached house in a respectable small town set in the picturesque Yorkshire Dales. They had been married for thirty-seven years, and had no children. Edgar managed a small local haberdashery shop on High Street. Edna never worked outside the home; she was a housewife, having married Edgar at just seventeen. She spent her day partially doing housework, and mostly nattering and gossiping to the neighbors. Her favorite topic was about how inadequate Edgar was, in every department. As they watched an old B&W horror movie that fateful Thursday evening, Edna was pleasantly surprised when Edgar unexpectedly announced that he wanted to take her camping for the upcoming four-day weekend. They awoke particularly early the following Friday morning, and whilst Edgar cooked his very surprised wife a full English breakfast, he whistled his favorite melody—Clare de Lune. Yet despite these attentions, the barrage of criticism soon began. Edgar, as he used his spatula to direct the fried bread, eggs, bacon, and black pudding to the two plates, smiled as he daydreamed. I surely would have been better able to endure the last near forty years of water torture, he thought. Yes, that constant drip-drip-drip of water would have surely been far more tolerable than Edna’s bloody continual

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verbal blitz. And besides, the water torture would, admittedly after some excruciating last moments, soon result in the peace and blissful quiet that accompany death. His smile vanished as he once more became excruciatingly aware of his wife’s piercing voice. “Well, are you going to just stand there looking completely daft, or are you going to give me my bloody breakfast?” she screeched in a voice similar to the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Edgar’s subtle, cheerful expression achieved by his daydream was quickly replaced. Seconds later, his usual forlorn look returned as he was brutally jolted back into reality. Forty minutes later, their modest blue Volvo was crammed with their camping equipment and supplies. Edgar looked at his wife and flashed a halfhearted attempt at a smile. “We are off then!” he said as he turned the ignition. They set out into the early morning light, down their graveled driveway and into the deserted street. Soon, as Edna was exuberantly informing him that he was surely going to get lost, he entered onto the motorway to quickly leave their neatly maintained 1950’s semi-detached house behind them. As he drove on, the verbal abuse continued unabashed; her unremitting droning wedging deeper and deeper into what was left of his sanity. He pushed a little harder on the accelerator. Just a little longer and she will be silent, he repeated in his mind. Just a little while longer and I shall finally know what peace and quiet is. After two and a half hours on the motorway, noting the signpost, Edgar got off the main road and continued along on a secondary road. As he noticed his petrol was low he decided to pull into a small roadside café and petrol station. Leaving his wife safely in the car, he proceeded to fill up his trusted old car. It was when he went inside to pay and to get himself a large black coffee that he could not help but question as to whether his wife had stopped talking during his absence. He was convinced, as he sipped on his beverage that Edna undoubtedly kept on carping and complaining even when there was no one to listen. Sort of like a nagging on autopilot. Thirty-five minutes later, Edgar steadily drove off the secondary road and onto a series of smaller country lanes. The caffeine from his large coffee made his mind buzz and pushed against his bladder. Finally, he saw signs to his ultimate destination: “The Firth of Clyde’s.”


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He could not refrain from smiling and enthusiastically began whistling Clare De Lune raucously. Edna moaned something about the noise he was making, and was curious as to why his normal sour face appeared cheerful, but at that particular moment he didn’t care. His grisly mission was going to be over before long and done with. Succumbing to his complaining bladder he pulled off the road, and still without Edna being silent for a moment, exited his car. Moments later, after his bladder had been emptied behind an unsuspecting spiky bush, he pulled an old road map from his jacket pocket and studied it. Just a few more miles and we shall be there, he considered contentedly as he calculated the final stretch of his route. He replaced the map, and still humming, made his way back to the car and Edna. Thirty minutes later, they arrived. He read the sign that greeted him. Welcome to the Clyde of Firth—a place where dreams are realized. Remembering clearly the direction from his map, he drove rather quickly down the main street of the town. It was then he spied it—a police car directly behind him. He glanced at the speedometer. Shit, I am five miles over the sped limit. He quickly slowed down, but the police officer stayed behind him. Edna found a new inspiration for her nagging. “I told you were going too fast,” she said. “You always drive too fast… One of these days you are going to get us both killed… My dear departed father always said I shouldn’t have married you… You have a wild streak, you do… .That copper is surely going to pull you over… It will ruin our whole holiday… .Why I agreed to go on this trip, I will never know… ” On and on she taunted. Edgar watched nervously in his rear view mirror as the police car turned off. He mopped the glistening sweat that had accumulated on his brow with his sleeve, and rolled down the window allowing a rush of cold air, much to Edna’s disgust, to whoosh around the Volvo. Got to keep the nerves together, old boy. It will be your nerves that ruin this perfect plan. He continued at a slower pace, out of the town, and towards the coastline. Within minutes Edgar smiled as he saw the place he had marked on his map. “There it is, Edna,” he said, pointing excitedly. “Isn’t that a fantastic place to camp?” He pulled off the main road and on towards his chosen spot. As he looked at the edge of the rambling rocks that rose high up above

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the ravaging grey current below, Edna actually paused, and gave a half decent attempt at a smile. But the smile quickly vanished. “I reckon it looks rather stunning… Spectacular, in fact. I’m sure there is something wrong with it that I can’t see yet… And I bet that we aren’t allowed to put up a tent here. Oh well, I suppose it’ll have to do.” They unpacked the car, and Edgar watched as Edna made cheese and onion sandwiches and a pot of tea. As she made lunch, Edgar set about assembling the tent, and as he worked he kept rehearsing repeatedly the plan in his head. I need to make it look as if it was a complete accident… It was after the tent was in place and they had eaten lunch that he chose to strike. Edna was just complaining about how they always went camping, how he was far too cheap to take her to a hotel. Edgar had packed a small axe along with his camping equipment, which he always brought with him on these types of trips for cutting firewood. Yet, that day, as he held it tightly in his sweaty fingers, it was about to be used for a far more sinister purpose—a murder. Edgar was surprised to discover that Edna’s slaughter was remarkably easy. All it entailed was a few quick blows to the back of her gray hair-covered head and it was over. There wasn’t but a gentle smattering of blood, and he meticulously cleansed his axe with the remainder of the tea. He sat for a few moments afterwards simply enjoying the now blissful silence. As a car raced down a nearby road, a few hundred yards from his tent, he realized that he had to quickly proceed to the next stage of his plan if he didn’t want to risk getting caught. All I need to do is toss Edna over the ragged cliffs. I suppose some might consider my idea primitive, but I’m sure it will be effective nonetheless. Next, it’ll be a relatively simple process to drive to the local police station, back in the town center, and with tearful eyes, explain as I blubber away how I had desperately warned her not to venture so close to the edge of the cliff as her balance wasn’t what it used to be. Even if they suspected foul play, there would be no evidence. Simple. However, it was when he attempted to move the now lifeless Edna that he realized he was going to have some unanticipated trouble.


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She must bloody weigh three hundred pounds, he thought as he attempted to move the stoutly body. Eventually, after using all the strength he could muster, he gradually managed to heave Edna closer and closer to the cliffs. Looking back behind him to make sure that he was still alone, he realized, to his disgust, that he had left an obvious telltale sign. In spite of being exhausted, he carefully removed his jacket, drenched in sweat despite the coolness of the afternoon. He noticed a broken branch with leaves still attached a few yards away, and conscientiously used it to sweep away the revealing evidence. Satisfied that all evidence of the dragging had been destroyed, he regained his composure and walked back over to where Edna’s body lay and looked down the cliffs. Brilliant, the tide is out, he thought as he stared down at the jagged rocks a hundred feet or more below. Edgar sat on the edge and rested for a moment, regaining his breath. As he sat there, still cherishing the silence, daydreaming, he accidentally kicked a stone that had been latched in the dirt at the top. Startled, he watched, strangely mesmerized as it fell, crashing against the toothed, pointed cliffs and came to a sharp halt with a resounding smack at the bottom. This is going to be quite a grim sight, watching Edna drop, he realized, both horrified and enchanted by the notion. “I best get this over with, Edna,” he said to the body as he stood above her and placed her arms over his shoulders. He took a deep breath and with one final, terrific effort proceeded to toss her over the edge. As gravity began to take hold, something strange happened. “Shit… Edna, let go of me,” he frantically screamed, as he became acutely aware of what was happening. Edna’s arms actually tightened about his neck, and this sent the two of them crashing down onto the rocks. As the razor sharp rocks gouged his back, his arms, and his legs, he screamed in agony until finally landing directly on top of Edna. He attempted to move and appreciated at once what dreadful fate had befallen him. “My god,” he cried in desperation. “I can’t move… My back… Oh, my god… I think I have broken my back.” He managed to move his eyes to Edna, lying below him and screamed again.

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Shit, she actually seems to be smiling at me. However, that wasn’t the worst of it. For you see as he lay there in agony, unable to move, with his dead wife seemingly mocking him, he managed to hum Clare De Lune for the very last time. Yes, he sadly hummed his favorite melody as he helplessly watched the tide, once more, come in.

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erved the old chap right, don’t you think dear reader? I have had the good fortune of meeting many wicked folks in my time. In my experience I have found that often the wicked actually look like the mildest mannered types you might ever encounter. Take the next story, for instance. Read on, dearest reader… please read on.


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A

h, good! There you are, dearest reader. I have been expecting you! The following tale I am most eager to share with you is one that I’m fairly confident that you shall not soon forget. It is the story of a seemingly ordinary, dull chap who has harbored a dark secret for years. Well, what are you waiting for? Please read on, dear reader… read on.

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28 C uthbert ’ s E piphany

C

uthbert Watson suddenly sprung awake. Damn, what a bloody nightmare, he thought as he turned to face his clock on the bedside table—3:06—the clock flashed its soft blue light. Cuthbert sighed. Shit, I’m never going to be able to get back to sleep. Cuthbert was a sixty-six year old man; however, his balding grey head and sagging grey eyes made him appear much older. He was a lifelong bachelor, claiming to anyone who might inquire, “I simply never met the right woman.” Cuthbert was content to live a solitary and modest existence. For thirty years he had worked sorting through letters, packages and postcards for the post office. He lived in a single bedroom council flat, a converted Victorian house which had surely been grand in its day, with oversized rooms, nine-foot ceilings, and brass lighting fixtures. But that day had long since passed. It was the very same flat which he had occupied for the last twenty-seven years, and all the furniture and decoration was precisely the same as the day he moved in. I suppose I should pee, Cuthbert mused as he clambered out of the warm bed. I have to pee an awful lot these days, he pondered lazily as he tied the thick cord of his silk yellow dressing gown about him. Just then, a dash of fur brushed against his leg, and he panicked for a brief moment before realizing that it was only his beloved black cat, and only friend, Mr. King. Regaining his composure he continued to the bathroom and switched on the dusty sixty-watt light. It was as he

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allowed the steady stream of yellow liquid to vacate his bladder that he noticed it—in his grimy bathtub—a wooden box. What the hell? How on earth did that get there? Cuthbert flushed the toilet and paused for a moment, choosing to simply stare and examine the strange, unexpected object, an old wooden box with an oversized clasp on the front and a double brass hinge. It was no more than eighteen inches long and eight inches deep. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and took a gulp. Now fully awake, his mind raced in search of a logical explanation. He could not find any. Finally, he stepped over to the bathtub, reached down and gingerly picked it up. The size of the box belied its weight and he almost allowed it to slip through his fingers. Cautiously, he carried it into the bedroom and placed it on his bed. He examined it for a few moments more, as Mr. King watched on until, seemingly bored with the proceedings he stretched lazily and curled up into a ball to continue his night’s sleep. I suppose I should open the damned thing, Cuthbert thought as he rubbed his hands together. Filled with a combination of both apprehension and curiosity he cautiously sat on the bed next to the box, and leaned over and unclasped the lock. Holding his breath, he gradually opened the lid. All at once Cuthbert gasped out loud as something that looked like a petite ventriloquist doll flew from the box and darted under the bed with remarkable agility and speed. Cuthbert jumped up, his flabby arms waving over his head in agitation. “What the hell!” he screamed out loud. Hesitantly, he knelt down on his faded carpet and cagily peered under the bed. He set his eyes upon it, but his mind could not quite grasp what he actually saw—a little figure of a man no more than a foot tall, dressed in a bright red waistcoat, black trousers, white shirt and a black bow tie, sitting there chuckling to himself. “Who are you?” Cuthbert cried, half in fear and half in anger. The little man looked up. “You’ll figure it out soon enough!” he said in a deep voice not befitting his proportions. He winked as he continued, “Tell me where you were on your twenty-first birthday?” “But that was over forty years ago,” Cuthbert cried.


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“Think!” the little man persisted. “Try to recall. It’s important.” As Cuthbert began to remember, a large droplet formed in his right eye. This surprised him as he had no recollection of ever crying before. Well, not since he was a small helpless child. “I went to a party,” he finally managed to stammer; unsure as to why he was revealing this to the little man. “And I drank and danced alone and then I saw this girl. Her name was Hilda, and she was absolutely the most beautiful vision I had ever seen or even dreamed of. She looked just like a Hollywood movie star, she did.” That first tear slipped down his cheek, and as others began to steadily follow he made no effort to dry them. “It was my birthday. No one cared about that. I wasn’t even invited to the damned party. No one wanted to talk to me, so I simply drank the cheap beer somebody had brought. The more I drank, the more I wanted Hilda. But every time I tried to talk to her, she just laughed at me. Eventually, the party came to an end, and I watched quietly as Hilda put on her red raincoat. Several fellows offered to walk her home, but she smugly declined. “I watched as she said goodbye to her friends. I watched her exit the front door I watched her walk down the garden path to the street. I watched—and then I followed.” “Go on,” the little man prompted, “tell me the rest.” “I followed her. I grew increasingly angry at the flippant way she had shrugged me off. It was my friggin’ birthday, and just one dance would have made me so happy. One chance to have my arms about her delicate waist and allow the scent of her angelic hair to fill my nostrils… I watched as she crossed the street and made her way to an alley that cut through the block, what must have been a short cut to her house. “It was a rainy, gloomy night. I remember suddenly chasing after her and knocking her to the ground with my fists. I stroked her long, soft blonde hair in my fingertips. My trembling hands tightened around her slender neck as the rage continued to build inside of me, and her angelic face began to contort and turn various shades of blue. She tried to scream, but the grip I had on her neck surely prevented her. I remember the intense fear in her pale, sapphire eyes as I extinguished her life on that wet cold pavement.”

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“How did you feel, Cuthbert?” enquired the little man, his expression not revealing any emotion to the horrendous confession. “Why, I did not feel anything,” Cuthbert answered sullenly. “I felt no emotion whatsoever. I just hurried on home.” “How many more were there?” the little man asked, looking straight into Cuthbert’s tearful eyes. “Every birthday since that first one, it became my birthday treat for me,” he answered not quite believing he was telling the peculiar little man this. He had never told anybody, never admitted what he had done, not even to himself. “Each year I traveled to a different city, and waited outside bars and night clubs. Eventually, a woman would leave alone and walk home. It never failed. And every year I repeated the routine.” Cuthbert sat down on the bed, his gray face wrought with emotion. “Who are you?” he screamed at the little man. “You’ll know,” the reply came as he crawled out from under the bed. “Yes Cuthbert, you’ll soon know!” He jumped on Cuthbert’s lap and looked deep into his eyes. “I’m someone you shut away all those years ago,” the little man continued. Cuthbert looked at him and he suddenly realized what he was. His heart filled with lament for all those innocent women he had left dead in his life’s wake. He could no longer withstand the guilt building in his heart—remorse. He’d never experienced any feelings of guilt before. “You’re my damned conscience!” he screamed all at once, realizing precisely what he was experiencing…

n It was almost two weeks before anyone entered the council flat. No one had been bothered about the absence of Cuthbert, but the neighbors had one big complaint—a strong smell started to permeate from his property. As the police officers knocked down the door, they retched from the putrid stench.


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I m ag i n a r y F r i e n d — 1 3 1

It didn’t take them long to find Cuthbert. He was in the bedroom, his rotting remains hanging from the ceiling brass light fixture by a yellow silk dressing gown rope. On the bed sat a very hungry black cat. But it was a most curious thing; the cat appeared to be grinning.

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ell, what did you think of that tale, dear reader? I suspect there was never any box, or little man—that what he saw was only in his mind’s eye! Guilt has a horrible way of getting back at you. There’s no way of hiding from your past. Trust me, I’m quite an expert in these matters. For my next tale, please allow me to share an account with you that begins innocently enough with a married couple attending the theatre. What could be curious about that, you say? Well, read on and you shall soon find out. Yes, read on, dearest reader. Please read on.

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W

elcome back, dearest reader—I have missed you. Next, please allow me to present a story about love. Perhaps you are not aware that I am a romantic at heart, and this particular story actually brought me to tears. Why yes, Imaginary Friends can be very emotional. Please read on, dearest reader… read on.

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29 T he O pening N ight

H

elen Anderson attempted to cup her husband’s hand tightly in hers as she read the marquee outside the restored Victorian dinner theatre. Eric just grunted. He always grunted. He would grunt as she got him his can of beer. He’d grunt as his dinner was placed in front of him. But most of all, he’d grunt at the television set. “Opening night performance,” she read with obvious excitement, undeterred by her husband’s lack of enthusiasm. They had been surprised when the handwritten invitation had arrived in their mailbox several days before. They had not been to the theatre in years. Eric complained it was too expensive and extravagant. As they walked up to the majestic entrance, she realized that it was conspicuously quiet. Still, it was early, and she reasoned most of the folks who attended these sorts of functions might be fashionable late. As they passed through the grand doorway and into the elegant foyer, a diminutive, bearded man clad faultlessly in a well tailored deep red suit adorned flamboyantly with bright gold buttons and a matching hat greeted them warmly. “A very good evening to you folks,” he said in a distinguished and articulate voice. “If you would be kind enough to walk to the door at the rear of the lobby, Humphrey will cheerfully guide you to your table. I hope that you benefit from tonight’s performance!”


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The Andersons dutifully proceeded through the magnificent foyer to the only other door. A second man appeared, as if from nowhere. He looked uncannily like the first, only his uniform was a dark blue. He swung the door open and ushered them inside. Helen was awed by what she saw as her eyes opened wide in an attempt to absorb every last magnificent detail. The theatre had been restored to its former glory. Giant statues were expertly carved into the walls and a luscious, red velvet curtain adorned the stage. About thirty tables had been set for dinner Helen noted, each one laid perfectly with silverware, wine glasses, champagne flutes and silk napkins. Yet, they were the only two folks in the theatre. Curiosity chipped away at Helen and she gazed intently into Humphrey’s sparkling eyes. “Where is everyone?” she asked. Humphrey smiled, nodded for them to take a seat, and answered in a slow thoughtful voice. “I suspect that you will find the evening rather enlightening.” With that he was gone. Eric looked down glumly at the menu. “This is how they trick you, the ticket is free, but you have to pay for dinner.” Helen examined the menu and animatedly read it out loud. “Opening night banquet—first course: charbroiled oysters with bleu cheese; main course: seared scallops accompanied by wild rice and steamed asparagus. Doesn’t that sound delicious! And for dessert there’s a chocolate soufflé with raspberry sauce.” Helen smiled with glee. “All of my favorites! How could they possibly have known?” The waiter arrived at the table. He was also a short man with a white beard, clad in an old fashioned formal black tuxedo. “Are you ready for a glass of champagne?” he asked. Eric sat up straight and peered at him. “There are no prices on this menu! I’m not ordering anything till I know how much it’s going to cost me!” The waiter winked with a hint of humor at his outburst. Helen squirmed uncomfortably in her chair with obvious embarrassment. “My dear man, everything tonight is on the house!” Eric’s face quickly went from a bright purple to a lighter shade of red as his agitation eased. “Champagne it is then!” he announced in his snobbiest voice, which sounded rather crass to Helen.

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She studied her pathetic husband closely. Whatever happened to him? He used to be quite dashing, once upon a time—my very own hero. Now he’s fat, uncouth, mean, and so damn cheap! But then again, I’m hardly the same woman that he married. I’ve allowed myself to go, also. Helen peered curiously about the still empty theatre, “What do you think is going on, Eric?” “Who cares?” he scoffed. “You heard the man—it’s all free!” A few minutes later they had consumed a dozen fresh oysters and several glasses of perfectly chilled dry French champagne. They were still alone, but were becoming less and less concerned. Suddenly, an announcement came in a now familiar voice over the microphone. “Act one is about to commence... ” Instantly, the waiter arrived back at their table with the entrees and a bottle of Sauvignon blanc. Politely and efficiently, he served the plates, and with expert fingers he opened the bottle of wine and poured two generous glasses. “Enjoy,” he said as he turned and marched away. The lights faded and the curtain slowly began to rise. As the curtain lifted the couple was completely taken back at what they saw. Two actors, looking very much like they did twenty years ago, danced alone in a tiny apartment. She remembered the scene at once—it was the night that Eric had proposed. Helen looked at the dapper young man on stage, and then at her husband across the table, and shuddered. He gave her a similar look. As Helen watched the scene beautifully unfolding, just as she remembered it, a tear formed in her eye. The handsome young man went down on one knee and took the ring from his jacket. She fumbled with the ring on her finger. She heard herself exclaim ‘Yes!” and the stage suddenly went black. Helen glanced at Eric. He wore a very strange look on his face. She guessed that he, too, was remembering. The lights came up on stage to reveal a second setting. They had shifted forward to the present day, in fact, to that very morning. They were getting ready for tonight. Helen cringed in horror at the vivid contrast between the two scenes. As they listened to the conversation on stage they grimaced. “Did you iron my shirt, Helen?” Eric-the-actor grumbled.


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“Iron your own damn shirt! I’m putting on my makeup. I want to look good tonight. We haven’t gone out in months.” “You’re going to have to wear an awful lot of makeup then!” Ericthe-actor snorted, apparently satisfied with his own wit. “And who needs to go out anyhow! We pay a small fortune every month for basic cable.” As their argument echoed through the empty theatre the curtain once again came down. They sat in silence as the waiter returned to the table to clear away the now empty plates. “Enjoying the show?” he asked them. “What the hell is going on?” Eric demanded. The waiter smiled. “Act two will begin in a few moments. I will return momentarily with a bottle of Shiraz and your chocolate soufflé!” He looked intently from Helen to Eric, and seemingly satisfied, he gave a gentle bow and once again left. Helen looked at her husband “What happened to us?” she asked. “We used to be happy, didn’t we?” Eric looked into her eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “I simply don’t know.” Helen met his gaze, and for a brief moment glimpsed the man she had fallen so desperately in love with all those years ago. As mysteriously as he had left, the waiter once again returned. This time he carried a steaming chocolate soufflé which he placed between them. He opened the wine with well rehearsed flair and once more filled their glasses. “Enjoy!” he proclaimed, before bowing away. The lights faded, until the theatre was in total darkness. The same voice came over the speaker system. “What you have seen is the past and the present. We will now present to you your future, as it is currently destined.” As Helen tasted the sweetness of the soufflé, the stage curtain gradually began to go up … This time a soft single spotlight focused on stage right. Its haunting glow revealed a much older, sadder Helen sitting in her front room. Everything looked faded and worn. The actress playing Helen sat in

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her favorite chair slowly rocking back and forth in total silence. She began mumbling to herself, and Helen strained her ears to listen. “Eric has been gone ten years now… Ten years to the very day. Good riddance! Best thing I ever did, kicking him out! I don’t need him. I’m much better off alone.” The last word seemed to linger, echoing in her mind. Then the stage, once more, went dark. After several long, agonizing moments the spotlight lit up the right side of the stage again. Eric and Helen looked on in horror at the sight that befell them. The actor playing Eric lay in a dingy motel room with an empty bottle of cheap bourbon beside him on the tattered carpet. He had obviously been dead for several days. The spotlight was extinguished and once again they were enveloped in darkness. For a few moments the Andersons sat silently, terrified to speak or move. The overhead lights flickered back on. The waiter stood at the side of the table which made the now terrified Andersons visibly flinch in surprise. “So how was everything?” he asked. “Who are you?” Eric demanded. “And what is this damned place?” “It’s a humble dinner theatre, sir.” With that he bowed and walked away. Helen watched in disbelief as he disappeared. Eric looked at Helen and she wondered what he saw – the present self or her former self. “I’ve been taking you for granted, Helen,” he said with softness in his voice she had not heard in years. With that they stood up and Eric clasped Helen’s hand with genuine affection as they quickly headed for the exit. “Let’s get out of this madhouse!” Eric spoke with a confidence that gave Helen a sudden chill of excitement. Her hero was back!

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As they exited through the foyer doors and out into the street they were completely unaware that a small, white bearded man watched on, beaming to himself.

n The next night, Eric and Helen contentedly danced the night away as they discussed plans for a second honeymoon. They laughed at the newfound love that had been rekindled by the previous evening’s experience. A few blocks down the street another scene unfolded as David Bradley scowled at his wife of seventeen years. “Veronica, I can’t believe you’re dragging me off to a damn theatre tonight… ”

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o, what do you think the future has in store for you? I can tell you this, dear reader, in your immediate future, if you simply choose it, will be yet another of my curious accounts—perhaps one of my most curious of all! Well, what are you waiting for, dear reader? Read on… please read on.

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W

elcome back, dearest reader. It is so kind of you to drop in again. The following curious account is one of the most chilling I’ve ever heard. I must confess this one was gleefully shared with me, and now I shall pass it on to you. Do you know what I am about to say? Read on, dearest reader … please read on.

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30 T he E ffigy

M

arjorie Wentworth hung her head low, and her face revealed not a sign of any emotion as she began the task ahead of her—finishing up her latest work of art in her conservatory. As she worked, she considered the events that had regenerated her creative spark— beyond what she had regarded as possible just a few days prior. It had been just over a week since she had discovered the almost unbearable truth. After arriving home earlier than expected one afternoon from an art exhibition she learned that Eric, her husband of seventeen long years was having a sexual relationship with Anna, their young foreign housemaid. And judging from the wild intensity of sounds she heard as she gradually ascended the staircase, quite a torrid one at that. She had swung the bedroom double doors open to catch them red-handed—not to mention red-faced—in the carnal act. It took them a moment or so to perceive she was there. Finally, she screamed, a long agonizing sound, created by anger and frustration, bringing their passions to an abrupt end. They had huddled pathetically in the oversized bed, and Eric hadn’t attempted to apologize. Quite the contrary he explained, in fact almost boasted, that the affair had been raging on for almost a year. He told her that Anna was young, vibrant and so very alive, in fact more alive and passionate than she had ever been. Marjorie supposed she should have been appreciative of the


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brutal honesty, yet the revealing confession filled her with a seething wrath Marjorie had never before experienced. Anna, in a state of hysterics, was instantly told to leave the premises and warned never to return again, to go back presumably to whatever foreign land she came from. Marjorie did feel some level of compassion for her, as she watched her packing and sobbing. She was young, naïve and still believed in romantic fairy tales and happy-everafters. It was blatantly apparent that she had developed deep feelings for her husband, just as Marjorie had done seventeen years previously. She, too, remembered the exhilaration of his touch, the ecstasy of a secret afternoon rendezvous, a young innocent mind filled with fanciful thoughts. Marjorie had met Eric, all those years ago, at a local church fete fund-raiser. And the sparks had been evident from that first gaze when their eyes had inexplicably met. He had flashed a coy smile and winked. That was all it had taken to steal her young heart. Despite everyone warning that he was a lazy lay-about and notoriously devious in nature, she foolishly agreed three months later to marry him, having completely succumbed to his boyish charms. She did not care that he had no career—or even the slightest ambition of attaining one. Furthermore, she was not concerned that he had no money. All she had thought about was that she had wanted them to be together for always. Her inheritance, after all, had been rather substantial, and had afforded her all the best things in life, and she was more than willing to share. Her family, due to some mechanical innovation her grandfather developed at the turn of the twentieth century, had been blessed with a considerable fortune. After they had married, they enjoyed all the finer things of life that substantial wealth afforded: traveling to exotic places, tailor made clothing, expensive wines and such. Yet after only a few short months of marriage the excitement began to fade to be replaced by lackluster routine. Eric occupied his days by writing in his study. He supposed himself to be a poet, and despite lacking any apparent ability, continually self-published volume after volume. Marjorie also found a level of solace in an artistic bent, her passion was sculpture. Despite his consistent bombardment of harsh words concerning her abilities, she often busied herself in the custom built conservatory she had added at the end of their long garden. She did not divorce the ingrate because in the 1940’s such things were not contemplated in polite society.

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After Anna’s departure, Eric and Marjorie returned, to the casual observer, back into their mundane separate existences for close to a week. Almost as they had been before; yet, not quite for you see, Marjorie had devised a plan. It was a relatively simple process to add the sleeping potion to her husband’s customary six o’clock cocktail. And he soon drifted into a deep sleep. With a little effort, sweating in an unladylike manner, she somehow managed to drag her robust husband from his study out into the back courtyard and along the damp evening grass to her conservatory floor. As Eric lay there, unconscious, she discovered it a maddeningly challenging process to keep him in the desired position for her to begin her work. She soon determined the answer to her problem: iron rods. She found that by tightly tying the iron rods to his arms and legs with wire she could maneuver his body to the precise position she had envisioned in her imagination. It was when she had begun to apply her proprietary blend of concrete to his feet that Eric opened his eyes. It took a moment for him to comprehend precisely where he was and what was, and a further moment to understand why he was unable to move. He hollered and threatened her, but his demeanor rapidly transformed as the process continued and he began to apologize. Marjorie hummed as she worked, ignoring his empty words and occasional sobbing. He began to implore and plead. For a second, Marjorie detected a note of sincerity in his voice, and was about to second guess herself, when she replayed the vulgar image in her mind of him and Anna. She once more resumed her humming and took no further heed to his whining. She realized fully that their home was located far enough away from any neighbors that no one would hear him, however much noise he made. She gradually made her way up to his waist with the cement, and allowed herself a moment to step back and examine her work. Smiling with evident satisfaction, she continued. Two hours into the process it appeared that he was far too terrified to speak anymore. Occasionally she would catch the intense fear in his eyes, eyes she had once adored, as he watched on utterly helpless. Finally, she came to her husband’s head. She began at the top with adroit hands applying the wet concrete. She soon worked her way over the ears, and began on his mouth. Eric, at this point, did indeed scream, presumably mustering every last ounce of energy, and as he bellowed he opened his mouth wide with terror. She simply smiled,


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shook her head, and promptly filled the gaping cavity with cement. Next, she focused on the nose, flaring desperately for air, which she delicately arranged with the cement. Marjorie allowed herself another break as she watched the life drain from his eyes as he suffocated. In the middle of the night, after almost seven hours, the task was complete. All her friends and family comforted her, as she explained to them how Eric had run off to be with Anna. She told them that she had a new found interest in her old hobby, sculpting, and that busying herself with it was intensely therapeutic. She spent the next five days finishing her statue, fine-tuning it until she was completely satisfied with her work. She submitted it to a local exhibit, calling it the Anguished Man. The local art critics raved with admiration, calling her nothing short of an artistic genius. The reviewers, by all accounts, were amazed at how well Marjorie had captured acute fear in the statue’s eyes… The statue garnered so much attention, that a renowned exhibitor offered her a prominent position at a Paris exhibition. His only request was that she construct a second statue to accompany the first; this commissioned work to be designed to represent a modern woman’s melancholy and helplessness in a predominantly male-orientated world. The conundrum of finding a new model to construct such a statue was to be strikingly resolved several days later when Anna returned to the house in search of Eric…

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alk about being cast in stone, eh dear reader! Funny how often love plays a part in my accounts. People, it seems, are prepared to do almost anything for it, or for that matter to find it. My next account is a story of a woman who is in search of the perfect man. Will she find him? Read on, dear reader, and find out for yourself…

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F

ate, dear reader, is a fickle thing. You never know what it has in store for you… Here is an account of a lonely woman desperately trying to change the hand that fate had dealt her. Will she succeed? There is only one way to find out, isn’t there? Yes, read on, dear reader… please read on.

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31 T he P erfect M an

I

t was on her thirtieth-fifth birthday when Margaret Hennessey, staring at her reflection from the chipped mirror on her bedroom armoire, got the notion. It might just work… And besides, what have I got to lose? She analyzed her grey, sagging face staring back at her. A face that appeared much older than her years. She replayed in her mind, as she so often did, one of her favorite stories her grandma used to share with her. The older woman shared stories to inspire and amuse her when she was disheartened, and some that would gently lull her to sleep and reassure her on hot stormy nights, back when she was nothing but a young, wide-eyed innocent girl. Her grandmother told of a time when she was a young girl on the same family farm in the heart of Oklahoma. A farm that her grandmother’s parents had built with their own hands, and finally, after many years of hardship, and battling against the ruthless bank and harsh elements, an old Indian farmhand who went by the name Ben, had told them of the marvelous energy that could be harnessed in Wanga dolls. Ben also told them about the astonishing magical power to be found in ancient trees, and if you respect that power, once in a person’s lifetime that power can be harnessed. Ben advised that her greatgrandfather was to go to the oldest tree on the property, and lovingly fashion from its magical wood the form of a miniature figure, no more than a foot tall.


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Grandmother told her that her skeptical father, spurred on with desperation and a final demand from the bank, did indeed take a limb from that tree. He carried the limb to the barnyard and spent the next week frantically carving away at it with every spare moment that he had. As he carved, he repeated his wish over and over again. I yearn for our farm to be a success; I yearn for our farm to be a success… Margaret remembered how her grandmother finished the story before wishing her good night. From the precise day the Wanga doll was completed, and my father sat on the front porch, holding the doll above him, and repeated his wish, the farm has flourished. Even through times of drought, through hurricanes, and through harsh winters. The farm defied odds and reaped. So much had changed since then, she considered, as she gazed at her eyes. Eyes that had once sparkled with energy and optimism, and now were grey and full of despair. Her grandmother had passed on just two weeks prior to her tenth birthday; no one had understood her as much as Margaret. Her mother passed on six years later, leaving her to be raised by her father. He passed on six month before, now leaving her alone. The farm was located miles from the nearest neighbor, and she had been home schooled. Her family was all she had, and now she had no one. As she gazed, remembering her grandmother’s haunting words, she suddenly cracked a smile as a thought flashed in her desperate mind. I shall make a Wanga doll, and I shall wish for the perfect man to find me and be with me always… She raced outside, barefoot and giggling, to the barn, and retrieved a chain saw. She continued to race, laughing out loud when she stumbled. Renewed by the thought that she had figured out a way to no longer be alone, she dashed to the oldest tree on the property—a noble oak. She soon spied the perfect branch, and started up the chain saw. Moments later the branch fell, and leaving the chain saw under the tree, she picked up the limb and hurried back to the barn. She opened a rickety wooden box and pulled out her great-grandfather’s old carving tools. Slowly, she began to whittle away at the branch. As she worked she repeated over and over again, sometimes almost hysterically, sometimes with nothing more than a whisper… “Bring me my perfect man… Bring me my perfect man… I want him tall… I want him to be able to protect me… I want him to be the

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strong silent type… I want him to love the outdoors… Bring me the perfect man… bring me the perfect man… ” Her parents never allowed her to date. And now that they had both passed on, she considered the notion of falling in love to be fanciful. Yet, her grandmother’s words, telling of the power of the Wanga doll, echoed hauntingly through her mind. Closing her eyes, she could have sworn that the older woman stood speaking in front of her. At long last the fateful day arrived and Margaret, dressed in her finest Sunday frock, gingerly picked up her Wanga doll and carried him outside into the warmth of the August afternoon. She had lovingly completed the doll, and looked with contentment at her handiwork, a satisfied sparkling glint in her eyes revealed that she was evidently thrilled with her workmanship. Fashioned to be tall and lean, Margaret had expertly designed and constructed it precisely to scale of the man she so desperately wanted to meet. She had willed upon him to be the strong, silent, protecting type. But above all, her perfect man needed to share her passionate love of her family’s farm and of the outdoors. She anxiously sat down on the porch step of her house and scanned the vista of the vast farmland she had inherited. Sighing heavily, she began unhurriedly, yet purposefully, rhythmically repeating her chant. “Bring me the perfect man… Bring me the perfect man.” As she spoke she manipulated the doll with her hands to dance on the step, precisely as her great-grandfather had done four generations before. This continued uneventfully for a few minutes, until her chant became more intense, her rhythm faster, and the timbre of her voice more frenzied. “Bring me the perfect man… Bring me the perfect man.” Suddenly, her sixth sense told her that someone was approaching, and her eyes strained into the distance. In anticipation her heart beat quickened. Now, she comprehended beyond question that her perfect man would soon be in her sight. Never again would she have to sleep in her large cold bed alone. She began chanting the magic even faster


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and the Wanga doll in turn quickened his step. Surely the moment was close. “Bring me the perfect man… Bring me the perfect man.” All at once she glimpsed a figure on the dusty horizon marching directly towards her. She stared into the sunlight to try and discern his features, yet the glare blurred his image. She continued her chant, now slowly, deliberately in nothing more than a whisper as she watched the figure drawing slowly closer, then closer still. Margaret’s body tingled deliciously. Soon her empty nightmare would cease, and she would never again know the misery of growing old alone. At long last, she would have a man to hold her, to listen to her, and to love her. Ultimately, the figure swung open the creaking gate and Margaret could see the man of her dreams. He was indeed tall, and certainly the sort to protect her and share her love of the outdoors. She abruptly dropped the doll and screamed out loud as she recognized the figure now grinning at her… It was her scarecrow.

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corker of a tale, that one; didn’t you think, dear reader? I must say that ending even caught me by surprise. I have learned from my vast experience that things aren’t entirely as they first appear. My next account is a perfect example of that. Please read on, dear reader… read on.

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D

earest reader, what are you afraid off? We are all afraid of something… even me. Here is a story of a typical family who chose to take a lovely holiday. What fears are they going to face on that holiday, you say? Well read on, dearest reader… please read on.

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32 T he W alker ’ s T rip

to the

C ountryside

C

onnie Walker was not your typical housewife and mother. In fact, she was a self proclaimed Domestic Goddess.

“You have to be to take care of two pre-teen children, a house, and a husband,” she often declared to anyone who might be the least bit interested in listening to her. The Walkers maintained a contented existence in a modest semidetached house in a small, nondescript quiet town in the heart of Staffordshire in the West Midlands. It was on a Friday evening, the family sitting before the television in their front room when her husband, Steve, got what he considered a top-notch idea. It was always on a Friday that Steve got his brainstorms. That was the night he drank a six pack of beer as he munched on his battered haddock and chips. “I have decided that we should take a family camping trip,” he announced with obvious excitement. “All the Walkers together in one tent. Wouldn’t that be brilliant?” Connie did not think it was a brilliant idea in the least, but she did love her husband. Also, she was fully aware that once her husband’s mind was made up, there was no going back. Besides, her children would enjoy it. She sighed, smiled, and examined Steve as he stuffed an oversized piece of fish into his mouth. “If you like,” she replied, “I’m sure it will be a holiday we shall never forget.”


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So there you have it, plans were promptly made and schedules were fixed.

n Three weeks later and their green station wagon sat in the driveway all packed. Connie had no real concept of packing lightly, much to Steve’s frustration. The night was quickly fleeting. She sighed as she kissed her cat, Mr. Cushing, goodbye. “I’ll be back in ten days, Mr. Cushing,” she informed the not very attentive feline. “Mr. Price from across the road has promised me that he will take very good care of you, just like I took care of his nasty cat, Vincent, last month.” The children, Jacob, aged ten and his eleven year old sister, Emma, promptly donned their headsets and began listening to the latest music; Emma to the trendiest boy band in all of England, and Jacob to the newfangled cockney inspired hip-hop. With that, they were off! Now please understand that Steve hailed from the great county of Yorkshire. His father used to take him and his mother and sister camping in Scotland each and every summer. This had given him his fondest memories of childhood; he was determined to recreate these warmhearted memories with his own offspring. “It’s going to be an awfully long drive,” moaned Connie. Reaching into the glove box for the goodies bag she dosed her anxiety with a second Snickers bar, and her composure started to recover. Heck, Jacob and Emma are both sleeping. She affectionately glanced back at them comfortably snuggled together on the back seat. So why shouldn’t I get some sleep also? For the next three hours a terrible snoring emanated from the passenger seat. When Connie awoke she discovered, to her further delight, that her children were avidly engaged in playing I Spy. She smiled, thinking this was all too good to be true, and then noticed her husband cursing under his breath with a map on the steering wheel. Her smile quickly faded. She quietly examined the all too familiar scene for a moment. “We’re lost, aren’t we?” Connie finally said attempting with little success to contain her frustration.

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“Well kind of, luv,” her husband replied sheepishly. “But we are somewhere in Scotland!” he quickly added. Connie knew he hoped to prevent the verbal tanning he normally received in these situations. “You see, luv, the main road had roadwork and the traffic was backing up for bloomin’ miles, so I made the executive decision, as you were fast asleep, and decided to get off the main road and take the scenic route.” “It surely is scenic… ” Connie sarcastically muttered under her breath as the van clumsily traversed yet another cavernous pothole. “I don’t think anybody has been down these roads for years.” She looked apprehensively at the heavily damaged road in front of them. “It is the snow, dear. They get heavy snow up here, and it damages the roads something terrible, and because not many folks live out here, they aren’t top priority to get repaired.” He smiled at Connie. “Besides, look at this magnificent wild countryside. Even you, dear— a devout city girl—have to admit it is rather spectacular.” She looked at the lush greenery, and half-heartedly smiled back at her husband; she saw the tormented look on his face barely disguised by the false grin and her frame of mind began to brighten. “How about we pitch the tent right over there?” she cheerfully quipped, pointing to a clearing in the trees a few hundred feet from the road. She clasped her husband’s hand affectionately in hers in an attempt to reinforce her encouraging words. “Why not indeed,” he replied, his cheery old self once more beginning to manifest itself. “It’s as good a spot as any!” The family had a peaceful day, the children gaily chased about playfully as they hadn’t done in years; even going swimming in a creek they discovered a short way from the tent. In fact, it was a surprisingly contented blissful family scene. Connie sat reading the latest best seller, The Darkest Hours, a terrific and critically exclaimed short story collection by the new English heartthrob, Henrick Glutonlumps. She sighed. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad decision after all… Steve had gone off strutting to do the masculine undertaking— chopping wood. An hour later, he returned, shirt removed and tied about his waist. The sweat glistening from his muscular frame, and she giggled to herself, as she remembered one of the reasons she had


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married him. Perhaps the country air will make the children sleep deeply tonight, she thought to herself, as a saucy expression manifested on her freckled face. As sundown arrived, they relaxed lazily about the blazing campfire, stomachs satiated on sausage, rice, and baked beans. “I feel like a quick walk before bed to work off some of those calories. Want to tag along Steve?” Connie said as she pulled herself from the camping chair and stretched. “I think I will stay here and keep an eye on the kids,” he replied. “You be careful out there, luv.” “Of course I will, dear. I‘ll be back in about half hour or so.” Moments later, after the sun had completely set, off she went into the peaceful woods, clasping her flashlight. I hate to admit it, but I reckon we have found the perfect spot. She left the meadow and headed towards the forest. After about ten minutes, Connie abruptly stopped, and stood completely still. What was that noise? It doesn’t sound right. She peered about. She held her breath and listened intently. Well, whatever it was it’s stopped. She shrugged her shoulders. Probably nothing more than an animal going about his nightly prowl. I‘m such a city girl… Wait till I tell Steve. She chuckled at her sudden jumpiness and continued on. Then she heard a sound that she definitely knew did not belong here. As her whole body instantly broke out in goose bumps, she crept down low and peered into a null, just up ahead. Chain saws—a symphony of chain saws—right here in the heart of nowhere. Her heart drummed furiously as the sweat began to bead on her brow. Cowering, she ducked down as low as she could, turned off her flashlight, and peered into the darkness. She watched on in horror as three men donning masks and khaki overalls appeared to be dancing as they let their chain saws roar. It was then the unthinkable happened; Connie suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to sneeze. What a time for my darn hay fever to kick in. She desperately tried to suppress the thought. The men turned off their saws, and began to laugh just at the precise moment Connie failed to hold back the sneeze any longer. A bel-

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lowing sneeze shot through the night. The three men looked directly towards her hiding place in unison. “Shit,” Connie cried under her breath as she stumbled to her feet. It took her a second to get her bearings and remember the route she had taken. She sprinted as quick as if the devil himself was after her, faster than she had ever thought possible. Within a few minutes she arrived back at the tent, flushed, exhausted and flustered. “Get Jacob and Emma, and get into the car NOW!” she screamed at her bewildered husband. “B-b-b-ut,” came Steve’s dazed and confused retort. “Just do it!” she commanded. Now Steve was not one to argue with her whilst she was in this sort of temper, therefore, he obediently and swiftly complied with the order. The children were hurried into the back and Connie jumped into the passenger seat. “Now drive… As fast as you can!” she screamed. It took a few minutes of bouncing along the country road until she regained her composure. She took a deep breath and held it for a few moments in an attempt to salvage some reason within her mind drowning in fear. With her perplexed husband and children hanging on to her every word she detailed her experience in the woods. Her better half ’s reaction caught her by surprise; he chuckled. “I’ve nearly been ripped to shreds by crazy Scottish woodsman, and you have the audacity to actually laugh,” she screamed at him. “They were fireman,” he jubilantly explained, as tears raced down his now rosy cheeks. “They were cutting back all the dry timbre!” Steve replied chortling in apparent glee. “I bumped into them first thing this morning. That’s who gave me most of the firewood.” She stared back at him in total amazement as the words poured from her husband’s mouth… “Oh my goodness,” she bawled, her fear being overtaken by sheer embarrassment. “How foolish am I?” As they both laughed and the kids heckled from the back seat, the Walkers decide to turn around and head back to the tent to get a good


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night’s sleep. It was then that Steve cut on the radio. As Dolly Parton sang Nine to Five a news flash interrupted. “Here is a local news bulletin: police officers have just recovered the bodies of three firemen who have been missing since late morning. They had been assigned to forest clearance in the Glen Fingas area. The bodies of the three young firemen apparently had been ripped to shreds with their own chain saws... ” Connie shivered as she realized it hadn’t been the firemen she had seen, but their murderers.

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a! So what did you make of that one, dear reader? You see things are not always as they might first appear. I now discover that I am quite puckish, which brings to mind the next account I was told not so very long ago. But I must warn you—if you have a weak stomach the following story might not be quite your cup of tea. Read on, dear reader… please read on.

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W

elcome once again, dear reader! Perhaps you have noticed that as an Imaginary Friend, I get to meet the most interesting array of characters. Here is a story about a most interesting chap who is meticulously preparing a tasty dish. Pull a comfortable chair up, and dig right in, dear reader. Bon appetite!

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33 T he P erfect D inner D ate

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hat a sweetheart! I considered as I read Jenny’s e-mails filled with stories and poetry to the Lonely Soul’s Internet Group. Her words overflowed with such sweet, syrupy wholesomeness that even though I had never actually met her I was filled with a strange and compelling deep rooted desire. I experienced curious thoughts of a nature that I had never considered before. I simply had to devise a way of meeting her and allow my growing, and dare I say, primeval urges to be satiated. And so I, too, wrote e-mails, sometimes close to a dozen daily. Indeed, I felt inspired to dabble in writing poems myself, although with often disastrous results, as a strong ability of expression had never been a forte of mine. Yet I persevered and within a matter of a few weeks, victory was mine as she appeared to have fallen for my rough charm. After that the relationship progressed. I’ll never forget the e-mail when I at long last admitted to her that I had been yearning to meet her face to face. Furthermore, can you imagine my sheer delight when she, without a moment’s hesitation, agreed? I had known from the very beginning of our communication that she lived a relatively close distant to me—only about three hundred miles or so. We eagerly arranged by means of instant messaging to locate somewhere appropriate halfway between us, and I took it upon myself to take care of all


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of the details. Please understand I wanted everything to be absolutely perfect. I scanned the hotel databases at various travel sites till I ultimately discovered what I considered to be the ideal location for our purpose. Then, to my added delight, I came across an old fashioned, modestsized motel, a remnant from when the old highway flourished just a few miles inland from Santa Barbara. Now with the completion of the new freeway it somehow appeared rather misplaced in time, and I wondered just how long it would continue to exist. According to the blurb on the travel site, each room contained a small kitchen, and although I was naturally used to grand modern equipment this would be more than adequate for what I had planned: that perfect, once in a lifetime, unforgettable evening. I meticulously considered every detail; everything had to be just right. The morning of the meeting I went to the local market and filled my basket with all the required ingredients: sweet Bermuda onions, garlic, fresh heirloom tomatoes, basil, wild rice, several bottles of Shiraz and a delectable Californian sparkling wine. I found myself humming out loud—Chopin, if I am not mistaken. Just before noon, I prepared my traveling case with all the items I needed for the night, my finest Italian handmade suit and all my toiletries, my pots and pans, and naturally my exquisite German crafted knife set. I could not forget anything. Finally, I packed the groceries in an ice chest and a small container of my secret blend of herbs and spices. This, please understand, is a particularly delectable combination that I had perfected over twenty years in the culinary industry. I had achieved many distinguished awards for my gastronomic skills and I was perpetually searching for new and imaginative culinary delights that extended the boundaries of what we currently knew about food. As the time of departure quickly approached, I systematically packed everything neatly into the back of my van, and just as a slight drizzle of rain trickled from the overcast October sky I jumped in, slammed the door shut, started up the engine and reversed down my driveway. It would take me two hours to get to my destination just east of Santa Barbara. I inserted my Frank Sinatra Greatest Hits compact disc into my stereo and as My Way crackled out of the speakers, I could not help but to jubilantly sing along.

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At just before four o’clock, I pulled into the motel. The directions I had gotten from the Internet had been flawless, and I smiled satisfied to myself. It appeared absolutely perfect, even better than what I could have possibly imagined, reminding me somewhat of the Norman Bates motel and I glanced up at all the windows half expecting to see an old lady scowling down at me with disgust... There was no sign of anybody, but I observed a flickering neon light flashing “Office” so I pulled my van in front of the reception building, and taking a long, deep breath in a futile effort to contain my excitement, exited out of my van. At this point the drizzle had morphed itself into a full scale rainstorm, and concern towards my date’s drive flashed through my mind. If anything happened to her on her way here, I would never forgive myself. I pulled my corduroy jacket firmly about me, hurried over to the door, and hastily entered the nondescript office when I noticed a man with a long white beard who surely must have been well into his late seventies. He sat with a magazine, and his reading choice was what, at the time, I found most intriguing as it was a vintage copy of Weird Tales magazine. I remembered reading them when I was a young man, much to my parent’s disgust. He was also smoking something that smelled sickly sweet from a peculiarly carved pipe. As I walked over to him, he reluctantly lifted his eyes from the comic and fired at me an eerie glance. “Mr. Smith I presume?” he cackled through the choking smoke. “That will be eighty bucks, cash only.” I nodded, pulled four twenty dollar bills from my back pocket and placed them onto the dusty counter. “You are in room number six as we agreed earlier. Just as you wanted, that room is furthest from both me and the road,” he said, placing an old fashioned brass key onto the counter. “Thank you,” I replied, trying without success to decipher the look in his eyes. “Well, I guess now you can make as much noise as you like, can’t you?” With that final comment he added a knowing wink, and once more returned his full attention to his comic book. I returned a half hearted smile, picked up the oversized room key and hurriedly left the cramped, smoky office. I breathed in the damp outside air and tried to cleanse my lungs.


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I pulled my van just outside of the room and set about the task of unloading. Thirty minutes later, I had unpacked my case and was situating everything within the room. The room itself not only unexpectedly spacious, but it was surprisingly clean, and I was thankful for this as I have always been a bit of a clean freak. I glanced at my watch; it was now four-thirty. Jenny was supposed to arrive at seven, and this allowed me a few hours to prepare. I placed the sparkling wine in the tiny refrigerator to chill. I scanned the outdated kitchenette—it was going to have to do. I pulled my compact disc player from my bag and plugged it in. I affectionately examined the selection of compact discs that I had brought along, and decided on Dean Martin. As Mr. Martin sang That’s Amore in the way only he could, I opened a bottle of Shiraz, and after inhaling its complex bouquet, I poured myself a generous glass. Things were falling comfortably into place seamlessly, and by half past six I had prepared my wild rice cakes ready for their final frying. Along with this a full flavored yet delicate broth had been created, with masterful skill I hasten to add, in my trusted oversized stock pot that I had brought along. I also had created perhaps the finest garlic and shallot cream sauce ever tasted, although I am obliged to add, by that point I was on my third glass of Shiraz, and in particularly high spirits. I had chosen to listen to the Gypsy Kings as I applied the finishing touches to my menu. Their brilliant guitar playing, I believe, inspired me to a more elevated degree of culinary magnitude than usual. Glancing again at my watch, I decided that I was going to have to take a shower and put on my suit as the fragrant sauce continued to gently simmer. Twenty minutes later, as I tied my black silk tie into a perfect double Windsor, I examined myself in front of the mirror, and had to admit that I looked particularly handsome that evening. I am, I must add, not a cocky man by nature, yet on that night I felt a higher level of self assurance than I’d ever previously experienced. At precisely seven, after I had finished lighting candles throughout the room, there was a half hearted knock on the motel door. I paused, took a deep breath and opened it. Standing in front of me was Jenny, in the flesh, protecting herself from the heavy rain with an oversized umbrella. She wore a long flowing red gown that hung deliciously off her more than generous figure. Most importantly her eyes revealed an

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almost indescribable sweet quality that I had been in search of for so very long. I invited her in. She appeared equally enchanted in turn, by the sight of me, however, I could tell by a slight tremble that she was rather nervous. She apprehensively offered me her hand, and I reached down and as softly as I could—kissed it. Instantly, her trembling ceased. I’m not sure as to why I did that. I’d never done anything like that before in my life. I prompted her to take a seat by the table, and offered her a glass of the sparkling wine. She giggled as she accepted. “I haven’t had champagne in years,” she whispered apprehensively, “but why on earth not, eh!” I filled the crystal champagne flutes that I had so carefully packed. As we sipped our drinks I smiled to myself smugly, as it was evident that she was completely unaware of the strong sedative that I had just slipped into her glass. In less than a minute Jenny slipped into a deep blissful slumber. I got up from beside her and rubbed my hands together gleefully. I lifted her hand, she was out cold, and the main performance of the evening was set to begin. Wonderful. I checked my watch. My dinner guests were due to arrive in forty minutes. I quickly reset the table for four, and dragged Jenny’s limp body into the bathtub. I removed my jacket, hanging it neatly on the hanger, and hurriedly, but still carefully, placed a disposable plastic apron around my shirt that I had brought along for this very purpose. As I stated previously, I am a clean freak. I took my large industrial electric carving knife from my case, and started it up. In less than three minutes I had skillfully removed Jenny’s succulent heart, whereas I had never actually done this surgery on a human before, I had removed several from pigs, and thankfully the same basic principals applied. I wrapped it up in plastic as the doorbell rang. “Just a moment,” I cried as I raced from the bathroom to the kitchen and gently eased the fresh heart into my simmering pot. I set the timer for twenty-five minutes, quickly removed my apron, slipped into my jacket once more, and slightly out of breath answered the door. Standing in the rain were my fiancée and my two oldest chef


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friends, Eric and Hans, from the International Institute of Culinary Cuisine. “About time!” Doreen cried as the rain trickled from her cropped red hair down her delicate freckled cheek, “I am absolutely famished.” I politely ushered them in.

n I have to add that the entrée that evening was particularly succulent and flavorful, just as we had hoped. I always suspected from those very first e-mails that Jenny was a sweetheart and we were not disappointed in the least. It is hard to describe the flavor; I can only suggest that you try it out for yourselves... You will not be disappointed, I assure you. Next month it will be Hans’ turn to cook. Apparently, he will experiment on a new way of poaching kidneys. Perhaps if you are in the neighborhood I might invite you over. I, for one, cannot wait.

n

W

ell, wasn’t that a very tasty account, dear reader? I have found that this story is very good for those who wish to lose weight. What they need to do is read it prior to mealtime— I have found it has a remarkable affect on the appetite. For our next wonderful anecdote, here is a tale about the crown of modern technology—computers. Read on, dear reader… please read on.

1 58 — P.S . G i f f o r d

W

elcome, dear reader… as always I’m delighted that you have chosen to spend some of your valuable time with me. The next story is quite a remarkable one, let me tell you. I guarantee that you will be left as bewildered as I was after you read it. Well dear reader, what are you waiting for? Read on… please read on.

n

34 Y ou ’ ve G ot P ictures

D

espite it being afternoon, Jason Bradbury was still dressed in his customary black pajamas. Sighing, he eased himself back into his worn leather desk chair, and with disapproving eyes he studied the two paragraphs he had spent the entire morning writing. I am already three months behind schedule for this god damn book, and they’re going to drop me like a hot potato if I don’t get this damned horror novel completed. People are already claiming that I am a one trick pony and that my first novel’s success was just a fluke. I have to prove them wrong. I just have to. Opening the desk drawer he studied a picture of when he was twenty, still at college, hand-in-hand with a red haired girl dressed in a flowing white dress. They were laughing and giggling under an old willow tree on the University grounds. God, how happy I bloody look. It is hard to imagine that picture was taken almost twenty years ago. Just a few months before we got married. Alicia would know how to inspire me, if she was still alive today. She always inspired me. If it wasn’t for her I would never have even become a writer. God how I wish she hadn’t died before I made it to the best-seller list. As he had done so many times before, he replayed the haunting memory of her untimely, brutal death through his agonized mind. He remembered word for word the phone call he had received.


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“We need you to come to the hospital. There’s been a horrible car accident.” Jason closed the drawer, and once again tried to focus on the task at hand. His mind frantically scrambled to generate just the right poetically haunting phrase to grab the reader’s attention when a message popped up on his screen. You’ve

got pictures.

Odd. Who would be sending me pictures? He took a long, deep drag off his menthol cigarette and extinguished it in the full ashtray. “It has to be some sort of spam... Probably some damned porn site or something.” Nevertheless, curiosity got the better off him and he opened the mysterious file. The screen instantly filled with the image of a pair of high healed lady’s red shoes against a bright, white background. There was no message, just the shoes. He was about to dismiss it as irrelevant when something quickly seized his full attention—the sender’s e-mail: Y o u r b i gg e s t f a n @S p i d e r m a i l . c o m

Shit—that was Alicia’s god damn personal e-mail—our favorite private joke. Jason quickly closed the attachment. Yet, even though the image was gone, it still framed itself vividly within his mind’s eye. This is weird. He was surprised at how a simple image and an email address could rattle his nerves so much. With trembling fingers he grabbed for his cigarette box, and with a frustrated grunt, tossed the empty container towards the trash can. It missed, landing squarely in a pile of crumbled pages assembled around the overflowing trash receptacle. Despite his best judgment, he once more clicked on the image. There is something damned familiar about those shoes. Glancing at the clock, and realizing that yet another day was slipping away without him being productive, he again closed the image.

1 6 0 — P.S . G i f f o r d

Someone’s attempting to screw with my head. He compiled a mental list of all the possible suspects. He picked up a copy of Alicia’s Shadow, and as he had done so often before, read out loud the poignant words from the back cover. “This book is dedicated to the love of my life, Alicia Bradbury. The woman who changed my world, the woman who inspired me to follow my dreams and write, a woman who sadly died in a car accident just five years after we were married. Alicia, I once vowed my life to you, and now I dedicate this book in your memory. For this is the greatest of love stories and tells of a powerful love flourishing well beyond the grave.” At that moment, the phone suddenly rang. Jason, jarred by the sound, returned the book to his desk, sat upright and stared at it for a moment, strangely caught off guard, before finally picking up the receiver. “Hello,” he said in his usual manicured phone voice. “This is the desk of Jason Bradbury.” Jason’s demeanor perked up at once when the familiar sultry voice replied. It was his current wife, June. For eight months, Jason mourned Alicia. He hadn’t dated anyone following her curious death, believing that he could never possibly love again. He barely left the house, choosing to throw himself fully into his latest project. Within four months he had written the novel that forever changed his life, Alicia’s Shadow. The horror novel was quickly heralded as a modern classic of the genre. He never had a single thought of another woman since Alicia’s passing during this time. However, the very first time he saw June all that instantly changed. She was his publisher’s new assistant, and the moment he met her gaze he knew that once again fate had determined he was going to find a chance at happiness. They were married in just six months from that first memorable meeting. “How is your day going?” Jason affectionately quizzed as his phone voice became replaced with his usual tongue-in-cheek refrain. “Same-o same-o,” came her reply. “I looked over a dozen new manuscripts today; the usual clichéd and boring, ill-conceived drivel. Why can’t anyone, besides you that is, write anything original?”


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Jason chuckled. June was not only his wife, but a huge fan of his work; she considered his writing to be both fresh and exciting. “And I had another stupid luncheon with a supposed up-andcoming author today, a wannabe author writing under the name of D.S. Griffin —boring! In fact, the only bit of excitement was when the heel unexpectedly broke on my shoe. I could not believe it happened right after I had excused myself early from my luncheon and was scurrying to safety across the parking lot back to my car.” Jason momentarily held his breath before his response. “Not the red shoes by any chance?” he whispered. “Why yes!” she replied, her voice displaying her amazement that he had actually paid attention to her outfit that morning as she left for the office. “I simply must take them back to the mall – I’ve only had them for two months.” Jason suddenly felt like changing the topic. “So… What would you like for dinner?” “Surprise me, darling,” June cooed. “You prepare us dinner almost every night and rarely fail to let me down. Anything but fish will do! I’ll catch you in the funnies at about six or so. Smooches.” After Jason put down the phone, he once more opened the mysterious photograph he had been set. “I don’t believe it,” he spoke out loud as his eyes scanned the image with renewed interest, “I hadn’t noticed before that one of the shoes had a broken heel.”

n The next few days proceeded with a comfortable normality with their well-rehearsed habitual routines. Jason managed to compose a complete chapter he was actually satisfied with; once more feeling inspiration tingle through his fingertips. June kept reviewing hopeful writer’s attempts at fiction. Jason decided against mentioning the bizarre coincidence of the photograph, and that it had been sent from someone using his dead wife’s e-mail address. The more he considered it, the more he felt it was nothing to be concerned about.

1 6 2 — P.S . G i f f o r d

Just one of those quirky X-Files moments. A strange coincidence of circumstances—nothing more, nothing less. It was three weeks later on a Wednesday morning when June kissed her husband and walked out of their red front door. “OOOH—coffee breath,” she teased. “Have a lovely day, darling. Work on more of your ongoing horror masterpiece.” She energetically hopped into her 1976 red MGB and pulled out of the driveway. Jason watched on in amusement as she sped down the street, and gently shook his head. Time for work, I suppose. He closed the front door and made his way into the kitchen. He yawned and picked up his favorite mug, replenished it from the coffee percolator, and after taking a sip, made his way back into his office. He once more eased into the desk chair and switched on his computer. It was two hours later when, pausing from his writing, when he once more noticed a flashing message on his screen. You’ve

got pictures

He hesitated for a moment, and then reached over to his cigarette packet and deftly tapped one out. Moments later, after two or three sharp inhales, he clicked the attachment. An oversized image of a snarling German Shepherd filled the screen startling him. “What the heck… ” Jason picked up his phone and quickly dialed June’s back line at her office. She answered immediately “June, thank goodness… ” “Hello, darling,” she said, her voice as perky as always. “What do I owe this honor to? Shouldn’t you be wrapped up in another gripping chapter of your book?” “I wanted to see if you were okay,” Jason said, the hesitation evident in his voice. June didn’t speak for a moment, and he wondered if she sensed the unusual tone in his voice. “Shouldn’t I be?” she answered. “Is there something that you are not telling me? Have you received another


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threat from one of those extreme religious groups condemning you and your work?” “No, no, nothing like that. It was a stupid idea I had, that was all. I should stop reading the stories I write. I’m beginning to believe them!” June giggled. “You are silly darling,” her voice grew solemn. “Remember, I am not Alicia, I’m not going to be taken from you like she was. Accidents like that simply don’t happen twice in one person’s lifetime.” Jason sighed. “I’m being silly, aren’t I? I got a stupid thought in my head. I think somebody is playing a terrible joke on me. I will tell you all about it when I see you tonight. Love you.” “Love you too,” June said. “Now harness that imagination, and get it down on paper. See you tonight. Toodles.” Jason hung up the phone, and stared at the image of the dog. What the hell is going on? Who would do this?

n It was at five in the afternoon when June’s MGB screeched to a halt in the driveway. He heard her throwing the front door open and race inside, straight to his office. Jason noticed the bandage on her leg at once. “What the hell happened?” he shrieked, all too afraid of the response. “It was the strangest thing. Shirley and I took our usual lunch time stroll in the park, when all of a sudden this great big German Shepherd appeared from nowhere.” Jason’s eyes open wide. “And?” “It darted at me and bit my leg. I have just come from the hospital. I had to have eight stitches.” Tears streamed from her eyes as she spoke. “I tried to call you, but the phone must have been off the hook; it just kept on ringing and ringing.” Jason darted a look at the phone on his desk which sat on the receiver. He picked it up and placed it to his ear, and heard a dialing tone. “It seems to be working okay now,” he said.

1 64 — P.S . G i f f o r d

“Okay,” Jason said, confused by the events, “tonight we are going out to eat!” Jason grabbed his wife’s hand and her car keys. “Tonight we’re going to our favorite restaurant, Taps,” he said, trying to conceal the growing fear forming in the pit of his stomach. “That’ll cheer you up; if you are up to it, that is... ” She smiled. “Heck, if we are quick we can still catch happy hour. I could kill for a pint of Victor’s beer.” They hugged, and made their way to the front door, locking it behind them. Moments later, Jason turned on the ignition.

n He hadn’t even bothered to turn on his computer. Perhaps if he had done so before they left, he might have seen the flashing once more. You’ve

got pictures

If he had stayed and opened it, he would have seen the latest picture: a fiery image of a smashed up red MGB with two dead bodies inside.

n

Q

uite a remarkable tale indeed—would you not agree dear reader? I’ve discovered in my vast experience, dear reader, that each and everyone has a weakness. The next story is an anecdote of a very likeable chap who has a weakness for doughnuts.


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G

ood to see you again, dear reader! My next tale goes to prove that all sorts of things can lead to your demise. Even something as innocuous as the humble doughnut. Death by doughnut, you say? Yes, I say! Read on, dear reader, and discover for yourself..!

n

35 D eath

by

D oughnuts

H

umphrey Wilson stood there hungrily ogling the freshly fried doughnuts neatly arranged in the display case in front of him. All the usual suspects sat there tantalizing in rows, traditional powdered, raspberry jellied, bear-claws, cinnamon, éclairs, and all the other varieties you would expect to find in a quality doughnut shop. Behind the spotlessly clean counter fragrant fresh coffee was brewing; the combined scent of that and the doughnuts made the saliva in Humphrey’s mouth flow copiously, and he wiped his expectant mouth with the back of his hairy arm. “What you going to have today, dearie?” said the pretty young lady dressed in an apron with stains of various colors on it, and sporting a white paper hat with the name “Mr. D’s Doughnuts” emblazoned upon it in bright red ink. She gave Humphrey a warmhearted grin, and slowly shook her head from side to side. “You come here at least three times a week, and still can’t make up your mind, can you, dearie?” Humphrey met her warm smile, licked his chubby lips eagerly, and raised the index finger of his right hand in the air. “I’ll take a mixed baker’s dozen today, please Doreen. I’m feeling particularly ravenous this morning. Will you kindly throw in a couple of those maple French crullers? They look exceptionally good today,” he said. “And my usual extra large cinnamon flavored coffee, please.” As Humphrey watched on in a trance, Doreen skillfully extracted the doughnuts from the display case with a pair of plastic tongs and

1 66 — P.S . G i f f o r d

neatly packed into a large pink box. He tried to decide which one he would devour first, and then had a strange, compelling sensation that someone was standing behind him, staring at him. He somehow managed to divert his eyes from the doughnuts and leisurely turned about. Standing there, just three or four feet behind him, he saw an older lady examining him. She was indeed scrutinizing both him and his purchase without any distinctive expression on her rounded, plain face. He respectfully smiled at her. “They look delicious, don’t they? There’s nothing tastier than fresh doughnuts,” he proclaimed, rubbing his hands together. The lady continued to stare at him coldly. She appeared, to Humphrey, to be in her mid-fifties, and despite it being a rather warm July morning, was dressed in a long, woolen brown coat. On her head sat a neat little brown matching hat with a green bow fastened on the front. Peculiarly large, round glasses sat on her oversized nose. “Those damned doughnuts are going to kill you, young man,” she suddenly blurted. Humphrey, although taken back by the words and severe tone, just courteously nodded. The poor dear must be slightly senile or possibly even mad, he thought. Going about like that saying nonsense to complete strangers, or possibly she has me confused with somebody else. “Have a nice day, dear. Try and keep in the shade; it’s going to be another scorcher they say,” he said politely to the old lady. With that, he once more turned about and directed his complete attention to the now full box of fresh doughnuts and coffee in a paper carrying bag sitting on the counter. “That’ll be six dollars and seventeen cents please, dearie,” Doreen said. Humphrey pulled from his pocket a small purse, clicked it open and with surprising delicacy his large fingers retrieved a five dollar bill and several coins. He placed the money on the counter. “There you go Doreen, to the penny; I will see you in a couple of days. Bye.” Doreen once more smiled at him. “See you soon,” she said. As he picked up the pink bag, he still felt the peculiar lady’s gaze piercing at him. He walked towards the exit without making eye contact with the strange lady.


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She shrieked at him once more, only much louder this time. “Did you hear what I said? Those doughnuts are damn well going to kill you!” Humphrey tried his utmost to ignore her, and quickly marched out of the shop, with the echo of the odd message still ringing in his ears. As he unlocked his pickup truck and climbed in he still could not shake what the woman had told him. Driving home he continued to mull over the words. I am, after all, a large man; in fact, some might say exceptionally large. But heck, it isn’t my fault I have a peculiar metabolic problem… .It runs in my family. I’m naturally big boned. So what if I occasionally eat doughnuts? What business is it of hers anyway? By the time he reached the parking spot to his apartment, he had gotten over the woman’s harsh words, and had become once more completely enraptured by the sweet yeasty fragrant of his doughnuts. Ten minutes later he was perched in his oversized imitation leather Lazy Boy chair and fumbling for the remote. He took a large gulp of his coffee as the television sprung alive. Great, it’s a Bugs Bunny marathon… His chubby fingers reached into the doughnut box and grabbed a particularly fine specimen. He looked at it for a moment, just as a fox might analyze a trapped rabbit, and then took an enormous bite. The raspberry jelly contained within the fried treat oozed out and splattered onto his white polyester shirt. Humphrey was undeterred. He quickly swallowed it and bit off an even larger mouthful. It was at this time that Bugs Bunny did what Bugs Bunny does best; makes you laugh. And Humphrey did indeed laugh. Not just a light titter, mind you, but a gigantic guffaw of uncontrollable bellowing proportions. It was then it happened; the half-chewed second mouthful of doughnut slipped down the wrong way, and firmly planted itself in his windpipe. Suddenly, he found himself frantically gasping for air. He fumbled to his feet realizing that he was choking and attempted to make it to the front door, and out into his complex in search of help. But after only a few feet he tripped on his pair of fuzzy slippers and fell with a resounding thud onto his mock-marble tiled hallway. Scarlet warm liquid oozed from his head, and slowly trickled over the grey, cold floor tiles. Humphrey lay there helpless, remember-

1 68 — P.S . G i f f o r d

ing the words the old lady had told him, and gradually slipped into unconsciousness.

n Two weeks later, Billy Stevens stood nervously in the corner liquor store as the store clerk examined his fake identification. On the counter in front of him was a large bottle of cheap peppermint schnapps. As the clerk scrutinized Billy’s older brother’s driving license, he smiled. “Okay, I guess it’s you. That’ll be twelve bucks, Gary.” He nodded at the clerk and pulled a folded twenty dollar bill from his faded jeans back pocket. It works every time on these suckers; it’s good having a brother five years older. He handed the note to the clerk. Tonight’s date with Jenny Jenkins is going to be quite an evening up at Lover’s Creek Point, I reckon, after Jenny has a few large glasses of this stuff. He pocketed the change, and as he was cheerfully carrying the brown bag containing his prize to the door, he hardly noticed the peculiar lady in the long, brown coat and matching hat watching his every move. He barely even looked up after she yelled at him. “That schnapps is going to kill you, young man. Mark my words.” As Billy scoffed, he wickedly gave her the one finger salute and climbed into his car. The lady walked away shaking her head. “It’s a curse being a medium,” she whispered to no one in particular. “A darn curse.”

n

P

oor old chap, eh reader! Perhaps Government health warnings need to adorn those pink doughnut boxes! For the next installment, we meet a chap who is confronted by his past in a most peculiar and terrifying way. Intrigued? Well then… Read on, dear reader, please read on!


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D

o you have any dark secrets in your closet, dear reader? I, as an Imaginary Friend, get to hear hundreds of such secrets. Perhaps I will hear yours one day. Here is an account of one chap’s past catching up with him—and what a horrible past it was. Read on dear reader, please read on.

n

36 R ekindled M emories

M

r. Archibald Jenkins lay cocooned tight in his bed in his modest, secluded, Jamaican home. It had been ten years since he had made the dramatic decision to retire from twenty years in the public eye as a successful horror writer and sell his vast coastal estate in the hustle and bustle of Miami, Florida. The media debated what might have prompted such curious actions. The truth was, the older Archibald got, the more and more he comprehended that he simply despised being around people. He also discovered, to his utmost delight, that the more wealth he accumulated, the less he had to actually deal with people on a one-toone basis. In fact, for the last seven years, he only tolerated one person, Tamara, his housekeeper. After a succession of housekeepers quickly quitting his employment, she had been the one to stick it out. For twelve hours a day, six days a week she tended to the house, garden, and prepared all of his meals quietly and efficiently. Archibald first experienced the incessant shivers, ticklish throat, and fits of uncontrollable sneezing taking over his body two weeks ago. The local physician, a certain Doctor Irons, had been promptly called by the concerned Tamara. He had quickly responded to the call, and swiftly arrived at the property only to have hastily been thrown out by Archibald, with a healthy barrage of expletives. “It appears that your employer, apart from just being plain spiteful, is suffering from a bad case of influenza,” the doctor managed to

1 70 — P.S . G i f f o r d

inform Tamara as he made his departure. “He needs plenty of rest and should be right as rain in a few weeks.” Archibald chastised Tamara for calling the doctor. She served him a mug of warm milk and honey, and then bid a hasty retreat and headed home for the evening. She shook her head in frustration as she exited the front door into the cold, blustery wet evening, muttering as she went. “I knows perfectly well that he pays me real good money, but in all my sixty-three years I never have met such a cantankerous and ill-spirited soul… I swears I haven’t.” As Archibald listened to the front door close, he felt a sense of relief as he did each night as she departed; for he was then left, as he preferred, all alone. Several minutes pass as the storm continued to brew. Suddenly, as the rain began to beat down forcefully on the roof, he began to feel as if his body was actually burning up and a heavy sweat encased him. As he lay there in complete misery he began to take full inventory of his life as only a dying man might. He began to consider his pitiful childhood, and how his parents had sent him away to boarding schools. He remembered his university education and how he had been scorned and teased by his schoolmates for being shy and awkward. “I never fit in… ” he lamented. He fondly reminisced how, on the verge of certain complete insanity, he had locked himself in a tiny rented one room apartment, and over the course of four months typed his very first novel—the book that was the beginning of a flourishing and highly profitable career. The storm continued to batter against the house, and for a moment he wondered if Tamara had made the journey safely to her house, for it was a twenty minute walk. Realizing that he did not particularly care if she had made it home safely, he began to wonder if he had ever actually cared for anything. His throbbing mind reflected even further and considered if he had ever known true happiness in his sad life; wealth, and success certainly, but actual joy? He shivered. “This is as good a place as any to die,” he contemplated morbidly as he pulled the now soaked bed sheets even tighter about his quivering torso.


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It was then he heard it, incredibly faint at first. Yet, the sound seemed to spark something within him. The more he concentrated the more distinct and apparent the soft sound became. “It is a cat… It’s a god damn cat,” he cried out loud, in a combination of astonishment and amusement. Archibald sat upright and blinked several times. “That’s it,” he said, as a half-hearted smile seemed to transform his usual bitter features. “I did indeed know happiness once… and perhaps even love. I must have been nine or ten years old. It was the summer break from school and I had been out playing by myself as I always did. I came across a kitten drowning in the river. I remember it looked so helpless and pitiful. I, without thinking, jumped in and pulled it out. Yes, yes, it is all coming back to me! How could I have forgotten? I wrapped the kitten in my arms and raced home. I kept it secretly in my room, too afraid to tell my parents, convinced that they would not allow me to keep her. I kept her in an old shoebox under my bed. I should have called the vet, but I was only a child… I did not understand. It was not my fault.” Archibald realized that something strange was happening to him— tears were welling up in his eyes. That was the first dead thing I ever saw… he remembered. It was then he heard the cat meowing even louder, and he looked up and met the cat’s pitiful gaze through the pane of glass. She was perched awkwardly on the narrow outside window edge, gently pawing at the glass. Archibald studied the strange sight for a few moments. The poor helpless thing is completely soaked, and appears to be half starved to death. Archibald focused his attention on the mug of warm milk and honey that Tamara had, despite the nasty things he had said to her, left on his bedside table. He wondered if he was strong enough to climb out of bed and let his unexpected night caller in. He studied the cat again, who looked from his gaze as if he could read his thoughts, and seemed—he considered—almost now to be smiling. With all the effort he could muster he assertively pushed aside the bed covers, sat himself upright and let his naked feet dangle, and finally touch the cool, bare, wood floor.

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This cat is just what I need to make me feel better, he considered as he awkwardly stumbled out of the bed. This time it will be different. I will find the best vet in all of Jamaica if I have to. That cat is a godsend—that is what he is. Damn, I haven’t felt this darn good in years! Archibald made his way over to the window and, as the cat looked on in apparent bemusement, unlatched it and attempted to force it open. The window refused to budge. The cat began to meow furiously and continued to claw at the glass. Archibald once more studied the pathetic creature, and gathering together all of his strength, pried the window open just two or three scant inches. It was enough as the peculiar tiny cat, exhibiting a feat of unfathomable dexterity, managed to squeeze inside. Minutes later, Mr. Jenkins was once more back in the warmth of his bed. The little, black cat had been dried off and sat smugly on the bedcovers, ravenously supping on the warm milk and honey from a saucer. Archibald allowed his old wrinkled fingers to fondle the scrawny little body as she ate, and she purred in satisfaction. Archibald could not help but laugh. All at once he began to experience thoughts that he hadn’t since he was a young, innocent child; warm, happy and gentle thoughts. He fondly considered Tamara who had taken care of him so well and patiently over the years—despite all the verbal abuse he had thrown at her. I need to do something nice for her and her family… Perhaps I should send them all on a nice two week cruise. It’s the least I can do for her having to put up with me for all of these years. Shaking his head in embarrassment he pondered his publisher; the one he left high and dry after years of success, simply refusing to write anymore. Perhaps, just perhaps, there is indeed another sequel inside of me… Yes, I think it might be time to write once more. Archibald peered thoughtfully about his sparse room that completely lacked color. “Yes,” he said contentedly as he rubbed the cat’s ears, “things are going to be a lot different from here on out. Tomorrow we are going to redecorate this old place, and I am going to get me a new laptop.”

n


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Early the following morning, Tamara arrived back at the house. Fifteen minutes later she entered Archibald’s bedroom armed with his usual morning cup of tea, toast, and marmalade. “That storm was quite something last night,” she said. “I was drenched from head to toe when I finally made it home.” She spied the still open window. “What are you trying to do to yourself?” she said. It was when she tried to awaken Archibald that she let out a piercing scream. “He’s dead, he’s dead,” she cried as she allowed the breakfast tray to slip from her trembling fingers and crash against the wooden floor. “He is certainly dead alright,” Doctor Irons confirmed an hour later. “Has been for several hours judging by the look of him. But it wasn’t from the flu; in fact, it seems as if the worst of that was over, it looks as if the fever had finally broke. He should have been well on the road to recovery. I don’t understand.” Tamara looked on as the doctor continued. “You see it wasn’t the influenza that killed him. It appears that he died from asphyxiation, but how I don’t yet understand… Let me have a closer look.” Suddenly the doctor’s eyed peeled wide open in obvious alarm, as he reached over and pulled something from the back of the dead man’s mouth. “Good god,” the doctor exclaimed, “it appears to be cat fur… ”

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retty frightening story don’t you think, dear reader? Guilt always runs deep, very deep indeed. The next anecdote I care to share is about another human flaw that so many people unfortunately seem to exhibit—greed. But remember as the old adage goes… “What goes around comes around.” There is no escaping fate. Read on, dear reader. Please, don’t be afraid… read on!

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W

elcome once again my dear reader—absolutely fantastic to see you again! I suspect that my next little anecdote will have an emotional impact on you. As you read on, dear reader, please be advised that I did warn you. I would hate for you to think that as an Imaginary Friend I would lead you blindly forward.

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37 T he P rize

K

elly looked at the white envelope that sat in the mailbox with her name on the front amongst a small collection of bills, pamphlets, and the latest farming journal. “You are a winner of a dream island vacation,” the envelope tantalizingly stated in large red letters. A dream vacation, she reflected with a vacant look in her pale blue eyes. Any vacation would surely be a dream. I’m twenty-two years old and never even been on a single vacation. Heck, I’ve never even left Kansas. She collected the mail, closed the mailbox, and headed back up the long dusty driveway into the farmhouse she had been born and raised in. “Kelly, Kelly—have you finished all your morning chores… ” came the rough scathing voice from the parlor. “Sure did, Pop. I’m just going upstairs and do some reading.” “Reading will get you nowhere. You need to keep your head in the real world and not all that pie in the sky fantasy stuff. If I had spent all my young life reading and dreaming about nonsense, I would never have built up this successful chicken farm. And for another… ” “Yes, Dad, so you have told me—often,” Kelly interrupted. “I‘ll be back down in an hour to clean out the barn, I promise.”


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She placed the mail on her father’s makeshift desk between the old typewriter and his smoking box, positioned in the corner of the kitchen. She caught sight of the old knobby cane propped against the kitchen wall. She instinctively rubbed her lower back at the site of the stick where a permanent ache seemed to exist due to a lifetime of frequent beatings. Tucking her letter into her dungarees she slipped quietly up the old staircase, and closed her bedroom door securely behind her. She sat on her bed next to her aged teddy bear, and twiddled the old multicolored bedspread in her fingers. She heaved a soft sigh, held the envelope up, and re-read the words aloud. “You are a winner of a dream island vacation.” Kelly smiled as she gazed out of the dingy bedroom window at the flat, dull landscape that went on forever. “It is mighty peculiar though, Teddy. I can’t remember ever getting anything addressed to me,” she said. “Fancy someone out there in that big, old world even knowing that I exist.” Her eyes opened wide with exhilaration. “Look right there, Teddy. It says as clear as day—Miss Kelly Dickinson.” She positioned the letter in front of the tattered bear as she affectionately rubbed its head. “Let’s have a look inside shall we?” She carefully ripped the envelope open and pulled out its contents and proceeded to read the enclosed letter out loud. “Kelly Dickinson, congratulations, you have been selected randomly from millions of Americans to go on an all expenses paid Dream Island Vacation. To accept this exciting offer all you need to do is call 1-888-555-1212.” She put the letter back into the envelope. “Well Ted, what do you make of that, eh? I have been picked from millions. It’s about time I had some luck, ain’t it? Oh don’t look so gloomy, you know full well I’m going to bring you along with me. Who else would I possibly take? You are my only friend, Teddy.” Returning the letter to her overalls, she glanced over at her modest collection of books and magazines, and pulled out a tattered 1978

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copy of Reader’s Digest. She opened an earmarked page and began to re-read the article on the world’s most glamorous islands, and eagerly began to devour the words, taking in the colorful pictures just as she had done so very often before…

n Early the following morning Kelly was half-heartedly feeding the chickens who clucked about her furiously. I’m going to be stuck doing this all my life if things don’t change, I reckon, she thought. Her eyes suddenly sparkled as she slipped her fingers in her denim overalls pockets and felt the envelope. It’s still there. I guess it wasn’t a dream after all. I reckon I need to make that phone call today. Hanging out the washing, her ma stepped back and forth between basket and clothesline. Her pa tinkered with his old pickup truck. Just gotta make sure I don’t get caught. They don’t take to me using the phone any. It was then the answer presented itself, as she heard the old truck rumbling into life. “Woo-hoo, I have fixed her again! There is life in the old girl yet. Mary Lou, where are you, woman? How about we head on down to town and get those groceries like I have been promising you for over a week? And I reckon a few cold beers wouldn’t do us any harm either.” Mary Lou put down her laundry basket, obediently hurried over to the old truck, and climbed inside without uttering a single word. “You make sure you get those chores all finished before we get back, Kelly,” her father cried angrily as he forced the truck into gear. “We’ll be back in time for supper, and it had better be on the table waiting for us!” With that the truck rattled off slowly down the bumpy road. Kelly watched till she could no longer see it. She waited several minutes, staring at the horizon before returning to the house. Slamming the front door shut and bolting it, she raced upstairs.


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I reckon I need you with me when I make this phone call, Teddy. She grabbed her beloved bear, and trembled as she raced back down the stairs. “Gee, Teddy I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about anything so much in all my days! Think of it—you and me on a tropical island. I‘ve always longed to see the ocean with my own eyes.” She went over to the desk, picked up the phone receiver, and slowly dialed the number.

n “Hello, what is your name? I’m Trevor.” Kelly opened her eyes and gazed up at the young man dressed in nothing more than bright yellow surfing shorts grinning cheekily down at her. “Is this your first time in Barbados?” Kelly suddenly looked about her. She wiggled her bare toes in the soft white sand where she relaxed. She gazed about, hypnotized at the blue-green ocean gently, and somehow playfully splashing along the shoreline; she gazed up the cloudless sky. She turned and saw her teddy bear lying next to her. Wow, it’s exactly like the pictures in that old magazine that my grandma gave me. If only she had lived, I could have brought her along… “Erm, hello… are you listening?” Trevor said, giving her an inquisitive look. “I say—are you okay?” Kelly once more gazed all about her and at the handsome young man, with the funny accent staring at her, and realized that the ache in her back had finally ceased. “Yes,” she whispered. “Everything is truly perfect.”

n “So, Mr. Dickinson. Precisely what happened?” “Yes, Doctor, you sees, me and the missus went to town yesterday. We were only gone six or seven hours. The first thing I noticed when we got back was that none of the chores were done. I have to admit I

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got real mad—you know how lazy young people can be—sometimes you just have to motivate them a little. So I decided to work on the truck a little more, as the missus went inside to grab me a cold beer.” As he spoke his gaze fell upon the stick. The doctor, catching his stare, shivered. “Then what?” the doctor prompted, making a mental note to do a complete physical exam on the girl sitting comatose in front of him. “Mary Lou began to shriek and holler and scream like I ain’t ever heard her before, and I naturally came rushing in to see what all the fuss was about. And there Kelly was sitting by the phone. So you tell me she is some sort of a coma? It was strange, in her hand there was a typed note. It wasn’t typed very good—it looked as if she had done it herself on my old typewriter. I’ll tell you this though. I’ve never seen her look so darn happy.”

n

A

rather melancholy account don’t you think, dear reader? I suppose we each find happiness where we can, even if it’s deep within our own minds. Talking of finding happiness, the next story tells of a man who is convinced he is has found the secret to wealth. Whatever could possibly go wrong? Read on, dear reader… please read on.


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T

he next account deals with a man who encounters an ancient secret, buried deep within the Carlsbad Caverns. Intrigued? Well then, you know what to do don’t you? Read on dear reader… please read on.

n

38 C averns

of

B lood

H

enry Baker looked about; cool, muggy stillness enveloped him, unseen immensity weighed down by the tons of earth above. Voices echoed in the distance and lights twinkled out of the gloom. Somewhere he heard the resonant drip, drip, drip of water. Deep within the bowels of the earth, the Carlsbad Caverns of New Mexico unlocked their magnificence and splendor in breathtaking display. Darkness consumed daylight as he stared down the steep, switchback entrance trail, a mile long path winding into the heart of the earth. His eyes adjusted quickly, however, to the dimming light as he began to drink in images that sprung into view as he awkwardly wound around corners and traversed tunnels. A twist here and he encountered the Whale’s Mouth, a deepthroated hollow whose opening yawned threateningly. A turn there and he stumbled upon a shallow pool, rippling to the slow drip of water off a razor blade stalactite. The dark, cool humidity sealed in year round proved comfortable to Henry as his knees strained with the precipitous drop past the aptly named “bone yard,” whose hollowed walls prompted its name. Henry finally reached the main cavern, whose immense size made him pause in wonderment. The artistic quality of the underworld seemed almost alive here, with winding paths swinging snakelike through a sculptured forest. He gazed ahead to the end of the tunnel with the glowing stance of a meditating Buddha, smiling upon the accumulation of frozen

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stalagmites. Here he further discovered a pit, which appeared bottomless, dropping away in endless darkness. Henry had finally made it—the realization of his quest. The splendor of these caverns held a dark and morbid secret. He had first stumbled upon it quite by chance whilst studying an ancient bound book that the University of Boston kept. The book told of Satanists who had fled their native lands in search of freedom in the new land. They brought with them vast fortunes. As he sat there gleefully absorbed in the macabre, he allowed the ancient manuscript to slip clumsily through his fingers. As the book plunged to the floor of the library, excitement prevailed over his panic at damaging it. A bundle of well-worn papers had fallen from behind the binding. Scrambling to retrieve them, he furtively positioned the papers into his inside jacket pocket. He was vigilant as to make sure that nobody was monitoring him. He raced home excitedly, strangely convinced that those papers were going to change his life forever; that he had somehow accidentally stumbled upon a magnificent lost secret. Once home, Henry eagerly perused over the faded manuscripts. They were handwritten, and he had difficulty deciphering certain words, while others were completely unknown and unfathomable to him. It was a ledger of some kind. One contained a long list of names, and they all had paid the then ungodly sum of five pounds in gold coins to a certain Jeremiah Franklin. As he scrutinized the dozens of gentlemen listed, all with the grandest of names, Henry became increasingly curious as to their motivation. At three in the morning, his exhausted, bloodshot eyes finally came across the answer. It was an account that revealed a grisly and implausible reality and was so vivid that it sent shivers down his spine even within the warmth and security of his apartment. The fine gentlemen were buying participation in a ritual to which they believed to be the very devil himself, Jeremiah. In addition, and here was the most gruesome and unsavory part for Henry, along with the gentlemen’s name was the name of the young female intended for the sacrifice. A further document, which looked like an unsent letter, explained further that there had been some sort of an incident—one of the gentlemen changed his mind immediately prior to the scheduled time of the bloodletting. Written in a gruesome fashion, Henry could hardly bring himself to read it. It furthermore explained in remarkable detail that the gold coins were stored in a grand chest. Therein also was a


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letter that had been apparently swiftly composed to a certain Rosalyn Franklin, back in England. This communication had been signed, but left unsent by none other than Jeremiah himself. Henry was amazed, yet there was one more startling revelation in store for him, for on the back of the letter he discovered a map.

n Now two months later, those papers had morphed into his obsession. Leaving the safety of the lights and secured pathways behind him, Henry fumbled the old faded map nervously between his perspiring fingers. Yes, yes. He realized that he had actually stumbled upon it—a secret path, long ago forgotten. As he ventured pass the roped-off sections, intended to contain the tourists, he began his perilous descent. Yet, despite his caution, he somehow caught his leg abruptly on a sharpened edge of rock. Perhaps intended as a warning for him not to continue onwards, Henry’s mind was resolute. The journey continued as the blood slowly dripped from his aching leg. He trekked for nearly an hour deeper and deeper into the bowels of the caves. The map indicated a secret chamber hidden behind a rock formation reminiscent of an owl. The faded map made this point clear. Henry discovered that he was staring at what resembled an owl face naturally formed in the ancient rock. The more he studied the features, the more convinced he became that his long undertaking was soon to be over. He climbed up precariously onto the ledge and spied a crevice at the center of the “owl’s” right eye. With a delicious combination of both fear and excitement, he steadily reached in. Something furry scurry over his hand and he recoiled. He laughed nervously, realizing it was only a rat. Do not be afraid, he chanted repeatedly in his head. Don’t be afraid! Desperately, he tried to maintain his calm, but he fumbled in the shadows, and audibly gasped as his hand arrived upon a lever. With all the strength he could muster it slowly surrendered its resistance and moved. To Henry’s amazement and delight a passage miraculously opened. As the rock entry slowly became exposed, it revealed its contents to human eyes, perhaps for the first time in centuries. He

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shone his flashlight inside, and almost retched at the sight that befell his eyes. Skeletons—dozens upon dozens of skeletons. The stench was overpowering, and he found it difficult to suppress his deepest desire to vomit. Yet, he needed to control myself; he knew that he was so close… “Do not be afraid,” he whispered out loud, and the sound of his voice echoed about him, as if the words themselves taunted him. It was then he spied it, sitting in a small crevice within the wall, and instantaneously the present time was propelled back. His heart pounded excitedly deep within his torso. A silver chest was adjacent to a large flat piece of rock—an altar. Henry physically shook as he comprehended the agonies that innocent beings had endured. How their desperate screams would have echoed with no avail, deep within the earth. He approached the item of his desire slowly, wanting to savor the moment. He allowed his fingers to caress gently every eloquently carved feature, relishing its exquisite beauty. Despite the temperature hovering not far above freezing, perspiration formed upon his brow. Finally, he could resist temptation no more and he pried it open. The lid moved with surprising ease and its contents were beyond Henry’s wildest dreams. The case was full of gold coins, the largest coins he had ever seen in his life. I’m rich, wealthy beyond my boldest of imaginings. He began to laugh hysterically and uncontrollably. It was then he realized that the door through which he had entered the chamber was beginning to close; grabbing several of the coins, he raced towards the diminishing opening. “God, pleased let me make it,” he cried out loud as he lunged towards it Hands, human-like hands, grabbed his ankles. Yet Henry could see no one. He crashed on the rocky ground. He remembered his head hitting a jagged rock. He remembered the blood. He remembered screaming… That was a week ago. Henry spent three days endeavoring to unearth a means to open the passage, having pushed and tugged every conceivable rock inside the chamber. Nothing worked. Henry quickly gave up on screaming for help as he knew all too well that the natural


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design of the cavity prevented even his loudest of cries from reaching the outside world. Henry managed to find a small source of water. He had a possible source of food—the rats. Nevertheless, he found they were surprisingly nimble. They eyed him hungrily for they knew that in a few days, he would surely be dead, or not strong enough to fight them off, and they would be able to feast. As Henry slipped into unconsciousness, one last thought raced through how mind – all that gold couldn’t help him now. “I’m afraid… ”

n

I

t is a good thing that Imaginary Friends aren’t claustrophobic isn’t it? Alas, I am the type of friend who can only listen to your tales and not assist. This brings to mind another account I feel obliged to share with you all about another materialistic friend. Will his greed be his downfall? Read on dear reader… please read on.

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A

h, there you are—good! This is a tale I have been eager to share with you for quite some time. This is the story of a man who by underhanded means manages to get his dream house—although admittedly there are one or two things wrong with it—as he soon discovers. And so shall you, dear reader, just as soon as you read on…

n

39 T he F ixer -U pper

G

reg Patterson brought his red Jaguar convertible to a smooth stop at the end of the gravel driveway. He admired the large house directly in front of them. “This is the place, Sally, our new home. Do you believe that I managed to buy this old house for half of its value? I absolutely love being a real estate agent!” A broad smile washed over his face, and he rubbed his perfectly manicured hands together with obvious excitement. At fifty years of age I finally have it all; a brand new sports car, a gorgeous young wife, and now, my dream house. He glanced over smugly at the buxom young blonde dressed in a skimpy yellow dress, pouting as she studied the property. “Looks pretty darn creepy if you ask me, Greg, particularly that window there in the attic. I half expect to see an old lady suddenly appear brandishing a bloodied weapon staring back at me,” she said wryly. She teasingly winked at her husband as she continued, “I don’t suppose there used to be a motel around here?” She paused before continuing, and her usual bubbly, smiling face transformed into a look of uneasiness—as if a macabre notion had planted itself in her imagination. “Remind me again how you got this place so cheap?” “Sheesh, like I told you last night, there’s a bit of a mystery attached to the place, but nothing sinister. Apparently, the last owner, the Coo-


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pers—a young couple with two small children—simply disappeared one day without a trace. The police are clueless as to what happened to them. None of their belongings were missing, and their minivan still sat in the garage. Rumor has it that they had some money problems and simply decided to vanish and start life somewhere else under new names.” Anyhow, bankers being bankers, this beauty fell into foreclosure six months later, and with my lovely contacts and a healthy back hander, I managed to pick this old place up for what was owed on their mortgage—less than half of its present market place value! I had a look over it yesterday before signing the paperwork, and apart from being a little dirty, and the air conditioner not working too well, it’s actually in great shape.” Mark my words, a few coats of paint and some new furniture, and this will be the house you always told me you dreamed of living in. And that attic you mentioned could be turned into a great studio. You always said that you wanted to paint, and the view of up there is astounding. What’s more there isn’t a neighbor within half a mile. Think of how much peace and quiet we are going to have.” “I’m not so sure Greg, this place looks so darn eerie, and there’s something about it that I cannot quite put my finger on. I suppose you’ve brought me here to help you fix her up? I still don’t believe that you brought us a house before I had a chance to see it. Still, you knew I always wanted to live in the middle of nowhere, and this place is as nowhere as you can get.” “I knew you would love it, or will when we have her all fixed up, and I needed to act fast. Yes, I reckon you can do some light cleaning, and have a good nose about and decide on how you want this place decorated while I climb down and repair the air conditioner. It’s bound to be some blocked filters and some duct’s being torn. Nothing I can’t fix with a little elbow grease and duct tape, and save me a small fortune from having to hire a professional.” Sally looked as if she was about to say something else, but bit her lower lip instead. With that Greg put the car into gear and continued up the driveway. Moments later they were standing on the elaborate old porch, and Greg fumbled for the oversized brass key in his tweed jacket pocket. “I know it is in here somewhere, dear… ”

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It was then he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A small, brown spider spiraled down a strand of silk. “Sally!” he suddenly screamed. “It’s a spider… .You know how afraid of spiders I am… Please do something.” Sally shrugged, and pulled a white tissue from her purse. She examined her trembling, white-faced husband who appeared glued to the spot, and then to the tiny, innocent-looking spider dangling just a couple of feet in front of him. She sighed and without hesitation reached over and smashed the spider in the tissue. “All gone, dear. You’re safe again,” Sally whispered in a mocking tone. Ten minutes later Sally and Greg were exploring the house. “It’s damn hot in here, Greg. How about you climb down and have a look at the air conditioner while I get the cooler from the car and fix us some sandwiches and a glass of champagne.” Sally looked about the kitchen with surprise and satisfaction. “I have to say that despite its outward appearance this place actually does have a lot of charm. Check out these fixtures; these have to be the originals from the 1920’s!” Rejuvenated by his wife’s unexpected change of mood, Gregory exited the house and made his way back to the car. Standing behind his vehicle he once more gazed up affectionately at the property. Yes, this house is going to be the start of a whole new chapter in my life. I just know that Sally and I are going to find happiness here. What a perfect place to have a family. He found himself whistling as he opened the trunk, pulled out a brand new bright blue jump suit, a pair of boots, a flashlight, and a roll of duct tape, and quickly changed clothes. Marching proudly back into the house, he met Sally emerging from the kitchen carrying two glasses of champagne... “Oh my goodness, don’t you look the part!” Sally said pointing at him and attempting unsuccessfully not to chuckle. “Hey, I used to be quite handy once upon a time,” Greg replied. “You’ll see—I’ll have the air conditioner fixed within the hour—mark my words.”


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He took one of the glasses from Sally. “Here is to our new home,” he said as he gently clanged his glass against hers. He swallowed the contents in one gulp as she looked on giggling. He handed the glass back to her and walked over to a closet situated under the dark, wooden dusty staircase. “Now, according to the old blueprints, there should be an entrance to the crawl space at the bottom of this,” he said as he gestured to the small door. He bent down and attempted to open it. “That’s funny, it seems to be stuck.” He tried for a second time, and finally, after a tremendous effort, the door gave way and swung open. Greg examined the door a little closer through squinting, inquisitive eyes. “Strange, I cannot see any reason why it would have stuck like that; there’s not a lock of any sort… ” The couple nervously peered inside. They discovered it to be about four feet high and five feet deep and, apart from a whole lot of dust, it was completely empty. “By golly that’s a relief, my imagination was beginning to play tricks. I half expected to find something horrible in there. Almost disappointing to find it’s just a very ordinary cupboard. Still, you wouldn’t catch me ever going in there,” Sally said. “You know how I am about enclosed small places; I get all queasy just thinking about them... ” “But you don’t have to—I will!” He got down on his knees and allowed his fingers to run over the floor of the cupboard. “That opening should be here somewhere, love,” he said, just as he found it. “A-ha… Told you so.” He pulled open the trap door, and turned on his flashlight. Sally looked on as he began to gradually ease his body down through the door. “Be back in a short while, keep the champagne on ice, and try not to drink it all before I come back,” he said, with a final wink as his head vanished into the crawl space. Maybe I should have hired someone for this job. It’s incredibly hot and smelly down here, and there are bound to be rats, he lamented. Still, I

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don’t want to look like an idiot in front of Sally; she’ll never let me live it down if I come straight back up again. Flashing his light about, he quickly caught sight of what he was searching for—the main air duct underneath the air conditioner unit. I knew it. The whole thing has fallen off and it’ll be a simple repair job. It’s going to be a tight squeeze; there’s only about three feet clearance. Holding his breath, he began to slowly drag his way over the hard grimy ground. As he traversed awkwardly along he somehow managed to catch his arm on a rusty nail in the process and ripped his brand new jumpsuit. “Damn it,” he cried out loud, as he examined the tear. “This suit cost me almost eighty bucks.” A few minutes later he made it to the duct. Nodding with satisfaction, he reached into the jumpsuit pocket for a roll of tape. Yep, this is going to be an easy fix, he considered as he worked. He was half way through the task when he felt it—a small, yet painful, bite on the upper calf of his right leg. Something’s crawled up my damn pant leg, he suddenly realized in total horror. Instinctively he sat upright and smashed the side of his head into a support beam. As he began to wiggle helplessly, he felt his scalp moisten. Blood began to drip from the side of his head. “Damn, damn, damn. I can’t believe this is happening to me!” Beginning to panic, and abandoning the torn duct, Greg endeavoured to slide himself back to the door, and back to freedom, As he anxiously wiggled along, he desperately tried to squat whatever had bitten his leg which he could feel against the flesh of his thigh. But that only seemed to agitate the critter as that first bite was followed by a quick succession of others. His leg began to ache and throb intensely. He shone his flashlight to each side, and watched on in total shock as several dozen spiders, each the size of his hand, scurried purposefully toward him. Once more he began to clamber frantically towards his exit as he felt his leg beginning to get numb. He couldn’t keep himself from shaking. His body was caked in an ice cold sweat despite the intense


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heat of the crawl space. He made it two-thirds of the way back to the trapdoor before he could see sunlight. I’m going to make it… Thank God I’m actually going to make it. Yet that thought was abandoned as he felt something sticky fall against his face. The more he shook and wiggled in a harried attempt of escape, the more entangled and trapped he became. A spider web, Greg realized. God damn it, I’m trapped in a giant spider web. After a couple of minute’s struggle, his strength waned, the paralyzing venom from the many spider bites took hold of him, and he could no longer move anything—with the exception of his eyes. All he could do was watch on helplessly, wide eyed, afraid to blink as the army of eight-legged creatures descended on him, their furry legs clambering all over and under his suit. One spider climbed onto his cheek and began to make its way slowly towards his right eye. It was then when the floor boards beneath him gave way, and Gregory was instantaneously propelled downward. He landed with his right arm under his back, and it made a crack as it instantly snapped, erupting in pain. His flashlight landed next to him and illuminated the old hidden cellar. Greg’s bladder emptied uncontrollably as his eyes comprehended the unimaginable vision that now met them. The decayed remains of four bodies cocooned in silk. As he lay there, unable to move, he managed with the very last of his strength to open his mouth wide and let forth a horrific scream. As the scream faded, his eyes managed to focus on an even more disturbing vision: hundreds upon hundreds of spiders descended upon him from above.

n Sally looked out of the attic window. Greg was right; this is going to be the perfect place. Sometimes I swear he understands me even better than I do! It was then that she noticed the time. That’s odd. He’s been down that creepy crawl space for well over an hour. I expected he would have be up after fifteen minutes, even if he didn’t manage to repair it.

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She turned off her portable compact disc player, removed the headset, and returned it to her purse. She gazed once more out of the window and then made her way back down the old staircase. This time it seemed to creak ominously under her weight. The cupboard door beneath the stairs door was still wide open. Kneeling at its entrance she cried out, “Gregory! Gregory, are you okay? I’m beginning to worry about you… Gregory… If you can’t fix it I promise I won’t tease you!” She listened intently. Nothing. She crept a little into the cupboard and yelled again, even louder than before. “Gregory, please come out. I’m beginning to get frightened… ” She listened again. Still nothing. Taking a deep breath she reluctantly eased her whole body inside the cupboard, and lowered her head directly into the crawl space. I can’t believe I am doing this, she thought as she manoeuvred her body into the uncomfortable and claustrophobic position. She was just about to cry out for her husband again when it happened. The cupboard door inexplicably slammed shut with a thud. Sally screamed as she realized that she was trapped, and inexplicably fell deathly silent…

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ell dear reader, what did you make of that one? A rather fitting end, don’t you think? In my line of work I have discovered that people aren’t always precisely what they seem. You should never judge a book by a cover, as my next tale clearly indicates. Well, what are you waiting for, dear reader? Read on… please read on!


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W

elcome, dear reader. So wonderful of you to join me again! I do so very much enjoy out little chats. The following account contains a valuable lesson for all of us—things aren’t always as they first appear. In my experience, I have found it to be prudent not to jump to conclusions. With that in mind, dear reader… please read on.

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40 T he I nvite

Z

ack Austin examined his directions once more. I guess this is it. He casually shrugged his shoulders, pointed his Jeep down a small unpaved road, and after five hundred yards pulled up outside the diminutive wooden cabin. They always look so much better in the photograph, he mused as he turned off the engine. He remembered the description the agency had given him about the community. “Barrymore is a quaint village nestled within the picturesque mountains of Snowshoe Hills, West Virginia. In the winter, Snowshoe is a bustling ski resort chockablock full of tourists, but in the summer the skiing industry closes down. Most of the residents who make their living from the tourists move to their summer houses, and so, at that time of the year, it is the perfect destination to get away from it all, perfect for an aspiring writer such as yourself.” He chuckled to himself as he remembered the way the agent had told him that. Little did she realize why I really wanted to rent this place… Grabbing his only luggage, a battered, black leather suitcase from the back of his vehicle, he slowly plodded his way up the entrance way. I have stayed in decidedly worst places than this. His tired eyes scrutinized the property. He grunted in satisfaction as he fumbled in his black jeans pocket for the key. The way I feel right now I would sleep just about anywhere and heck it surely is cheap enough.

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The key clunked the old lock open; he eased the door ajar and peered in cautiously, groping in the dark for a light switch. Not too shabby at all, he considered as the sixty watt bulb jolted alive. Far better than the outside suggests. Zack yawned as he made his way into the front room and glanced at his watch. Damn, it’s almost midnight, he realized. He peered in the shadows for some additional means of light. The room contained a small wooden table hauntingly illuminated by the soft moonlight through the window. On it he could make out the silhouette of an old-fashioned brass lamp. He fumbled his way over to it, and managed to switch it on. The light revealed that the room contained one well worn armchair and a wood burning fireplace with a cracked, oversized mirror hanging over it. The room also included a lopsided couch covered in fabric that was once upon a time exceedingly bright and obnoxiously green, but now was faded, making it more tolerable to the eyes. He studied it suspiciously for a moment, shrugged, and placed his suitcase on it and sat down beside it. Carefully clicking the luggage open, he pulled out a bottle of bourbon which had been wrapped in a black, heavy knit sweater. He gazed at the bottle affectionately, then unscrewed the top, and placed the liquid to his eager lips. “Damn… I needed that,” he said to the bottle after swallowing a generous swig. “That was one hell of a drive up here… I’m shattered. You’re a good friend to have Mr. B.” He laughed at himself as he realized he was talking to the bottle and took an even larger drink. As the liquid burned its way down to his stomach he closed his eyes and stretched lazily. His mind replayed the set of circumstances that cemented his decision to come to such a forsaken place, including the intriguing police report that been sent anonymously to his New York apartment a few days ago: “Five people inexplicability vanish in a small West Virginia town under mysterious circumstances,” read the tantalizing opening. The more he read, the more curiosity grabbed him. As Zack sat there his eyelids became increasingly heavy. He did not fight the almost overwhelming desire to close them, and within moments fell into a restful sleep. His slumber was so deep, that he was completely unaware of the eyes that had been observing him through the window, and he failed


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to hear the hushed whispers gently echoing into the sultry West Virginia night.

n Zack awoke early the next morning, momentarily confused as to where he was. He once more studied the room as he massaged his aching lower back. I hope the bed is god-damn more comfortable than this couch. He scanned the room. The furniture appeared in better condition with the aid of sunlight than his tired memory recalled. Clumsily easing himself off the sofa, he stretched idly. As he breathed deeply he made his way into the adjoining kitchen. He peered about and nodded his head in evident satisfaction: a refrigerator, a stove top, an oven, a toaster, several promising looking cupboards and most importantly—a coffee machine. On the table, under a pair of mismatched ceramic salt and pepper shakers he spied an envelope with his name neatly inscribed on it. He stared at it for a few moments blankly. Nonchalantly, Zack picked it up, tore it open, and read the words aloud. Mr. Au stin , T hank y ou again fo r lea sing the D rove r’s lux ur y chalet fo r the mo nth of Aug u st. I have, a s a cour te s y, filled the larde r and ref r ige rato r w ith ba sic supplie s . T he neare st shop is t we nt y-five mile s away in the m ain town that y ou pa ssed o n the way . T he y kee p the hour s the y want to kee p so m ake sure that y ou call fir st befo re m aking the dr ive o n up to it. If y ou need me fo r anything y ou have my numbe r. Enjoy y our stay . Mr s . D ougla s

Folding the letter, he placed it back into its envelope, returned it to the table, and smiled.

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“Good old Mrs. Douglas, it looks like I won’t go hungry this morning,” Zack chirped as he went in search of coffee. Zack found the cupboards quite well stocked. Cans of various contents crammed the dirty cabinets. The same was true of the refrigerator. He came across a cheap can of coffee. It took a few frustrating moments searching for a can opener, but he discovered one in a drawer containing several kitchen knives and utensils. As he reached in to grab it, he carelessly allowed the back of his hand to slide against one of the knife blades. “Damn,” he cried out in disgust, as he went over to the sink and rinsed his wound. Moments later, with his hand throbbing, but secured in a paper towel by scotch tape, he eagerly watched the coffee maker brewing. God bless coffee, he thought as the delicious aroma filled the tiny kitchen. After the coffee had finished brewing, he poured himself a mug, and placed some bread in the toaster. As he waited for it to toast, he decided to take a few moments to investigate the rest of the cabin as he consumed his morning’s caffeine. First, he entered the bedroom where he discovered a queen-size bed that looked surprisingly comfortable. Next to the bedroom was a compact, but adequate bathroom containing a toilet, a sink and a shower – all stained. All the comforts of home, Zack thought sarcastically as he sipped his strong, black coffee. It was on the way back to the kitchen when he spied a second envelope, wedged under the ill fitting front door. That’s odd. He reached down to pick it up. I had insisted that Mrs. Douglas not tell anyone that I was coming here—yet this looks suspiciously like a party invitation of some sort. Picking up the red envelope he noted with further irritation that it was indeed addressed to him. Zack made his way back to the kitchen, and placed it on the table. He focused his full attention on his now empty coffee mug and the toast sitting up in the toaster. After generously spreading the toast with low-priced margarine, and to his annoyance failing to discover any marmalade, he replenished his coffee mug and sat at the table. He took a bite of the toast, and as he chewed he once more studied the curious envelope. He ripped it open and read the words out loud. D ear Mr. Au stin ;


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O n Saturd ay 18th of Aug u st we are hav ing a s m all dinne r par t y at the m ano r hou se adjace nt the church at the ce nte r of town. We know that y ou have ju st ar r ived and thought the idea of meeting y our ne ighbo r s might be a plea sing pro s pect fo r y ou. T he proceeding s star t at 8:00 p.m. pro mptly, and we would be delighted if y ou would ho no r u s w ith y our pre se nce. Mr. & Mr s . D eluca

He put the invitation under the salt shaker, and took another bite of his toast. A trickle of red slowly dripped onto the tabletop. Zack glared at the blood coming from under his makeshift bandage. Damn, that must be deeper than it looks. He redressed his wound a little tighter, and considered the invitation he had just read. Oh well, I suppose I should go. Anyhow it might be rather entertaining, and besides the handwriting looks remarkably familiar, he thought as he wrapped his hand. Maybe just what the doctor ordered and I bet it’ll shed a little light on those mysterious disappearances.

n T wo

days later

By Saturday evening, Zack began to adapt to the quiet seclusion of the cabin. He managed to catch up on some reading, and started some preliminary investigations into the town of Barrymore. He discovered that the town enjoyed remarkably old roots, and that it had been originally settled by people with Eastern European ancestry. I am quite looking forward to the party tonight. He slipped into his black velvet jacket, secured his bow tie perfectly in place, and went outside to his Jeep. It took almost half hour of traversing the windy, narrow roads through the mountainsides before he made it into the heart of town. “Ah, there’s the old church,” Zack muttered out loud as an old gothic-influenced church came into view. He stared with surprise and

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bewilderment at it. That looks strangely out of place, he mused as he stared up at the three spiraling towers, their pointed arches, and the immense buttresses. I can imagine that has a marvelous crypt below it. I must make time to investigate it further. He smiled at the notion. Thoughts of the church were dismissed as a great manor house came into view. “My god it is absolutely massive,” Zack said with amazement. “Why on earth would somebody build a house of that grandeur and magnitude all the way out here?” He pulled his Jeep up to the giant gateway, with its wrought iron fence entwined with overgrown ivy surrounding the estate. Zack rolled down his window, reached over and pressed the gate button. “Who is it?” a rather somber man’s voice replied. “It’s Zack Austin. I’ve been invited,” Zack answered. “Ah, welcome Mr. Austin. We are honored that you would grace us with your presence.” The voice was far less pompous this time. “Please come in!” The immense gates gradually swung open with eerie silence. “Let the fun and games begin,” Zack muttered wryly as he eased his vehicle forward. Zack noted with interest half a dozen or so high end motor cars assembled to the right of the house. He parked his vehicle next to a vintage black Rolls Royce and jumped out of his Jeep. He studied the majestic lines of the car with envy evident in his eyes. Sighing, he slammed his Jeep’s door shut, and made his way to the imposing marble entrance way and to the double mahogany front doors. Before he had a chance to ring the bell the doors swung open, startling Zack. “Oh my, did I frighten you, Mr. Austin? Please, do forgive me,” said a tall, far too slender gentleman dressed in a long black flowing cape who appeared to be in his late sixties. He laughed. “Well, I must admit you did, rather,” Zack said, regaining his composure. “Again I apologize. My name is Mr. Deluca. I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Austin. Do please come on in.”


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“Thank you,” Zack said as he stepped inside. He studied his host intently. Obviously a fan of classic Hammer horror movies, he thought. “Please follow me,” Mr. Deluca prompted. “The other dinner guests are waiting enthusiastically for your arrival in the main dining hall, and we are all absolutely famished.” With that Zack and Mr. Deluca walked to the rear of the house down a long hallway. Odd, Zack considered his surroundings as he made his way along the red carpet adorning the floor. The paneled walls are completely blank; no oil paintings as you would expect in a house like this. Not even a mirror. Zack and Mr. Deluca arrived at two large mahogany doors. “Just through here, Mr. Austin, if you will,” Mr. Deluca pressed, excitement overflowing in his voice. Mr. Deluca opened the door, and prompted for Zack to enter. In the middle of room stood a long dinner table, covered in deep red linens and various silver serving utensils. About the table sat five people, who were now all staring directly at him. A faint mumbling of approval filled the room. “Might I present our special dinner guest for the evening, all the way from New York, Zack Austin,” Mr. Deluca announced. Zack studied the faces staring intently back at him. Red velvet must be still the big thing in this part of the world; all the ladies look as if they want to be Ingrid Pitt or something. He scrutinized the group. And what on earth is it with all those vintage, long black tuxedos the men are wearing? All they are missing are top hats and white gloves. They look straight from the Victorian era. He suddenly became uncomfortably aware that the room was intensely silent, and realized to his horror that all eyes were now upon him again, that he was probably expected to say something. “I’m honored to be here,” he said. A rather plump older lady, with more than enough ample bosom being barely contained by her velvet bodice, got up from the head of the table, and proceeded to walk up to Zack.

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“I’m Mrs. June Deluca, the lady of the house,” she proclaimed in a breathy voice containing a subtle hint of an accent that he could not quite pinpoint. Her ruby red lips smiled affectionately at Zack as she handed him a solid silver goblet. “Thank you, Mrs. Deluca,” Zack said, surprised at how desirable he found her. He grasped the goblet, and Mrs. Deluca’s eyes instantly focused on his bandaged hand. “Did you hurt yourself?” she purred. “Nothing too bad I hope. And please, call me June.” “Oh that? It’s nothing; just a little cut, erm… June.” As he spoke, he raised the goblet gradually towards his parted lips, but paused cautiously. Mrs. Deluca watched on expectantly, and ran her tongue seductively over her lips. “Try it, Zack, I’m quite sure that you will love it,” she said opening her mesmerizing emerald green eyes a little wider. “Yes, do drink up, my good man,” someone at the table uttered, followed by a flurry of “yes, yes’s,” from the rest of the guests. Zack placed the goblet against his mouth, and staring directly into June’s appreciative eyes, he tilted it. His mouth was filled by a warm, sweet, rich liquid. “Rather good, isn’t it?” Mrs. Deluca giggled. “It is my own special recipe,” Mr. Deluca added as he put his arm around his wife’s waist. “Allow me to explain.” Mrs. Deluca pushed her husband’s arm away. “We are the West Virginia Christopher Lee Appreciation Society, and once a month we have a dinner party in theme.” Zack nodded. “And you are our guest of honor. We have read all of your books on the matter… ” Mr. Deluca looked menacingly at Zack through squinting dark eyes.


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“But, I must confess, a few months ago, we got bored playing make believe, and we began to get increasingly curious what human blood actually tasted like… ” Mrs. Deluca gazed even deeper into Zack’s startled eyes. My god, what was about to happen? Zack thought to himself. And what was that they insisted I drink? All the guests methodically got up from the dinner table, and began to slowly make their way over to Zack. Zack felt something stir deep inside as he watched them descend on him. They circled Zack and June, and clasped hands… They think they are Vampires, he thought. They actually think they are real life Vampires! Zack’s heart raced faster and faster in expectation of what inevitably was about to unfold. He darted with remarkable speed at Mrs. Deluca, and before she had a chance to scream, he opened his mouth wide. Mr. Deluca’s face filled with panic as he watched on incredulously as Zack’s two fangs embedded themselves into his wife’s soft neck. June sighed in satisfaction. The encircling onlookers quickly broke the ring and stampeded out of the dining room, whimpering in disbelief and total horror. As Zack greedily consumed June’s blood, he had to fight the impulse to laugh. Bloody amateurs, he thought to himself with bemusement. I came here in expectation of uncovering kindred blood, not a bunch of wannabes…

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S

ee what I mean, dear reader? Another lesson I have learned being an Imaginary Friend is just how often folks take after their parents. The following account is an enthralling tale of a young man following in his father’s footsteps. Warms the cockles of the heart, doesn’t it? Read on, dear reader… please read on.

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A

s an Imaginary Friend, I discovered long ago that people aren’t all they at first appear! It is never wise to judge a book by its cover, wouldn’t you agree? For my next account I thought I would share with you a man continuing on the work that his father started. How quaint you say. Well, read on dear reader… please read on

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41 W orthy I nheritance

G

areth Baxter raised both of his arms above himself and stretched lazily. He gently began swaying back and forth on the old rocking chair. “So you see Deanna, this old, almost magical place is now mine. Yes siree. Peaceful, isn’t it? Hidden all the way here right directly in the middle of nowhere. No one even knows this place is here. My dear old pop built this place when I was a young boy, almost thirty years ago now.” Tears begin to well up in his eyes, as his smile instantly transformed from an expression of elation into one of complete emptiness. He gazed out of the log cabin window into the woods lost in a deep, grief-stricken daydream. “Yep, it took the best part of a whole year it did. As you noticed there are no roads linking it from the highway, that’s why I needed to get a Jeep, just like my daddy before me. That winter was harsh, let me tell you, but we stuck it out. We managed to get a well dug for our water supply, and even got a small generator fixed up for electricity. Pretty good job my old man did, don’t you think, Deanna?” He paused and studied the young brunette girl sitting quietly on a tattered wicker chair facing him, and coyly winked at her. “I reckon my dad would be mighty proud if he could see us now. I always wanted to make him proud of me… and now, well, now he’s


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gone. But still I reckon he’s above us right now looking down at the two of us and smiling. Yes siree, I truly do. I swear if I close my eyes I can smell one of those cheap cigars he was always smoking. “It came as a horrible shock when he died. I still cannot believe it a week later. And I don’t suppose I ever truly will believe it. You see, my momma went off when I was a small child. I barely remember her, to tell you the truth. Pop used to tell me about her and all, but I cannot quite remember what she looked like. I must have been about three years old when she left. It was like she just vanished off the face of the earth. So poor old dad was left to bring me up by himself, but I reckon he did a half decent job. What do you think, Deanna?” Gareth turned his attention to the fireplace. “I reckon it’s going to be a cold one tonight. I need to put some more wood on the fire. It looks as if she is about to go out.” As Deanna watched on, Gareth eased himself up from the rocking chair and methodically made his way across the room to the fireplace. Reaching down, he picked up a small log that was lying on top several others in an old milk crate next to the hearth and casually tossed it onto the glowing embers. His eyes focused on a large fire poker hanging on a hook on the front of the chimney, and he reached over and grabbed it. “I reckon this will help put some life back into the fire,” he said as he brandished the poker violently in the air. “Boy, this feels mighty good in my hand,” he cried as he made his way back across the room, and swooped it just a few inches in front of Deanna’s face. Deanna’s eyes peeled wide open with alarm. “Hell, sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said chuckling to himself as he lowered the poker, and returned to the fireplace. Bending down he began to prod the wrought iron tool feverishly into the flames, which instantly began to flourish. “Woo-hoo look at them dance. Ain’t that a pretty sight?” he shrieked as the flames began to flicker and catch. “That should keep us going for an hour or so I reckon,” he said with a satisfied nod to the fire. After replacing the poker back on its hook he walked back over to the rocking chair and sat down again, as Deanna studied his every movement. He sighed as he began to

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gently rock back and forth, generating a squeaking sound with each movement. “There, that’s much better,” he said after a few moments of silence. “Few things more comforting than a real fire.” He met Deanna’s stare. “I suppose you heard all about my father on the news, didn’t you? Sure you did—him being famous and everything. It took me a week to finally accept that he had died. But he knew the end was close. It was three days ago that I first came up here to claim the most important part of my inheritance. The great thing is not a soul knows about this place. This is our secret place. I had tears in my eyes as I made the trip up alone. My brain was full of so many wonderful memories. My father and I used to have a laugh, let me tell you Deanna… ” Gareth paused. “Anyway, I made it here. It was lying on the table, just as I knew it would be, all shiny and polished. It looked just like it was brand new, despite having been well used over the last thirty years. Here let me show it to you… ” He pulled himself up from the chair, and made his way across the wooden floor to the small kitchen area. “Be back in a jiffy, don’t go anywhere,” he said with another exaggerated wink to Deanna. Moments later Gareth returned. “Here it is,” he said as he waved it in front of Deanna. “My pop’s old scalpel—ain’t she a beauty? She was made in Germany. The best blades in the world are made in Germany, you know. Look how she shines… ” Gareth held the knife directly in front of Deanna’s face, and she looked on unblinking. She desperately began to squirm in the chair. “Now, don’t you go and wear yourself out by fidgeting and all. You’ll never be able to escape those bindings. My daddy taught me good and proper he did—to tie someone down to a chair. A genius my poppa was.”


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Deanna attempted to scream, but the duct tape holding her mouth shut refused to budge. A stream of tears began to cascade from her terrified eyes. “You see that arrogant police captain kept on bragging and bragging on the television how he had captured one of the most rampant serial killers of all time. As he spoke his bushy moustache fluttered about. He thought he was so damned smart. They went into elaborate detail of each of his twenty-three victims on that show that comes on Sunday nights that everyone in America watches. They went on about how each victim was a young woman between the age of twenty and thirty, how their eyes and all the internal organs were cut out, and how the bodies were left sitting on park benches all over New York. Fascinating that he did not try to conceal the bodies, but flaunted them.” Gareth began to pace the small room as he continued. “Still, there was much they did not uncover. This place for one.” He stopped pacing and stared directly at Deanna. “What will the media make of another killing precisely like the others? That will give them something to think about it… ” Gareth walked over to Deanna, and placed the very end tip of the scalpel onto her right eye. “Have you ever been to Central Park in the fall, Deanna? I hear it’s beautiful… ”

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o what did you think of that charming little account? Aren’t family traditions such a delightful thing to maintain? I have to admit I get a tear in the eye just thinking about it. Have you ever wished that you had a window into the future—but a way of sneaking a peak into things that might happen? Well, after the next account you might reconsider such a notion. Intrigued? Well, what are you waiting for… Read on dear reader, please read on.

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A

h, dear reader—I just knew that you were going to join me again today. Being able to predict the future is just one of my many talents, being an Imaginary Friend. For instance, I can predict that you are going to thoroughly enjoy my next account. Well, why don’t you read it… and find out for yourself? Read on, dear reader… please read on.

n

42 T he U nwitting S oothsayer

A

h, there you are! Please forgive my disposition today for I barely got any sleep last night. You see my nightmare has returned, and it is identical to the ones I had several months back. But how silly of me, you would not know about those, now would you? Please allow me to enlighten you—and you will soon enough understand the dreadful significance of these haunting dreams. My life of late had been plodding along on at a relatively normal and contented clip until recently. My career was going exceptionally well, and I was getting some serious writing accomplished; finally making a name and a decent living for myself. Then it happened, completely out of the blue—a dream that repeated itself over three increasingly harrowing nights. I feel I should mention that I had never before been haunted by nightmares or nightterrors in my entire life to this point so they came as quite a fright. The first night in the dream I found myself casually strolling in a nearby park as I am in the regular habit of doing. It clears my mind, and the light exercise invigorates my imagination. I was unsure as to what time of day it was, perhaps early afternoon. The air was crisp, but comfortable, and there was a generous splattering of clouds in the sky. All at once they appear from nowhere—four excessively tall gentlemen with bald heads and nondescript facial features. They were dressed in matching old-fashioned, black, long tuxedos and were marching directly towards me. I needed to dart out of the way as I would surely


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have been knocked down. Balanced on the men’s shoulders was a coffin—not an expensive model mind you; no, this one appeared to be made entirely from pine, and had nothing on it apart from the most rudimentary hardware. It was at that moment I awoke, slightly amused by the vivid nightmare, and not even remotely alarmed by it. Within a matter of minutes I fell back into a more restful sleep. The following day I did not think much about the nightmare as I went about my usual routine. That was until I once more lay upon my bed. From the very moment I closed my eyes, the image of that pine coffin kept popping into my mind. Normally, in my experience, the clarity of dreams fades until forgotten. Yet this image of the four peculiar fellows carrying the casket was remarkably clear. I tried to dismiss the disturbing vision as I lay there fidgeting. Finally, after an hour or so, I did succumb to sleep and that dream once more manifested itself within my slumbering mind and with precisely the same odd series of events from the night before, only this time it continued further. For some reason, in my dream, I felt compelled to follow the curious pallbearers, and I had to almost jog to keep up with them. They seemed thankfully oblivious to my being there. I watched on as they marched purposefully through the park, past the bowling green, where several old gentlemen dressed smartly in white shirts and ties grinned as the procession went by. Then near a muddy soccer pitch, where young boys of about nine or ten, with muddied faces, and muddied knees stopped playing their game and began pointing and laughing hysterically as the four tall men, the coffin and I passed by. The peculiar procession continued on out of the main gates of the park and down the street, and it was then I abruptly awoke. This time I was not amused by the nightmare, as I discovered myself to be in a cold prickly sweat. I promptly took a warm shower and a short measure of brandy to calm my nerves. I returned to bed, and after a short while fell into a peaceful sleep. The following evening as I prepared for bed, I wondered if again I would have my nightmare, and I wondered further if I was going to discover who was in the coffin. It took a little while to finally fall asleep, and yes indeed it did return. Once again we were in the park, once again I followed, and once more the bowlers in their white shirts

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grinned, and the pale faced young football players sneered and cackled as we marched. Just like before we continued out of the park, and along the main street, and then I saw it—an old hand painted sign: B i r c h i n g a n d W at t s Funeral Parlor—serving the C i t y o f B i r m i n g h a m s i n c e 1896

As they marched towards the red bricked building the heavy doors of the parlor swung open, seemingly by themselves, and they continued on inside. I followed immediately behind them. They placed the pine coffin onto a long narrow table standing about three feet high draped in faded, moth bitten, black velvet. I studied the room. It had no windows and its dark wooden walls were cracking and revealing their age. There was a small fireplace on the back wall of the room containing the dying embers of a fire. The room was softly illuminated by black candles in simple, old-fashioned sconces on each of the room’s four walls. I breathed in the dank, stale air. It occurred to me that the room could have been taken from a Charles Dickens novel. I abruptly turned around and realized that the door I had entered through was no longer there. I stared blankly at the dusty wooden covered walls where the door had been. I began to spin my body about furiously in alarm; the pallbearers also had vanished. The room contained the candle lit walls, the smoldering fireplace, and the coffin set on the table. I stopped spinning and made my way to the center of the well proportioned room and over to the coffin. I studied it keenly as I ran the fingers of my right hand over the cheap, coarse wood. No nails or screws secured the top, I noted with a combination of delight and dread. I felt a sudden sharp pain, and realized that I had managed to embed a splinter in my index finger. Undeterred, I gradually placed my fingertips under the top, and lifted it up an inch. I took a big breath and held it as I lifted it further and peered inside. I screamed and instantly recoiled at the face gazing up at me grinning through badly applied make up and empty eyes still wide open. It was the face of my editor and dear friend—Constance Cooper.


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I immediately awoke to discover that I was indeed screaming. As I once more attempted to calm my nervousness by depleting more of my brandy and taking another warm bath, I noticed a throbbing in my right hand, and discovered, with further horror and complete disbelief, a splinter. I could not bring myself to sleep for the rest of the night despite it being only a little after two. I simply went downstairs to my kitchen and made a pot of strong coffee. As I sat there I kept replaying the terrible scene in my head, and kept considering the splinter. “Surely there is a rational explanation,” I kept muttering out loud in an attempt to convince myself. “I must have gotten the splinter without realizing it, and then incorporated into my dream. That can be the only explanation.” I watched the clock ticking away the hours… three, four, five… six. I sat there silently as the sun awoken and cast its soft morning glow. Finally, it was nine. My editor was always at her desk by that time in the morning. My head dizzy from the combination of lack of sleep, anxiety, and the large quantity of caffeine, I dialed my editor’s number with trembling fingers. It was on the fifth ring that the phone was answered— by Constance. I told her about the dream, and she joked about my imagination working over time—and that I should stick to just writing speculative fiction—and not dreaming it. I laughed, and my mind was eased. However, I wish I could tell you that that was the last of it. Alas, the most shocking was yet to come. It was a few days later when I had a question for Constance, and once more dialed her number. The phone was answered, after the sixth ring, but not with Constance’s usual cheery voice meeting my ear. It was the voice of her young assistant, June. “Oh my goodness,” she said and I could tell that she was crying. “There was a terrible car accident this morning. Police are here right now… Constance’s Jaguar apparently skidded out of control… and she’s... she’s… Dead.” All at once my mind was filled with the haunting, disturbing vision of Constance’s distorted face I had seen in my nightmare. I collapsed on to the floor, hitting my head on the cold marble tile in the process.

20 8 — P.S. G i f f o r d

I awoke in a hospital bed, heavily sedated, with a pretty redheaded nurse smiling down at me. She told me that I had suffered an emotional breakdown, brought about from the shock of losing a close friend, and that I had been out for several days, even missing the funeral. She went on to inform me that with help, my life would resume back to normal within a matter of weeks, reminding me how resilient humans are. The last few months have been awful, absolutely awful. My writing fell apart, and the only way I could get myself to sleep was by a doctor’s prescription, but at least I had no more of those dreams. Well, that is till a few days ago. The dream was precisely as I remembered it. On the first night I was once more in the park, and once more saw the menacing pall bearers, and yet again I darted out of their way to avoid being knocked over. On the second night we once more headed out of the park—and again the bowlers sneered and the young boy scoffed and pointed their grubby fingers at us. And on the third night, just as we had done before, we continued out of the park, through the main gates up the main street, and I saw the Birching and Watts Funeral Parlor sign. Again, I followed the procession inside. The door vanished, and I spun about frantically, realizing that the pallbearers had once more disappeared. I finally focused my attention on the coffin. I made my way over to it and studied the cheap brackets and hinges. Again I saw there were no screws or nails keeping the top in place. I ran my right finger over it, and got another splinter. I placed the tips of my fingers underneath the lid, and gradually eased it upward. As I peered inside, the candle light flickered eerily about me, and as my terrified eyes met the face of the person lying inside, I screamed. At that point, I awoke in my bed, just as shaken and just as terrified as before.


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That is why I needed to contact you so desperately. Please understand—for the face laying in that cheap pine coffin—it was yours!

n

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rather delightful account that one was, wasn’t it? Sometimes even an Imaginary Friend likes to while away some time relaxing and watching the television. Of course, as you might expect, I have a rather unusual taste in shows, as the next tale clearly proves. Read on dear reader… please read on.

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D

elighted that you could join me once again. Andy Warhole once famously quoted as saying, “In the future everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.” Well, as the next story shows, it appears that a certain Ralph Higgins is about to get his taste of fleeting fame. Read on dear reader… please read on.

n

43 T he R atings G ame

R

alph’s hand slammed down on the buzzer. “The Return of the Saint!” he exclaimed. The crowd suddenly roared in approval. “That is the correct answer!” the game show host, Gary Hobbs, sneered in his usual slimy, sardonic way. “Do you dare continue?” he prompted unable to disguise the hopefulness in his tone. “Go for it, go for it,” the audience heckled. Ralph paused for a moment, to allow himself time to think, and glanced at Gary. He examined his slick clothes, slick mannerisms and his even slicker hair and chuckled to himself. Typical game show host, he thought. He looks even cheesier in real life than he does on the television. In a moment the screaming audience shook him back into the reality of the moment. “Ralph, Ralph, Ralph,” went their new mantra. They are actually chanting my name! Ralph realized. For the first time in my sad, worthless life I am actually somebody. He scanned around the studio. It was number Six, the most modern and hi-tech Channel One had at their disposal. Four state-of-theart cameras peered at him, capturing his every move, facial gesture,


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and droplet of sweat. A self-satisfied smile formed on his round plump face as he glanced at his own image in the television monitors. This is going out live, he reminded himself. At this very moment millions of Americans are sitting in their living rooms, consuming junk food, and guzzling cheap beer or soda watching me, Ralph Higgins. Yes, here I am on America’s latest prime time hit reality game show. “Well?” coaxed the host with well-manicured precision, “The show is only an hour long. What’s your response?” “I’ll go for it, Gary,” Ralph replied as the adrenaline began to pump through his system. “Yes, I’m going to go for the Jackpot!” The audience exploded into hysteria and their screaming intensified even further. “Ralphy! Ralphy! Ralphy!” Gary picked up a nondescript envelope from the top of his glitzy podium and waved it methodically to the camera using well-practiced melodramatic gesturing. “Here, this very envelope contains the ten million dollar question.” He paused momentarily, his exaggerated facial gestures playing perfectly to the camera and the studio audience’s emotions. Teasing and tantalizing them and finally, with the audience silent and mesmerized, he continued speaking, carefully articulating each syllable methodically. “Ralph Higgins, an unemployed pest exterminator from Riverside County, California, is about to play for the largest Jackpot ever offered in the history of American television!” The studio lights gradually faded as two oversized spotlights lit up; the first gently illuminated Gary in a soft, flattering, angelic light and the second directly, and harshly, shone upon Ralph’s trembling, spotty, unshaven sweat-soaked features. “I ask you all to be deadly silent as I now read Ralph the final question,” Gary prompted. “The category this week is horror movies.” Ralph grinned contentedly as he heard that. Horror movies—perfect. I have no life; television and movies are all that I know, and I have loved horror movies since I was a kid.

212 — P.S . G i f f o r d

Ralph tightened the grip on the sides of the chair as Gary began to unhurriedly rip open the silver envelope. Gary lifted the envelope and flaunted it first to the camera and next to the appreciative audience. Then, he carefully opened it. He nodded and read the contents out loud. “The ten million dollar question this week concerns Stanley Kubrick’s cult horror masterpiece The Shining, based on the book by Stephen King.” The sweat began to ease down Ralph’s plump red face profusely, and the radiance and heat of the spotlight made it glisten. He blinked a few times in quick succession to clear his eyes. Ralph focused on Gary who slowly and deliberately continued with the question. The audience was hushed and completely spellbound by the captivating scene, as if they were all holding their breath in anticipation. “What was the number of the room where Danny and Jack saw the dead woman in the bathtub?” Heck I know this, Ralph thought as his pulse rate quickened, and his piggy eyes appeared as if they were going to pop out of his head at any given moment. I’ve seen that movie a dozen times. Suddenly, Ralph smirked broadly and answered with confidence. “My answer is room 217, Gary. Yes, I am quite sure of it room 217.” Gary looked at Ralph. Ralph returned Gary’s stare. The audience was completely captivated by the tension. “I am verifying that you said ‘room 217.’ Please confirm this answer, Ralph.” Ralph felt as if the room was beginning to spin, yet he heard himself answer, “I confirm that my answer is 217.” Gary began to speak agonizingly slowly. “The… answer… .is… ” Ralph’s heart was about to beat out of his chest. “Incorrect! The correct answer is 237! Well, bad luck Ralph, that was a bit of a trick question. As those of you familiar with horror trivia surely are aware, the hotel used for the exterior shots of the movie, The Timberline, insisted that Stanley Kubrick change the room number


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from the classic Stephen King book, as they actually do have a room 217.” Ralph instantly panicked and clumsily attempted to get up from the chair, but the leather bindings which had been tied to his arms and legs earlier prevented him from any movement. Gary turned and faced the audience. “You know what this means!” he screamed with joy to the now animated crowd. “Fry him! Fry him! Fry him!” went the enthusiastic, energized audience’s new chant. Gary eased his way across the stage and over to a large electrical switch at center stage, tastefully framed in neon lights that flashed in almost every color of the rainbow. “I can’t hear you!” He tormented the increasingly wound-up mob. “Fry him! Fry him! Fry him!” they repeated, getting even more frenzied. By now half the audience was on their feet, and punching clenched fists into the air as they repeated the chat over and over. Everyone from young bright faces, well dressed student types, to businessmen in suits, to blue rinsed grandmothers in cardigans, each screamed the chant with equal fervor. With that Gary reached over and, as a recording of a drum roll played, slowly pulled the fancy lever. Ralph screamed as he watched Gary. The sound of the crowd covered up his agonizing cry for mercy. All at once Ralph’s body jolted upwards, as if it was trying to launch from the seat. His mouth opened wide, and he made a strange gurgling noise as his tongue jutted out of his engorged mouth. As the smell of tinged flesh filled the studio, his body fell limp; his eyes still open with a look of fear now permanently contained within his half cooked eyeballs. The audience began to laugh and cheer. People began to clap and stamp their feet in gleeful celebration. Over the approving noise, Gary smirked and spoke into camera number one. “And that’s all for today’s show folks. Join us next week, live for the next edition of Electric Chair! And remember folks, if you would risk the electric chair for ten million dollars, you could be next week’s

21 4 — P.S . G i f f o r d

biggest celebrity. And please stay tuned to this very network—as up next is our newest hit program taking America by storm, ‘Tickle or Torture.’”

n

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ell, dare I say, that account was a bit shocking? They certainly don’t make television shows these days like they used to. Before the next curious account I am going to serve up for you, might I suggest that you make sure all the doors and windows are secure before proceeding? Read on dear reader… please read on.


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F

antastic to see you again dear reader! The following account may make you question a few things that you take for granted. As an Imaginary Friend I have found it prudent not to jump to conclusions, either about people or places. Read on dear reader… please read on.

n

44 T he A rrival

E

lizabeth all at once opened her eyes and felt strangely rested. She allowed her retinas to adjust to the bright, warm light and began to scrutinize her unexpected surroundings. She experienced a tinge of panic as she didn’t know where she was, and had absolutely no idea of how she got there. However, as soon as the anxiety rose, it quickly faded, and she became at ease with her dilemma. She purposefully studied the metallic room. Yes, there was no doubt about it; she was in some sort of elevator. Alone and confused, she somehow didn’t feel afraid. In fact, on the contrary, she was remarkably tranquil. She wore a long, soft, pink cotton summer dress and this bemused her, for she had not worn such a dress in a long, long time. Elizabeth desperately attempted to concentrate on where she had just been. She examined the beautifully inscribed numbers next to the buttons, which went all the way up to level nine. Vague slivers of memories started to cluster coherently within her mind. Yes, she started to remember! She closed her eyes as images of her ailing health replayed. “That was it,” she realized. “I fell prey to the dreaded rampant fever.” She remembered the servants in her big house tending to her. She remembered the doctor being called. She remembered the shaking of the heads. And she remembered finally falling into a deep, blissful sleep. All at once, she began to understand where she must be, and found herself excited at the prospect.

21 6 — P.S . G i f f o r d

“I made it,” she sighed. “I’ve actually made it! Bring me on home, Lord, bring me on home.” It was then that the elevator doors suddenly slid open to reveal a big, brightly colored sign. Welcome

to

Cloud Nine

Elizabeth could not help but smile to herself as she paused to study the glorious, peaceful scene. She could smell the sweet scents of the multitude of colorful wild flowers, and hear children’s enchanting giggling as they frolicked innocently under the cloudless blue sky. Somewhere off in the distance she was convinced that she could even hear the soft sounds of a string quartet performing a lullaby by Mozart, as it soothingly serenaded with the sounds of gurgling streams gushing crystal water down the green hills. Eagerly, she stepped forward just as a young woman and man appeared in her path. She recognized the faces instantly, her dead parents, looking the same age as when she had killed them both thirty years before. Her heart froze in fear as her mother now brandished an all too familiar bloodied axe in her face, and pushed her abruptly back into the elevator. As the doors closed she heard her mother yelling. “This is the wrong floor, Lizzie Borden! They’re expecting you in the basement.”

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or some reason now I have a ravenous appetite. Yes, Imaginary Friends are very fond of their food, I will have you know. If you think those accounts were curious, I simply know that you are going to like the next one—an account I simply and affectionately title “Horrible Quandary.” I bet you are just itching to discover what happens to my next friend, aren’t you? Well, that can be fixed… Read on, dear reader, please read on.


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I

n my considerable experience as an Imaginary Friend, I have discovered that greed makes ordinary people do exceedingly extraordinary things. It is amazing, and often shocking what people will do for wealth, as this next charming account clearly indicates. Read on, dear reader… please read on.

n

45 H orrible Q uandary

P

hilip Kent grunted as he apprehensively scrutinized all the dark green intertwining foliage on both sides of the river. What a miserable, spooky looking bog—a far cry from London, he reflected as he continued to guide his boat down the Suwannee River and further into the deepest regions of Georgian swampland. He had managed to purchase the tiny rowing boat, along with some ancient diving equipment from a shrewd old local, for an inflated price. “Supply and demand,” the old coot kept repeating with a slurred thick accent that reminded Philip of the movie Deliverance. He almost admired the stubbornness in the old grey eyes as he held out for his extortionate price—eight hundred dollars. The battered vessel he got for that price not only smelled of rotting fish—at least he hoped it was fish—but was gradually becoming waterlogged as the murky river seeped through its old wood. Philip cursed angrily under his breath. Normally, he would have just battered the old fellow for trying to swindle him and simply taken what he had needed, like he had done so often before, but he understood that this time far too much was at stake. He needed to curtail his usual hot temper and be particularly vigilant, to rouse no one’s suspicions. The potential rewards were too great to screw it up in one moment of stupidity. So he had begrudgingly paid the fellow and even shook his filthy hand. I can’t believe that my grandfather lived here for all those years. No wonder he decided to move back to civilized England when they got hot on his trail…

21 8 — P.S . G i f f o r d

Securing the oars he began to bail out the boat with an old bucket that was obviously there for such a purpose. He again looked all about him at the thickly woven, dense vegetation. “Surely I must be getting close. I feel as if I have bloody well traveled for miles,” he murmured out loud as he realized to his alarm that the afternoon light was beginning to fade. Philip shivered as he reached inside his tweed jacket and pulled out his grandfather’s old hand drawn map from his pocket. Tightening his jacket about him, he unfolded the map on his knee. I am right according to this. I’m almost at the shack—if anything is still left of it. It’s been many years since my grandfather lived here, after all. He looked at the small hole in the boat and then at the diving equipment. I hope that works better than this bloody boat. He considered what ominous task awaited him. “I hope it bloody well works,” he muttered out loud. Philip securely returned the map to his pocket, and returned the oars to the water and continued onwards. All at once there was a screeching from the foliage, and he froze and gasped out loud, firing a frantic glance towards the direction of the horrific cry. He saw a bird flying away, echoing the noise he heard over and over. Don’t get animals like that back home. As he rowed forward, he looked at the dark water as it swept over the oar, and realized that he was unusually afraid. What am I going to find down there? Then he chuckled. Shit, I must have watched too many bad horror movies as a kid. What could there be down there that I can’t handle? He thought about his grandfather. “Can’t believe the stubborn old bugger made it to ninety-three years old,” he grumbled out loud. “Those damn diamonds should have been mine years ago. He never even sold them or got them cut—just hid them away and wouldn’t tell anyone where—until just before he died. Then he told me where he had hidden the map.” Twenty more minutes passed, and his arms begin to feel weary. His eyes opened wide as he spied an old dilapidated hut twenty feet from the water’s edge. Just as my grandfather told me it would be, he thought as he made his way towards it, guiding his small boat awkwardly along the gloomy water.


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I can see why you can only reach this place by boat, he considered as he examined the dense vegetation surrounding the structure. Can’t believe the old chap lived here alone for almost six years. It would have driven me mad, or should I say madder. He chuckled at that thought as he eased the boat directly to the left of the cabin. Philip carefully looked about and climbed out into the water, which came just below the top of his knee high waders. Dragging the tiny vessel behind him, he waded to the riverbank. After securing his boat to a vine, he warily made his way to the ramshackle structure. He examined the building in front of him—or what was left of it—and shook his head in disgust. The rickety wooden hovel appeared to consist of nothing more than one room. Most of the roof had long since rotted away, and the walls were beginning to crumble and collapse. The quicker I get this over with, the quicker I can be in a first class British Airways cabin enjoying a decent beer, and flirting with the flight attendants on my way back to London. He reached what was left of a door. It was only hanging by one rusted hinge, and after one solid kick, it completely broke away. Philip once again peered about him cautiously before venturing inside. He glanced around the room, hoping to find something of value, and his eyes focused on the remains of a tattered couch, with springs bursting from its filthy fabric which appeared—by the remnants of a moth bitten blanket and pillow – to have been his grandfather’s sleeping place. A camping gas range stood against the back wall along with a few pots and pans and tins of food with peeling labels. “Not even a flippin’ proper toilet.” He grunted as he noted that an old rusty metal bucket sat in the opposite corner to the stove with the remains of a roll of toilet paper next to it. “Disgusting,” he said as a foul odor of filth and decay made its way up his nostrils. Philip returned outside and deeply breathed in the fresh air. Realizing that he only had an hour or less of light, he made his way over to his boat and studied the ancient diving equipment. Straight from the bloody 1970’s. This stuff belongs in a flippin’ museum. Anyhow I don’t much fancy sleeping here, so I best get this over and done with.

220 — P.S . G i f f o r d

A few minutes later he wore the ill-fitting wet suit, and was conscientiously testing the oxygen tank. “Seems like this thing actually works. Still it’s a good thing I’m only going down a few feet. If it fails I can quickly make it back up to the surface.” Reaching down to his jacket, neatly placed on his folded clothing, he pulled out a large serrated knife contained in a pouch. Best to be safe than sorry, he thought as he secured it to his right ankle. Next he picked up the map and flipped it over. According to this, the diamonds are at the bottom of the bloody river, in a waterproof safe, directly midway across the river. A rare smile formed on his hard face. Easy peasy, he thought as he secured his weight belt around his ample waist and put on the fins. Slipping the tanks onto his back and tightening the straps, he put the regulator into his mouth and breathed in several times. I can’t be too careful, he thought. Works just fine. Reassured, he pulled the mask over his eyes and headed towards the bank. Once more checking all about, he eased into the cold, murky water. After taking several more breaths, and double checking the gauges on his arm, he allowed himself to drift down underneath the surface of the water. Swimming down he made his way to the river bottom and after several moments he spotted what he was searching for. How easy is this? He swam through the muddy water. Philip studied the safe, which seemed to have weathered the water remarkable well. It was embedded in the bottom of the river surrounded by vegetative growth. With a rubber-gloved hand he fumbled the dials for the combination, allowing his other hand to rest on the bottom for support. All at once he was in excruciating pain. He screamed, allowing the regulator to slip from his mouth, and a flow of bubbles to gush to the surface. Philip fumbled for the regulator, and secured it back into his mouth. He looked down to discover the horrific source of his pain. His left hand was snared in a steel jaw trap which had been set directly next to the safe. The teeth of the trap had easily penetrated through his wet suit, and had secured themselves deep within his flesh. Philip desperately attempted to free himself with his right hand; yet the trap proved too strong. He now had one free hand to work


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with and attempted to pull the trap open. Nothing—not even the slightest movement. He frantically tried repeatedly to pull it open and to free his arm—getting more panicked and agitated after each failed attempt, and the trap only tightened its hold. Damn, damn, damn, he screamed through his panicked mind as he continued to tug at the device. The old bastard must have bloody booby trapped the friggin’ thing. He had somehow friggin’ secured the trap to the bottom of the river. I don’t have a hell in chance of moving it. He began to feel weary both from the exertion and from the loss of blood He glanced at his gauges. “Damn it, I have only twenty minutes of air left! And I am so damn close to the surface and to air.” Once more he began to struggle desperately as the realization of his impending fate began to firmly imprint itself within his terrified mind. His heart raced, and each time he tugged at his hand, even more piercing pain raced through his tortured body. It was then, as the intense agony fueled his increasing madness that a twisted notion of survival forged in his tormented brain. I am going to have to use my knife. Philip attempted to slow down his breathing, and calm his nerves, but with little success. He reached down and retrieved the knife from his right leg. His hands trembled, and every instinct in him fought him as he placed the edge of the blade against his trapped wrist. He wanted to scream, an agonizing scream from the very depths of his being, as he made the first incision. His body was on fire, or as if molten lava was flowing through his veins. Philip wanted his hell to end. Part of him even wanted to die, yet he continued to saw through his own flesh, proving that his will to survive was more dominant. The blade sliced through his soft tissue, through his tendons and down to the bone. He grimaced as he continued, yet strangely the pain was beginning to be tolerable, as he understood that within moments he was going to be free and that he was going to live. Harnessing all the remaining strength he could muster to the task, the bone finally surrendered to the stainless steel blade. He glanced at his gauges with emotionless resolute eyes. Ten minutes worth of air remained in his tank. More and more blood continued to seep out of him, and the water became

222 — P.S . G i f f o r d

dark with its hue. His mind felt as it was about to explode, yet still he carved on—back and forth with the knife… back and forth. Phil glanced at the gauge again. Only five minutes left. He realized that in his state he was consuming more air than he would have normally. His determination increased further still, and he focused every drop of energy remaining in his body onto the blade. His eyes opened wide as he watched the oxygen gauge needle slip to empty. Oh my god, the air has run out... Philip began to tug at the last few sinews holding his hand in place. He pushed his feet against the bottom of the river, allowed his weights to drop free, and pushed and tugged all in one last desperate attempt to break free. He lunged to the surface leaving his mutilated left hand below the murky river water. Relief and joy at still being alive overcame the pain he was experiencing, and as looked at his own severed limb he began to laugh hysterically. As he began to swim to shore, with blood gushing, he felt himself becoming dizzy. I must make it to shore and stop the blood loss somehow, he thought as he struggled to the riverbank. He was so focused on this task that he failed to look about him. For you see, Philip Kent did not notice a dozen eyes scrutinizing his every move. Their salivating tongues thrashing against razor sharp teeth, six hungry alligators were making their way towards their evening meal.

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s I am well known for saying, what goes around comes around, dear reader. There is no hiding from a person’s destiny—not even you can hide its grasp. And as for YOUR destiny? I predict another gripping account is soon to come your way. Read on dear reader… please read on.


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I

am honored that you have joined me again. You always manage to brighten my day. You see more often than not I only get to chat with—how should I put this tactfully—more unsavory characters. Take this next gripping account for instance. This chap is about as unsavory as they get… Do I have your full attention? Read on dear reader… please read on.

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46 T he T rees of I dylcomb V illage G raveyard

H

enry O’Connor walked out of the front door of his house and rubbed his mitten covered hands together as he gazed out across the graveyard. The very same graveyard his father had taken care of prior to his untimely demise thirty years prior. His eyes gently flit, in succession, to three old oak trees that were situated amongst the gravestones. “Bugger, those trees are still withering,” he muttered out loud as he walked down the gravel path. “They’ve been bloomin’ dying ever since they stopped using this graveyard—and began burying folks in that new site. I am bloody well convinced, as long as there were new bodies planted in the earth on a regular basis those trees thrived and flourished. Now look at the poor buggers, I reckon they will be dead by this time next year at this rate.” He began to whistle Danny Boy as he set about his daily routine of caring for the two hundred and eighteen gravestones adorning the cemetery—dating from 1856 up until the year 2002 when the site was decommissioned. That was his favorite melody, and he had fond memories of his mother singing it to him as a young child when he had one of his nightmares. Henry was always having nightmares. He spied a clutter of empty lager cans next to one particularly fine headstone, and noted to his further dismay that the words Kaz luvs

224 — P.S . G i f f o r d

Bosher 4 ever had been crudely spray painted in bright red paint on the front of it. “That is Margaret Winthrop’s stone,” He said out loud as his escaping breath was converted to a soft mist by the frigid morning air. “Maggie has been resting here for neigh on forty years. She was a proper lady she was, and never did harm or had an ill word to a living soul. How someone could disrespect her memory like that does not bear thinking about—what a cheek. The youngsters today do not have any respect for anyone or anything.” The truth was that vandalism was an unfortunate way of life for Henry Wilkinson; it seemed that a few local hooligans had taken a twisted fancy to hanging out in the evening in the graveyard drinking cheap strong beer and causing mischief. And despite several stern conversations with the local constabulary, it seemed that it was not a high priority with the local police department. “Just young un’s with high spirits, that’s all they are,” the officer had said shaking his head at poor Henry. “We have far more serious matters to contend to. Just last night we had four drug arrests, a mugging, and three burglaries.” It was when Henry was removing the graffiti a few minutes later with liberal quantities of paint thinner and a scrubbing brush, that his attention was drawn back to the dwindling trees. “I still think it’s due to no more bodies being buried here that the trees are dying. They need a proper good feeding they do.” He looked to the side of the old, run down church at the back of the graveyard, which had been long abandoned by the Anglican Church, and at his modest house towards its rear. Those modest living quarters came with the job, and every day he wondered just how long he would be able to draw a salary and live on there. Surely a year at the most. What would become of him then? By the side of the old, red brick house sat evidence of a former compost heap. Henry scratched his head as he looked at it. “Might be time to get some compost going again, might be the last chance these trees ever get. One last final feeding before I inevitably have to go.” He solemnly returned to the task at hand, but as he continued to scrub away the paint his memory played back a time when he was a young boy.


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Yes, my dad and I planted those trees all those years ago, I can remember it almost as if it was yesterday—it was in the early 1950’s—people knew how to treat one another back then, they did. Maybe it was because of the war—or maybe it was because there was none of those stupid telly programs and violent movies playing at the cinema. My dad taught me manners, he did. As that thought played around his mind, he instinctively rubbed his rear where several scars still showed the pattern of his father’s belt buckle. He looked at a grave in the right corner of the cemetery where two stones, smaller than most, sat, but still appeared as if they had been laid that morning. “Mom and Dad, whatever would you make of all this nonsense, eh? Young ’uns coming in here and defiling everything. Dad, you would have done something about it, that’s what I reckon.” His scrubbing intensified and despite it being a cold morning sweat began to form on his now flushed forehead. “And that’s precisely what I should do, Dad, isn’t it—something. If those police chappies won’t stop those lager louts, I reckon it’s up to me. After all, I’m still the caretaker, aren’t I?” It was over tea that evening, with baked beans on buttered toast and a custard pie that the peculiar idea formed in his head. The more he considered it, the more excited he became. I reckon that is the perfect solution, he thought as he settled down for the night.

n S ix

months later

On a glorious and vibrant spring morning, six police officers banged on Henry’s front door. “Open up Henry. We know you’re in there,” they kept hollering. Henry smiled and nodded. I suppose this day was inevitable. He eased out of his sitting chair and methodically slipped on his house shoes.

226 — P.S. G i f f o r d

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he repeated as he unhurriedly made his way down the hallway. He paused for a moment upon arriving at the wooden door and took a deep breath before unbolting it. “I have been expecting you,” he said as he gazed at the agitated police officers standing there. “You are hereby under arrest on suspicion of murder,” the stern faced officer said as he pulled Henry from the house, attached a pair of handcuffs to his hands behind his back, and led him down the gravel path towards an awaiting police van. “Young Terry Watkins came to the station a few minutes ago, claiming that you had a go at him in the graveyard whilst he was with his girlfriend, Sherri. He’s in a right proper state that young man, let me tell you. He stated that you were bragging about how they were going to end up like the rest of them, and he claimed that they were lucky to have made it out alive.” The police officer shook his head with disgust at Henry. “Why the devil did you do it, man?” Henry stared back at him on that gorgeous spring morning, and as he gazed lovingly at the three trees now sporting succulent green foliage and looking healthier than they had in years, and towards the old compost heap that was now steaming away, he spoke with no emotion.. “I had my reasons… ” As he climbed into the back of the police car, Henry closed his eyes and began to whistle “Danny Boy… ”

n

A

nother corker of an account, wouldn’t you agree? And I have to admit feeling a smidgen of sadness for the poor fellow. He wasn’t all bad, you know...


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W

ell, it saddens me to see that our time together will soon be up—at least for now. So I leave you with one of the most harrowing accounts that I have ever heard. If this one doesn’t give you goose pimples—I do not know what will. Read on, dear reader… please read on.

n

47 C onfession

C

hristmas 1976—I can remember it with more resounding clarity than my memory of yesterday as the unsettling events of that day etched themselves so profoundly and deeply within my memory. I still find myself shivering to my very core as I recollect how such a wondrous day unfolded so terrifyingly. What horrific experience would command such an acute reaction in me, you ask? Well, as every story should, allow me to begin this account from the beginning. When I was awoken by my alarm clock within my well worn bed, in the upper rear, tiny bedroom located in Birmingham, England—in the very house I was born and raised in—I lay there for a few moments. My excitement began to pump through my young emotional veins. The stark coldness in the room made it possible on such wintry mornings to be able to watch my breath as I exhaled. Jack Frost decorated not only the outside, but the inside, of my bedroom window with ice. The seemingly infinite shapes and configurations were endlessly fascinating to my inventive eleven-year-old mind. The only heating in the house was downstairs, and that was never turned on during the night hours. We utilized extra blankets and hot water bottles for warmth. Bringing the faded well-worn woolen blanket tighter about me, I considered the day ahead—Christmas. Finally, just as one might surrender to the chill of an icy pool by quickly diving in, I pulled myself reluctantly from my warm sanctuary. I hastily put on a terry dressing gown and slippers. I breathed in the

228 — P.S. G i f f o r d

aromas, invigorated by the fragrance of several rashers of smoked English bacon sizzling and dancing in the skillet downstairs in the kitchen, being expertly prepared by my father. The joyous scents motivated me to hurriedly jump and skip down the old wooden stairs. My father greeted me enthusiastically with a smile and a steaming mug of strong, sweetened tea. (I should explain that at this point in my life it was just my father and me, being the youngest by a considerable amount of years. My brother and sister had long since ventured into the vast world and my mother having opted out of marital bliss several years previous, so just the two of us were left alone on this, the most festive holiday.) I remember gazing about the house as I munched upon my bacon sandwich, searching for some evidence of a Christmas gift. My dad’s blue-grey eyes methodically followed me about, their twinkle and glimmering revealing the magical truth. There was indeed a present to be found—somewhere! I peeked out of the kitchen window into the garden gently covered in a thin layer of snow. It, although barren of blooms, maintained an enchanting beauty and that is when I spotted something leaning nonchalantly against the tattered fence that separated us from our neighbors. My eyes opened wide as they absorbed the magnificent site of a new, bright red Raleigh chopper bike with a single green bow placed awkwardly upon the saddle. I enthusiastically thanked my father as I put on a navy blue sweater, and my faded, patched-up blue jeans. I grabbed my anorak as I raced outside. In a matter of moments I was venturing energetically into the crisp early Christmas morning. As I fervently sped along the main busy road, my nose was welcomed with the lively aromas of Christmas; turkeys basting in ovens mingled with other folks preparing roast loins of beef, traditional Christmas puddings, and mince pies. I smiled as I turned onto a small trail away from the homes and traffic. We were fortunate to live by a woods encompassing over ten acres. Local officials had wisely converted it into a nature sanctuary, agreeing it should be left alone in its natural state. This allowed a protected home to a wide variety of creatures: hedgehogs, squirrels, rabbits, and an endless variety of birds all cohabitating within their safe haven.


of the


I had explored the trails in this woodland a hundred times before, and my new shiny red bike traversed the obstacle-filled paths with ease. Regardless of the chilling temperature, I began to sweat as I navigated deeper into the dense woods. Something unexpectedly caught my attention—a campfire in a grassy dell surrounded by the foliage just ahead. I was infuriated. Despite it being open to the public these less traveled regions gave me a feeling of ownership. Indeed, I deemed that I had a responsibility to do whatever I could to maintain it. I quietly dismounted my bike and carefully rested it on the ground. I crawled through the bush and growth towards the grassy oasis and the fire. I remember getting tangled in a nettle bush, the nettles rubbing against my ankle. Despite the infuriating tingling I managed to maintain my silence. I continued crawling closer until I spotted the culprit sitting about his poorly contained bonfire. He was an older, gray haired gentleman and I examined his clothes with much interest. He wore a dirty pair of tattered black trousers which I suspected were not always black. On his slight frame he wore a ragged green sweater, ill fitting boots adorned his feet, and he sat wrapped in a tattered flannel blanket. I noted a tied pot dangling perilously from a clumsily made tripod above the fire. He was merrily humming to himself as he watched over the makings of some kind of a stew. I could just make out the melody that gaily came from the homeless man’s lips, Hark the Herald Angels Sing. I started to smile and was about the leave the poor tramp to his peace and Christmas meal, when I spied it, tied and wriggling in a desperate attempt to escape, hanging from a tree, a rope around its leg—a gray rabbit. My anger began to stir and then intensify within me. As I mentioned, I felt a responsibly to the wildlife that resided in this wood. Now, here was a rabbit in his joyous prime about to become this man’s Christmas dinner. I leaped out with a strength that belied my tender age. The frail man was evidently startled by the sudden appearance of a young boy charging towards him, screaming obscenities, with a large blunt rock in his hand. He was barely able to stumble to his feet as the stone hit down on his temple with a resonant clunk. In an instant, his dirty clothes became vibrant again, as the warm blood gushed freely over them. The man fell to the ground moaning,

2 30 — P.S. G i f f o r d

and he began to beg me to spare him, with his hands clenched almost as if he was praying. However, his pitiful attempts at appeasing me were fruitless as my undeterred anger was still at a boiling point. Once more taking the stone in my trembling young fingers, I again brought it down with considerable force onto his skull, which cracked at the impact. I continued on for a minute or two, even after his insipid moaning had stopped…

n I dashed towards the rabbit, panting and still emotionally taut. I gently ran the back of my hand down its warm, quivering spine. I felt love and oneness with Mother Nature as I tenderly released it from its makeshift prison. I sensed his appreciation as he glanced cautiously at me and raced into the thicket, his tail bobbed enthusiastically as if waving me a cheery farewell. It was only then that the full realization of my actions became evident, and I turned back towards the fire, focused on the dead stranger. What on earth was I going to do? I examined the bloodied, lifeless body and realized that I needed to conceal or dispose of it in some manner. I considered the possibility of dismembering the corpse; chopping it up into neat little bitesized portions. But then I considered how long and tedious a process that would be, remembering the turkey and potatoes roasting away to perfection at home. I needed a simpler plan—burial. That’s it, I concluded, a simple, yet well tried plan. The ground was frozen, but he had built a fire and I knew that the ground below that would be sufficiently softened. I set dutifully about my task. The deceased man had left behind a rucksack and in it I discovered, to my delight, a pickaxe and a broken shovel. Within three exhausting hours my macabre undertaking was finally accomplished. I admired with pride the slight mound protruding from the patch of overgrown grass. People rarely ventured this far into the woods as it was, and even if they did they would surely not consider the possibility that a corpse lay beneath it. I furthermore reasoned that a homeless man spending Christmas by himself was not going to be missed by anyone. I discreetly hid


of the


his measly personal items, including an old Bible, the tools, a faded photograph, and the pot a short distance away. I cleaned the blood from my hands in a nearby stream, and was thankful to discover that he had been considerate with his blood as none had managed to get onto my clothing. I got back onto my bike and rode purposefully straight back to my house. My father was sitting in the kitchen and his face was filled with irritation. “I know what you have been doing,” he proclaimed angrily. I remember freezing to the spot, my breath momentarily thrust from my lungs. And my heart, I’m convinced to this day, actually stopped for a few seconds. I stared back at him awkwardly, at his scowl as he continued his scolding. “You have been digging in that bloody wood again. You are flippin’ filthy—go take a bath—now!” He winked at me as he spoke. “And dinner is in twenty minutes so be quick about it.” My upbeat demeanor returned as I lay within my sudsy bath, relishing as the warm cleansing water trickled over my body. Yet somewhere in the deep recess of my mind, a hearty seed had been planted—guilt. A few months later, my father and I immigrated to California—to start a whole new life for ourselves. Anyhow, as you have listened to this, please know that I’m sorry for my actions, and not a day of my life has passed when the horrible memory hadn’t replayed in my mind. I figured this was the only way out of my emotional Hell.

n P resent

day

The police officer switched off the tape recorder that lay next to the deceased. A body submerged in an overflowing bathtub. Wrists ripped to shreds and the blood drained from the limp carcass. The officer sighed at the sight.

2 32 — P.S . G i f f o r d

“Nearly thirty years he lived with that guilt, gradually eating at him. The poor sod never knew. He’d immigrated to the States before the big news story broke. He should have stayed in California. I suppose he felt compelled to come back here to Birmingham; guilt is a funny thing, that’s for sure.” The second officer looked up at him intrigued. “I don’t understand. What didn’t he know, sir?” “I remember them finding the body in the woods, in the spring. Some old fellow was out walking his dog. Aye, I remember it all too well, the body was a mess, but with dental records we managed to identify the fellow. We had been looking for that madman for months. He’d managed to escape from the asylum, he did. The monster had been the most brutal serial killer I ever did hear of. The lad did the world a bloody favor by killing him. A bloody favor I tell you.”

n

T

hey say that all good things must come to an end, and I am saddened to say that this is my last account. But don’t despair—I have a feeling I’ll be close at hand to hear YOUR curious account sooner or later...

P.S. GIFFORD was born on April 28, 1965 in Birmingham, England. From a remarkably early age, he discovered his fascination with the written word. By the age of nine he was devouring several books a week and began to write. In the early 1980s P.S. Gifford and his father relocated to the California coast, which he has cheerfully called home ever since. While in college, Paul wrote a few stories, but as he got older—alas, writing was relegated onto his hectic life’s “back burner” and he barely wrote a word of fiction for over 15 years. However, in 2004 all this abruptly and delightfully changed, as that was the year when he realized that despite a serene, contented existence, an important aspect in his life was missing: the written word. So, once more he began churning out in abundance short stories. And the rest, as they say, is history. Since then he has written well over 100 short stories and has had numerous tales published. P.S. Gifford lives in Lake Forest, California. He is married, has a son, two dogs, a rabbit and an endless dream…

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Dr. Offig’s Lessons from the Dark Side, Vol 1 by P.S. Gifford Dr y R ain by B . J. Kibbl e E arrings of I xtumea by Kim Baccellia Fig g y-Dowdy by Frank Mino g ue Rough Justice by Lee Pie rce

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