True Horror Story From Beyond The Grave


. Chapter 1

Before my dispatch to Hades, at the hands of Pink, I would usually awaken each morning, at, around the seventh hour. Once compos mentis, it was customary for me to vacate my bed-space, stealthily( to avoid disturbing my wife), and proceed downstairs to prepare breakfast for my beloved.
Twas but a simple act, and, one for which my beloved never failed to show her appreciation( by emitting the cutest of meows, whilst rubbing herself seductively against my ankles, left naked, deliberately, in anticipation.
Being a fanatical, Waste Not, Want Not obsessive, before washing my beloveds two dishes; I would scrape any residual,Kit-i-Kat milk(seen the price of that stuff?), and the one or two spoonfuls of dried all-in one complete cat food, left over from the previous evening , into the dish, in which I would eventually prepare my wifes muesli.
Despite the inevitability of that, exquisitely, sensuous encounter, between me and my beloved, that short journey twixt bedchamber and kitchen, was never embarked upon, without a dreadful sense of foreboding.
Short of walking downstairs; unlocking and going through two sets of exterior front door; scuttling like a frozen perished rat around the side of chez nous and re-entering through the backdoor, the only other alternative, was: Traverse the length of the oak panelled hallway, with the unavoidable passing en route, of the locked oak door to my Aspiring Writers Room. A brisk, ten steps should have sufficed, to see me from foot of stairs, to kitchen door, and in deed would have, were it not for my almost obligatory, faltering gait, each time I neared that door. A barely perceptible falter sometimes, but faltering, nonetheless. Damn it to Hell!…damn it. Unless I was intent upon entering that place, I would never look at the door; resolutely, refusing to respond to the insidious mental invectives, that assailed my inner being, from behind it. Their progenitor may just as well have been reaching out for and gripping me, either side of my head with its talons…pulling…twisting. Such was the nature of the battles I endured But! I prevailed! Not It!… I did. It never turned my head, unless,I`, wanted to turn it. I say those words, not boastfully, but with pride. Acquiescence would only have fuelled its insufferable ego, beyond my ability to endure and resist. Therein lay my motivation. Nothing more than common sense, really.
“But whatâ€

More, please. Haven’t read anything as good as this for a long time.

as i languish on my sick bed I need more of your humorous brevity to cheer me. (I had to postpone dispatching to you the ethereal world due to illness, you’ll be sent a refund and alternate options in due course).

This is all gone a bit pear shaped. Its supposed to be part of a cunning plan!! In the name of Lucifer's Mum, DONT tell anyone I`m not dead

Thanks for your kind words, now you`ll have to avert your gaze because the rest is for Pink

Pink, my Precious, my sweet, my Sun, my Moon, my Stars, my Heavenly body(whoaa!!! unga!unuga! munga! bunga!! yeeaahh!! baby!!),[deep breath; hold it; breath out slowly to the count of 10; 1234…] my raison d`etre…my everything, are you poorly, little pink? I shall not enquire in open forum, as to your ailment(s), to preserve your modesty, just get well soon my Love.

I must away to the keyboard once-more, to accomplish my subterfuge-in-progress. I leave you on Jolanth capable hands X X X X 8)

Jolanth, when I say, " In Jolanth`s capable hands, I am of course speaking in the idiom of metaphor and not literally. Verstehen Sie, meinen freund? Ja? Gut :wink:

Bester Viktor,

ich verstehe. Be aware of the fact, though, that metaphorical hands are much more hands on than their literal sisters.

Toujours à votre service,



Y` dirty old ram!! :smiling_imp:

Now pay attention

. Chapter 2 Prequel
The monster, of which I am about to relate has its genesis somewhere deep within the caldara of my mind`s innermost delusionary processes. And a physical manifestation, not unlike a 2ft tall Godzila…a real one!!!

For a better understanding of this process, I refer you to:

and the explanation for the manifestation of evil attributable to Dr. Morbius.

. More Tomorrow

Good Nght

Dream of me Pinkxxxx

Ye gods and fishes little…

shakes head in utter bewilderment

j sshhhhh! Ive gorra to padit out wisomat

. Chapter 2

I accept full responsibility for this evil`s presence in our midst, or should I say,â€

The true nature of my illness is what doctors term “Flu-like illness”. Since I am not completely incapacitated, it’s therefore not actually the flu. But being not a cold, I am not a swollen recepticle of green slime and sneezing. I am pale and weak, and resting propped up on my pillows with my hair trailing like silken webs. I would probably look charming and ethereal, if I hadn’t used up all my nice PJs, and been reduced to the last resort scraggy track suit bottoms and sweatshirt.

Pink my Sweetness,

You`ll have to refrain from such over embellishments, apropos your appearance.That sounds most disconcertingly like my wife! :open_mouth:

And anyway Im the over embelisher around here, at the momment.

As for your ailment, my precious. When a woman sneezes, she has a very bad cold, when a woman has a mild cold, its Influenza(and a particularly virulent strain to boot and one for which there is no vaccine available and in truth, not much sympathy. But not in your case my little pumpkin pip). When a woman does have flu, its pleurisy, etc. etc. etc. ad sodding infinitum. Yes, you`re sounding veeerrry much like my wife. It has to stop :open_mouth:


. Chapter 3 Preamble

Has everyone been to: read and inwardly digested its content.

What about that snot nosed kid at the back, young juddbert? If you havent please do so. I cant take time out to answer daft questions, just because you havent done your homework! Im fighting for my sanity here….and I mean big time fighting.

You stalwart blaggart, comparest me not to thine woman, the hold she has over you is irredeemable.

It is the remit of a man to over exaggerate his ailments. A woman has never the choice of being sick when she has children and a house to run. Personally, I have worked with many people who will come to work with a sniffle and say that they have “a touch of the flu”. I despise malingerers. No-one has a touch of the flu. You either have the flu and are abed, or you don’t. I have had the flu twice. Once when I was 15, and again when I was 26. Both times I spent a week physically unable to get out of bed. So now I know that despite how wretched I feel, I don’t have the flu.

I do, on the other hand, have a sore throat so painful that I can’t speak or swallow, a neck so stiff that my chin can’t touch my chest, nor can I look from side to side. I had a fight with a steamroller it seems, and I lost. And I spent Sunday afternoon vomiting for no apparent reason. Someone put a vice around my temples, and I can strangely feel the blood flowing through the capillaries in my skin, which is apparently two sizes too small.

Don’t cast me in the role of a silly girl who takes abed with a sneeze.

You have offended my sensibilities most soundly. I will refrain from reading you now. You made me wander all over the place with inaproppriate periodisms.

Pink My Boogie Baby,
Think not too badly of me, for I am truly steeped in the ways of the male chauvinist mucho macho :smiling_imp: But I can change :cry: Please be kind Pinkingtons
Hunk 8)

PS Pink y`ve got Flu :wink:

. Chapter 3

The thing is…., I`ve written this article for a museum magazine……right?

The article, in two sections of roughly equal length, is 1500 word in total. The first section hints, in general terms at the Life and Times of the canal and railway builders of the 17/1800`s: The Navies.

The second section covers, in more specific terms ( including relevant archive photography), the building of The Manchester Ship Canal, in the closing decades of the 18th Century.

In the opening paragraphs of the article, I refer to it, as My Voyage of Discovery, and urge the readers to embark on their own voyage, armed with data I`ve unearth through my research and put at their disposal.

Finally, I solicit and encourage responses to the Magazine for publication, from the readers, concerning anecdotal evidence of familial involvement with the navvies, at that time. Most specifically, from those whose families have always resided within the canal corridor up to the present time….he he!

The article is now in the hands of the magazine editor and accepted for publication( and has been for ages),subject to certain restraints, such as ( all the sex and violence has to go …joke), I think its length is more than the mag is used to accommodating, and may ultimately prove too problematical, for them to bother. No prob with that.

The problem, my fellow travellers, is this: It shouldnt be in the hands of an editor at all! Its supposed to be in the hands of my friggin tutor! Along with an analysis of the magazine…(done)…and a…ss…ssyyn….ssyynnnopsis!!…he! he!!..m…mm!

Apart from a 500 word piece on Spiritualism, this article is the FIRST! assignment of any consequence, of a writing course I enrolled on, back in the swirling mists of March( aww come on! whats eight months, it`s nothing, a mere flick of an eyelash).

My first contact with my tutor proved a tad traumatic(for her), so she has probably blanked out any recollection of our relationship(or my existence), since she has made no attempt that Im aware of, to ascertain any facts pertaining to my well being. Having said that, snail post is so unreliable these days. There could be a stack of enquires…somewhere. Well..prhaps not. Even the student advisers at the college havent bothered their arses to find out if Im still around. Probably be groans all around when, or if, I eventually send off the finished assignment.

Wheres the evil gone? I sense you wondering, impatiently. Well its right in front of me, albeit leaning against the side of iMac, with one of its funny looking little arms resting on iMacs top edge. Its grinning at me with its big-fat-stupid-rotten-stinking-gob of a mouth. Now the little shit bag is laughing at me. Not for long though! Now its holding fat wobbly belly with laughter, tears in its eyes. The turdbrain hasnt sussed it out yet……have you?

You see, bollockface is a Tyrannosynopsis-Vic: a miniature Tyrannosaurus-Rex lookalike; probably the hallucinatory product of my warped alter ego.(or other suitable words to that effect).
Smegma features, debuted the day I sat down to write the ss…s…synop…p…sisss.[suitable misty analogous references indicating approx. date]

As is my wont, I first checked my spam, in the unlikely event there were any e-mails. You never know! What y`all laughing at? Someone could send me one, even by mistake. Anyway, my vision became distorted; jaggy,wriggly lines in the centre of my field of vision. I thought, â€

Who’d have thought it? Our very own Vic - now revealed as the Russ Meyer of Stockport, peddling his own unique brand of compelling soft-porn psychobabble…

A valuable lesson for us all there… somewhere… perhaps… :confused:

I’m riveted, though probably unwise to use that particular verb. (Welders, even ex-welders - especially ex-welders, can light up at the smallest spark.)

aww shucks! :laughing: :laughing:
ang on! what d`y mean!..SOFT porn?

Mind you, ystill gorra way wiwords :wink:

Face it Vic, you can’t keep it up.

(The pace of the story… that is)

This is becoming surreal !

Im getting bad vibes. With Tyranasynopsiss ultimate end, well-nigh, a verrrry strange event occurred. Not the event, per se, more the timing.

I lost Internet connection for the first time, ever! :open_mouth: :confused:

Some folk, of a certain mind set, would see this as some kind of warning and urge me to exercise extreme caution, in the way I handle the denouement of this true tale but I have no caution at my disposal, to, exercise.

The ending is out of my hands. Being as it is, dictated by events, circumstance and bizarre happenstance, I am powerless to intervene.

PS Pink I can see you are recovering :wink: your double entadre-ary is becoming more more fluid :slight_smile:

it’s true, the fever robbed me of my rapier like wit.