Entries for SCI Scary Halloween Story Competition
The Stories:
Ex_Owm: A Scary Bucket of Water
Rick: The Tsalagi
Ray: The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
Max: The End of the Raven by Edgar Allen Poe's Cat
Telmey: Farm Story
Rat: The Works Hotel
Anon (via Cath): Crossing the Road
Cath: Scary Revenge of the Killfiles
Si: "Twas well before Christmas" poem
Ex_OWM: The Nail
Ex_Owm: A Scary Bucket of Water
This is story about my Da and something that happened to him when he was
young. Now my Da, like all Da's, wasn't beyond telling a bit of a tall tale,
especially to kids, but he didn't tell us this story when we were kids, he
actually only told it to myself and a couple of brothers a few years ago not
long before he died; it was one of those nights where we were having a few
beers and the conversation came around to strange things that happen that we
cannot understand. I'm convinced he was dead serious about the story.
This happened when he was about 11 or 12. He grew up in the country, his own
father was a ploughman and the family lived in a farm labourer's house which
had no electricity or running water. I actually knew the house well, my
Granny lived there until about 1960, still without electricity or running
water, I remember the tillie lamps being lit in the evening and going to the
well for water with my older brothers, just like my Da in this story.
Anway, my Da came home from school one evening in winter, it was dusk and
his mother asked him to go to well and get a bucket of water before it got
too dark. Off my Da set.
To get to the well you had to go down the road a couple of hundred yards and
turn up a path running beside a stream. The well was about 50 yards up the
path and the whole place was well covered with trees and bushes.
As my Da turned off the road onto the path, he saw a man he knew standing
behind a bush, it looked as if the man was urinating. My Da called hello to
him but the man didn't answer which surprised my Da a bit as the man knew
him well and was usually very friendly. Anyway he went on and filled the
bucket and coming back out he looked around but could see no sign of the
man.
Just as he stepped out of the bushes onto the road he suddenly realised that
the man in question had died about three weeks beforehand. He dropped the
bucket and ran up to the house screaming and roaring and it took his mother
about two hours to get him settled.
Thinking back on it, my Da said the thing that surprised him most was that
his mother was a very religious and very stern woman who was very intolerant
of hysterical kids and would normally have given him hell for spilling a
bucket of water but on this occasion, she just comforted him and never
mentioned the spilt bucket ...
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Rick: The Tsalagi
The Tsalagi, (Cherokee or Red Indians to you over the ponders.) have a belief
that there is a time and place for the telling of Tales.
One such belief is that certain stories should only be told in the Time of the
Cold Winds, so that the winds will take the words and scatter them so that the
Ones being spoken of will not be able to hear the words and follow them back
to the source, to the detriment of the Speaker....
There is a cold wind blowing tonight as we enter the time of Winter, so it is a
Time for the Telling....
For Kate.
Part I.
The place where I work is only 28 years old as a business. It is built on 180
acres of woods.
Before that, it was an old farm.
And before that, "they" say it was the site of an Indian village.
There are three Dining rooms in our Restaurant.
Reserved for Families, Couples and Large Groups, respectively.
A few Winters ago, I went into the darkened Family Dining room. Outside, on
the walkway, I saw through the windows a small child tugging on his mother's
hand, as he seemed to encourage her to hurry, leaning forward to pull her along.
Both were dressed for cold weather. The small child bundled up with a thick coat
and wool cap. The mother, stylish, in a gray coat and muff.
I immediately starting cutting on lights and heat in that dining room, because
it is the resorts policy that families eat in the Family Dining room, and
Couples only in the Couples dining room, the third dining room being reserved
for large parties. Meanwhile, I informed the Kitchen that there was a family for
Supper.
They said they had no knowledge of a family reservation and that only the
Couples Dining room was open. We went to the Couples Dining area , only there
was no woman and child there.
Nor on the walkway outside the two adjoining dining rooms.
When I called the Front Desk, they said there was no woman and child on the
resort.
But I saw them...
A light dusting of snow was upon the mountain tops this morning.
The cold winds still blow, and the leaves are falling to the ground.
Part Two...
The Restaurant itself has some strange occurrences.
One evening as I was conversing with the chef in the Kitchen area, two pans
"fell" (?) from the pots and pans shelf. No one was near the shelf, nor had been
for quite a while.
Only, they didn't fall (?) straight down.
They "fell" ? out into the center of the room.
Some people say it's all "Imagination".
But I was there.
I heard them fall...
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Ray: The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
First Published in 1845
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!
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Max: The End of the Raven by Edgar Allen
Poe's Cat
THE END OF THE RAVEN
by
Edgar Allen Poe's cat
from Henry Beard's 'Poetry For Cats'
On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
"There is nothing I like more"
Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing
clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and wierd decor
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -
"Nevermore."
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.
"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put an end to that damned ditty" - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.
Telmey: Farm Story
Nights of long ago, In the old Farm Near Dromore Co. Tyrone, during
the early year's winters nights, my new born son lay sleeping in my
arms, it was one of those old beds with chain mesh base old comfy
mattress that you sank into, a bed with both headboards and foot
boards, During the dark hours I awoke, not startled, but my brain wide
awake, my body would not move, I saw at the foot of the old two
figures one an old man with a strange almost cowboy, ten gallon type
hat, His wrinkled face smiled as he looked down at us, the other a
teenage girl with terribly bad eyes and virtually no hair as though
she had been on some horrible Cancer treatment,
It was clear that he was talking to this girl, though I heard no
words as they looked at me with my still sleeping son in my arms,they
continued to smile, I felt no fear, quite the reverse, calm and aware,
then I heard his words, as he spoke in a firm voice to me, saying,..
"put the doors back where they should be!" I blinked my eyes in
astonishment what they hell had that got to do with anything, who were
these two? but when I blinked they had gone.. the door to the room
still closed as it was when I first saw them. My son ..Still sleeping,
moved closer into me, many thoughts crossed my mind, bad thoughts,
some nasty thoughts.
I was not to sleep the rest of the night, I stayed wide awake as
though our lives depended on it, the precious jewel of my life in my
arms.I did not move from the bed nor did I let my son move out of my
arms, In my mind I was begging for those two to return and answer my
questions, as the dawn approached the number of questions increased
but not by as many answers that I pondered with, until eventually as
the sun rose my son stirred, he was happy, he smiled, even before
his eyes opened. When they did opened I gave him an extra special hug
and kiss, I was pleased to see the day arrive. I asked Uncle jack,
(who own's the farm now, which has been in the family for generations)
and my son's mummy who these two were? neither knew nor could they
ever remember anyone with bad eyes, I asked about the doors, they
told me they had always been where they were, not one had ever been
moved, the only modification to the farmhouse was a kitchen extension
and a front porch, I took a closer look around the house, at the walls
- all solid old farmhouse walls that had been there for hundreds of
years, then I noticed the door frames sure enough the doors had been
re-hung- Reversed and hung on the opposite side of the door frame,and
I could see where a carpenter had filled in the old hinge holes, maybe
these People from the night could not open the doors with the handles
reversed?
Some months later we were going through some old photo albums that I
had never seen before and at the back of the book was a picture of 3
Girls, someone had taken a pen and inked over the eyes on one of the
girls in that picture this girl also had virtually no hair, I dropped
the album in excitement, as I jumped and asked "Who is that?" I was
told that she was a girl who came to work at the farm she died but no
one knew for sure what of about 50 yrs ago, it was her who came
visiting the farm again to see the new born,
The old man with the hat turns out to be the great grand daddy, it was
his old (maybe WWI) Army hat, we were able to find one photo of him
in his uniform, It pleased me to know who they were and even more that
they would make the effort to cross the divide to look and share my
new pride and joy.
If you do not believe in a life after I can assure you there is! as
this was not the first nor the list time I have encountered such
strange and wondrous things.
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Rat: The Works Hotel
This is the honest truth...
I live in Indiana.... under the Shadow of the Golden Dome. In the early
1990's I worked for a local devloper that had purchased an old factory.
One of those big brick three story industrial buildings on the river..
the kind that are being destroyed around the US today to make way for
modern structures.
However,this developers expertise was rehabititating historic
structures for modern,use. So I joined the design and management team
of what was to become The Works Hotel... a 54 room boutique hotel that
in a previous life was the Singer Sewing Machine Factory. Now it took
some time to rehab this building. In effect we built a modern building
inside the outer shell. Rooms, halls, meeting space and restaurant and
lounge. The building was built in the 1850's and had many additions.
The freight elevators were the kind that required an operator. Nothing
was modern.
After the renovation I was appointed GM of the hotel. We had a fairly
large staff, especially in the restaurant. Maybe 100 full and part time
employees. After a time the employess began to whisper that there were
strange things happening. Open doors closing, unlocked coolers were
found locked. Lights would turn off on their own... they were convinced
the place was haunted.
I never believed the stories, but they made good press. Business
increased when the stories were published in the local paper. So we
went along with it. The stories still go on today.
During this time I personal computers became more affordable for home
use. I decided to purchase one, and go online so that I wouldnt be left
behind. Hmmm, now that I have it what to do with it? I've always
wondered where my family came from. My parents were divorced when I was
a small child, and I didnt really know much of my Walsh family history.
I decided to use the computer to trace my family history back to
Ireland.
I found that its really pretty simple once you get started. Once I
found that my family had been in South Bend for 100 years I could trace
them using their obituaries. I found that Michael Walsh ( Crookstown
Kildare) my gg grandfather died July 27, 1917. A coincidence that I was
born on July 27? The obituary didnt say how he died. Hmmm, 1917? Maybe
WWI? How romantic...
Further research indicated that there were coroners records in the
local archives. So I decided to check them out. As it turns out Michael
Walsh left Kildare with his parents, brother and sister in 1878. The
family moved to Michigan where they purchased swampland from the State.
Being bog farmers they drained the land and operated a very sucessful
farm. In 1904 Micheal lost his father, mother, brother, sister, and
twin sons. The loss of the family sent him into such a depression that
they lost the family farm, and moved to South Bend. He began drinking,
and had a difficult time holding a job. He took a job as a night
watchman. Michael was not killed in the war. He was crushed in an
elevator accident. The coroners interview with his fellow workers
showed that they warned "poor old Mick" that he shouldnt be operating
the freight elevators. Stubborn as he was he ignored them and he paid
with his life.
The scary part of this story is that Michael died in the very building,
and the very elevator that I remodeled 70 years later.
So now we know who the ghost that haunts the building is. Old Mick is
still on the job!
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Anon (via Cath): Crossing the Road
Five Minutes
"They came on a Saturday night,
They killed his dog and they raped his wife..."
Jocko reached over and turned up the volume. "That's music, now.
Listen to that bass." Diarmid nodded in a way that signified neither
consent nor disagreement.
"Five minutes and you're almost there,
Five minutes and you're almost dead..."
Jocko pulled up at the lights. "The Stranglers. Still good. That tape
is nearly thirty years old. Jesus, where does the time go?" The
lights turned green and he eased forward several feet, impinging
slightly onto the oncoming traffic.
"I hate driving in this city now. All the stupid bastards in a rush,
trying to cut you off. Look at that eejit." Diarmid looked up, but
didn't stare in any particular direction. The light changed back to
red. Jocko accelerated forward in a shallow curve to the right. A horn
sounded.
"Listen to them, fuck sake. How else am I supposed to turn there?"
Jocko slapped the wheel impatiently. "What time is it? Ah, we're
fine. So long I get out of the house by quarter past we're all
right."
Jimmy walked into the kitchen, dropping his bag at the door. His mother
was at the sink, peeling potatoes. He grunted a greeting, and sat at
the table. He felt obliged to spend half an hour with his mother every
afternoon when he came back from school, though he would have rather
stayed in his room.
For a while his mother stayed silent, shoulder hunched. Then "I saw
you this morning, on your way to school." "Oh?" he said. She
paused. "I saw where you crossed the road. With your friends. Four
lanes of traffic and you running in and out."
He shifted uncomfortably. "I looked before... I was careful."
She turned suddenly and flung a potato at him. It bounced off his
forehead. He stared at her dumbfounded. She gestured at him with the
peeler and he felt physically frightened. In twelve years he had never
seen her like this. Her face was red and he could see tears at the
corners of her eyes.
"Your father is dead!" she shouted. "You have a scar on your face
because he ran across a road with you and he was killed by a car. And
you... you're going to get killed because you're so stupid...
bloody stupid!"
"I won't... I'll be careful..." he stammered. She moved towards
him, the point of the peeler held out in front. He leaned back into the
chair. "I want you to promise me. I want you to promise that you
won't ever cross that road there again. Walk up to the crossing.
It's only five minutes. Promise!"
"I will... I promise. I'll go to the crossing, Mum. Really..." he
said, terrified not at what his mother might do but at the sudden
change in her. He suddenly realised that this was how she'd always
been since his father died. The confidence and happiness and control
were all a pretence. She was just hiding this terror and insecurity.
"I really promise, Mum. I'll go to the crossing." She nodded and
turned away, and went back to the sink. "I... going to do my
homework. I do promise, Mum, don't worry." He picked up his bag and
walked upstairs.
"Jocko, you are a valuable employee, and you've been here a long
time. But we place a high value on punctuality, and it is not
acceptable to turn up ten or fifteen minutes late. Even five minutes is
too much. We have to provide an immediate response to our customers. If
someone calls and gets no response, that could be a customer lost."
"I don't want to make this an official reprimand. I'm sure that
now you've been told about it you will take the necessary steps.
"Ooh, look, it's Harry Potter!" Jimmy swore under his breath.
Luke had been picking on him for months now, and always seemed to find
the point of weakness. Until Luke pointed it out, nobody had noticed
his scar. Now he was known as Harry to half the school. One of the
teachers had called him Harry last week.
"Going down to the crossing, safety boy? Did your mummy tell you not
to run across the road?" How did he know these things? Why did he go
to such trouble to make Jimmy's life miserable?
Luke ran across the road, diving in and out of traffic. The others
followed. Mick gave a look at Jimmy, and then turned away and followed
them. He walked down to the crossing alone.
"Ah, Jesus. Twenty-five years and that bollocks starts giving me
grief. I suppose your boss is giving you more of the same."
Diarmid shook his head. "I made an arrangement. I can come in up to
fifteen minutes late, if I stay on later in the evening. It suits them
to have a bit of flexibility, so we keep cover the whole time."
Jocko stared. "That's bloody lovely. You get flexitime and I get my
arse chewed. Just make sure you're on the corner on time, flexi-boy,
or I'll go on without you."
Diarmid nodded and took a bite out of his sandwich.
Mick was waiting for him at the corner. They walked on in silence for a
while.
"Why do you go down to the crossing?" said Mick suddenly. "You
used to go with the rest of us. Are you meeting a girlfriend or
something."
Jimmy shook his head. He felt close to tears. "My mother made me.
She's gone really weird about it. My dad got run over and she thinks
I'll get killed too."
Mick nodded. "Mothers are really... well, they do want to look after
us, but it's just stupid sometimes. I have to have these really
disgusting vegetarian lunches. My dad tells her he eats them at work
but I know he buys proper food."
"Moya, get out of the bathroom! I'm late!" Jacko banged on the
door again. "Go 'way, willya. Leave me alone" she whimpered.
Kathy pushed past him, holding something under her arm. "Leave the
girl alone. She's got her you-know-what and I've to sort her
out."
Jocko spread his arms wide. "Jesus fuck. Am I to be spared
nothing?"
"Go back downstairs and have a cup of tea. You can have the bathroom
in five minutes."
Luke was poking him in the chest now. "Can't cross the road, magic
boy? Scared of the big cars?" Several of the other boys laughed. At
least Mick didn't. Jimmy said nothing.
Luke ran off and Mick sighed. "Why do you let him away with it? Do
you like him?"
"Who?" said Jimmy.
"Luke, the gobshite."
"Oh, Malfoy. No, I hate him."
Mick laughed. "That's really funny, 'cause he's blonde and
annoying and all. Why don't you say it to him?"
Jimmy frowned. "I just feel stupid, having to use the crossing. It
feels like everyone is laughing at me."
"That's silly" said Mick. "Everybody has something that their
mothers makes them do that we all laugh at. Luke has to wear that scarf
his mum knitted for him. Why don't you make fun of that?"
Jimmy pondered for a minute. "I never thought of it."
"Well, why not? People don't like Luke. They laugh when he says
something funny. You're funnier than he is when you try".
Jimmy nodded. "I will, next time. Walk down to the crossing?"
"Will you eat half my lunch? I don't think so" said Mick.
They both laughed and Mick ran across the road, shouting "See you in
five minutes".
Jocko beckoned frantically at Diarmid, as he climbed into the front
seat. "Would you ever shift your fucking arse? I should be here by
half past and it's twenty-five to - I have to make up the time."
He turned on the tape player. "Fucking tape is stuck in the fucking
thing so I can only play the same fucking album."
"Five minutes and you're almost there."
The car shot down the bus lane and cut in front of a queue of traffic.
"I could, couldn't I" Jimmy thought to himself. "Hey, Malfoy,
want to borrow another scarf? Malfoy, go play in traffic". He laughed
out loud.
There was no-one at the crossing. He pressed the button and waited. The
red man was showing.
Jocko was singing along with the tape. "They raped his dog and they
killed his wife... Hold on to your bollocks, Dermo. Time for a bit of
real driving. Show those yuppies how a real Dub does it."
The light ahead turned from green to amber. Jocko accelerated. "Get
this right turn out of the way and we're caught up and no harm
done" he muttered.
"Five minutes and you're almost dead"
The green man appeared. Jimmy smiled to himself. "It'll be fine"
he thought. He stepped off the kerb and
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Cath: Scary Revenge of the Killfiles
The Revenge of the Killfiles - The Scariest Ever SCIcon
T'was the night before Halloween, and the Cuddle Club had beaten the
discrete cabalistic drum to secretly convene the Inner Sanctum for a
ritual underground night of funny handshakes and constitutional throat
gargling with Uncle Arthur's brew.
Hence, everyone on SCI knew about it.
And some had lamented being so far away in Merkaland.
And some had said goodie, we can introduce the next generation.
And some had threatened to impose their unapproved burnished buttocks
on the event.
And some with mineral derrieres had arumpfed and stated they would not
grace the event, even if they had a life.
And some, resenting their self-imposed exclusion from the club they'd
invented, had smirked at the incestuous clannishness of it all.
So, it was shaping up to be a pretty normal SCIcon.
Except for the night that was in it. And the full moon. And the fact
that Westie was wearing his.... Ah well, I am getting carried away now.
I had better start at the beginning...
The Brazen Head was unusually quiet, that evening. The tourist season
almost at an end, and the weather too cold to sit out under the patio
heaters, only a handful of counter-proppers were sitting at the main
bar, nursing half-drunk lukewarm pints.
Rather unusually for me, I arrived first. I don't know about you,
but I hate arriving first. I just hate sitting in pubs on my own,
waiting. But I figured I'd better stay put rather than go for a
stroll to waste a few of those embarrassing lonely minutes - you
never know, we might have a few lurkers or newbies turning up, and as
Social Secretary of the Cuddle Club, I have my responsibilities.
So, I ordered a pint of Guinness, sat in a comfy corner seat beside one
of the windows to be able to see people coming in, and displayed my
Farmers' Journal as a rallying point. I was tired, and despite my
usual misgivings about being alone in a pub, I found sitting there in
the semi darkness most relaxing...
Reading the marts report for the fourth time, I looked out to see it
was now totally pitch dark. The small group of drinkers propping up
the bar had dwindled to one solitary sad boozer appearing to half cry
half sleep into his empty pint. Still no merry SCIers.
The last dregs of my drink would not last me much longer. Did I get
the time wrong? Or the place? Or the night? Hell, where was
everybody?
Looking around me, I eventually spotted a small man seated a few feet
away. There was no drinks in front of him. He was most bizarrely
attired, wearing a black wide-rimmed felt hat, black mask and black
waistcoat and the oddest moss green tights and soft leather poulaines.
He had a small quiver on his back, and what appeared to be a scabbard
with sword on his side. I gawped, mouth wide open.
"Iwaswaitingforyoutonoticeme," he said, in the oddest high pitched,
motormouthed whisper, darting furtive looks all round.
"You'recatharen'tyouhilaryclinton'sevil", he sotto voced at
speed.
"Who the blazes are you"? I asked, having almost regained my
composure. "I'mrobinzorrohoodandbushisundersatanicinfluence" he
replied. "Sothisiswhatasciconislike", he added, eyeing all around
him. "Notmuchtoitistherewhatweneedisabitofbillclinton".
So, I was in the presence of the multi-ortographed killfile interloper,
a rare breed, by all accounts, a rabid Democrat.
I was distracted from my deductions by an odd sound. It was some kind
of a humming mantra, coming from another fellow, who seemed to have
appeared from nowhere, and was now seated a few feet away from me on
the other side of the low table. He was hugging himself, rocking back
and forth and mumbling what on first impression sounded like
"pltpltpltpltpltpltplt". He shuffled nearer to me, repeating
manically "haplotypehaplotypehaplotypehaplotype" under his breath.
"Have you brought your genealogical credentials with you?" He
questioned aggressively. "Are your antecedents for the last three
generations pure gaels?
Haplotypehaplotypehaplotypehaplotypehaplotype"
"I'm afraid my antecedents are a bit of a mix, but I'm pretty
sure there isn't much gaelic in there..." I heard myself reply.
"Can't talk to you. Haplotypehaplotypehaplotype". "How can you
live with yourself! You should hang your head in shame. You probably
have a few alleles of oppressive persuasion. You are a piece of
genealogical dirt, if you are not a pure gael!"
He then clammed up, and avoided all eye contact, rocking away and
mumbling pltpltpltpltpltpltpltplt under his breath.
A slightly familiar face then entered the room. I felt intense relief,
nay, delight, at his sight. Here was someone sane that I might just
have some chance of an adult conversation with. This guy was smiling
brightly under his moustache. He walked over with his hand
outstretched, his handshake anything but funny, rather firm and
earnest. In a Merkan accent you could sledge-hammer granite blocks
with, he boomed: "Cath, though we often disagree, it is a pleasure to
meet you in the flesh - although I don't mean in the flesh, you
understand, because I don't do flesh, that is sinful, but you know
what I mean! I have taken the liberty to bring a few printed out
Republican News articles to help with the conversation."
"Well, I was hoping we could get to know each other better, and get
to the real you and your real opinions?" says I, getting worried at
the turn this SCI con was taking.
"Hang on," says he, fumbling through his file for a relevant
article. "Yes. Here we are. We need a United Holy Catholic Ireland.
We'll keep the Protestants, because God loves them, they don't
know any better, and we may be able to convert them. Let me buy you a
pint, Cat(h), and let's drink to a United Ireland for 2006, for that
is righteous and good! Hurray!".
I just HAD to go to the loo. Jaysus, what on earth had I unleashed?
SCI cons were normally pleasant and relatively sane events. I splashed
cold water on my clammy brow, repowdered my nose, and taking a deep
breath headed out again. Opening the door out of the ladies, I heard
what sounded like a fight. The rabid Democrat and the plastic Merkan
were going at it hell for leather, beating the crap out of each other.
"Bushisevil!" "No, he was sent to us by God to rid us of those
dirty Muslims!"
"Noheisundersatanicinfluenceandinthepocketofoilcompanies!"
"Ennemy of humanity! You are the evil one! I have a mind to teach
you a lesson by kicking seven shades of shite out of you, in the name
of all that is good and divine!"
Absolutely terrified, I started slowly gathering my coat and bag to try
and make a discrete exit. But I didn't even get to stand up.
Nothing so far could have prepared me for who (or should I say what?)
came in next. It was a set of Siamese twins, and it was having a
barney with itself. It didn't so much walk in as stumble in on its
single pair of legs, oblivious to the world. "You bozo! You've
just contradicted yourself. I win, again!" "In your effin dreams!
You are a liar. As usual, you don't know what you are talking
about".
At that point, they spotted me. Suddenly, the barney was forgotten,
and harmony prevailed in the dynamic duo. "Look, that's your one
who thinks she's something. Well, we know she isn't, don't
we?" "Yes, we even know what she had for breakfast! Look at her,
the wizened old bat, in her ridiculous red leather mini!" "Ha!
And she's not even half as good at googling as half of us!"
"Right you are! She's a liar and a bozo! We win, she loses!"
" Ha!! Let's waive our common willy!!!"
I didn't even get a chance to retort, because we were suddenly all
blinded by an intense golden light which, once our eyes had kind of
acclimatised, seemed to originate from the lower back of yet another
newcomer into the pub.
"Sorry I'm late. The traffic was shite in Skerries. So, have we
any knackers we can take the piss off here? Oh, look at your man!
Great, I'll get a chance to slag off his wife!!"
"Cat(h)? Cat(h)??? CAT(H)??? WAKE UP!!!"
Who is this tall blurred person standing in front of me? And what's
he wearing on his lapel? Gasp! A Wallace and Gromit Were Rabbit pin.
"Wake up, Cat(h)! Come on upstairs, we're all having a bite to
eat!"
Jaysus. This is the scariest nightmare I've had in a long time!
.
Return to Top
Si: "Twas well before Christmas" poem
Twas well before christmas and all through SCI
The usual candidates were giving the lie.
There were nordies a whingin' of oppressions galore,
Freestaters and I-am's were joining the roar.
Of humor and culture there was none to be seen
Just the usual squealing about trampling the green.
In a dingy wee corner was a sad little thread
Of priests and their habits that fills one with dread.
Some oohing and aahing was also to be had
Whilst simpering at pictures of bonny wee lads.
Then a challenge was laid as all souls was nigh
Tell us a tale that'll scare us arwy.
To the keyboards they ran and scuttled to write
Or in Ray's case: to paste any old shite.
Of ghost and ghouls and things that go boo
Of hollows so sleepy there's blood on the dew.
The cupboard of monsters was thrown open with glee
And all those nightmares were once more set free.
So move close to fire and I tell you my tale
Of things so scary it'll turn your face pale.
It's the mid of the night and our hero sleeps sound.
The house is all calm, there's no one around.
His snores and mumbles resound round the room
But in one little mind is plotted his doom.
This quiet is not of a peacable form.
It's more of a like with a gathering storm.
The noise it starts low, a barely audible moan
It gathers and grows to that of a groan.
The sleepers lie on but with unsettled mien.
The swirling noise is becoming a keen.
Then all of a sudden the dam is unstopped,
It's a blood curling scream, raging and hot.
The sleepers bolt up at the sound of this roar,
Knocking glasses or water and lamps to the floor.
Their hearts are set crossways, what the hell can it be,
That makes such a noise, it's too dark to see?
With fear and trepidation does our hero alight,
He steps from the bed and into the cold night.
With weary thread he approaches this roar.
It's the third time this night he's crossed o'er this floor,
He bends to recover his squealing son from his cot,
Who greets him with a sneeze and covers him with snot.
Then comes the wrestling with pampers and poo,
While uncovered the young fella pees on him too.
Uncontent with his efforts and passings so far
Our blonde little imp raises the bar.
Milky white spittle is added to the brew
Then onsies and sleepers are damped through and through.
The titanic struggle rages through the night,
With showers of urine and mustardy shite.
Slowly but surely our hero wins around,
Benappies and swaddles our demon to the ground.
He carries him aloft for acclaim of his deed
Then plugs the gorgeous wee fecker in for his feed.
Then back goes our hero to the land of zeds,
Until he's awoken again to that sound he dreads.
Return to Top
Ex_OWM: The Nail
I've just remembered this story and thought I would add it in as it actually
happened at Halloween. It was told to me many years ago by one of the people
involved, he was elderly then but the events happened when he was young.
The story took place near Beragh, not far from Omagh. There was an old
abandoned house in the area which was reputed to be haunted. One Halloween
night, three young teenage boys had decided to spend the night in one of the
sheds on a farm belonging to one of their families. They started telling
ghost stories and the subject came round to the haunted house. One of the
lads, Johnny said "Haunted, my arse, that's a lot of old cobblers, there's
no such thing as ghosts."
"I bet you wouldn't go up there on your own late at night" said one of the
other lads.
"Of course I would, no bother at all" replied Johnny., "I'll go up there
this very night"
The problem was how were the other two to know for sure that he really went.
One of the boys spotted a hammer and a box of 6" nails lying in the corner
of the shed. They decided to twist one of the nails in a particular way and
Johnny would go to the haunted house and hammer the nail into the door jamb;
the next morning at daybreak, all three would go up the house and confirm
the nail was there.
Johnny set off. Despite his bravado, he found himself feeling uncomfortable
as he walked up the overgrown lane leading to the house, there was a full
moon but the sky was full of broken cloud so visibility would change
erratically from bright moonlight to sudden darkness. Even when the moon was
bright, the overgrown bushes cast strange shadows across his path and the
silence was broken by rustling and other noises from the bushes.
"Catch yourself on, man" he said to himself, "It's only rabbits and other
things, there's no such thing as ghosts".
Nevertheless, his heart was thumping by the time he got to the old house so
he quickly reached out the nail and hammered it some into the doorjamb. He
then turned to get away from the place and discovered he couldn't -
something had grabbed hold of his arm!
With his heart thumping ever faster and a look of sheer horror on his face,
he tried to jerk his arm free but with no success, the harder he pulled, the
more he felt something pulling back.
"Let me alone, let me alone " he squealed, "I didn't mean any harm!" but
still he couldn't get free. Sobbing wildly, he gave one last almighty jerk,
so strong that he heard the stitching rip on the sleeve of his jacket and it
slipped away from his arm which suddenly came free. Squealing and shouting
in terror he took to his heels and ran back to the shed where his two
friends were waiting. When he got there, they thought at first that he was
only taking a hand at them but they soon realised that he really was in a
state of sheer terror. (The man who told me this story said Johnny was
"never the same again for the rest of his life.)
Eventually they got him calmed down and the three of them spent the night in
the shed comforting each other. When daybreak came, they decide to go to the
house and see what evidence the ghost had left, if any. When they got there,
sure enough there was the nail hammered into the doorjamb and ....
...
the sleeve of Johnny's jacket hanging from it where he had accidentally
trapped his cuff when hammering home the nail.