Here is the first entry

The Most Frightful Nonsense
By Ray Blake

Now then, dear reader, I hope you are sitting somewhere warm and comforting as you read this. As I write it – with my most marvellous new pen – I am sitting somewhere warm, but comfort seems a fairly remote possibility this Halloween night. But I mustn’t hint of too much just yet, dear reader; I must keep the tone light, engage interest, get you on my side.

Very well, then. This morning was an unusual one for me. Quite often on these autumn mornings the old boiler just cannot compete with the bracing wind, and I awake with icicle feet, unable even to imagine throwing back the duvet to commence the day. Today, though, the North wind was for once behaving itself and it was my alarm clock which roused me, rather than the morning’s icy darts. Consequently, I had a few minutes to kill before my first appointment of the day.

I hadn’t met Lord Hartford before, although my firm had acted as his country agents for many years. Just recently, we had made a few mistakes and before milord decided to place his affairs in another firm’s hands, I had resolved to cement the relationship personally. I rarely visit clients personally, claiming that the demands of running such a busy firm do not allow me the luxury of getting out of the office too often, but the truth is the firm pretty much runs itself these days. In all honesty, I just don’t like meeting people. It is not so much shyness, but more that I am so easily bored. I have admiration for people who can engage others in conversation, who can look interested in what they have to say for minutes on end. I employ a number of people with this skill, but require that they do not practice it on me.

In any case, when I have some minutes to spare outside the office and happen to be driving past an antique shop, I tend to stop and venture within. Today’s shop was unremarkable, and I was preparing to leave unobtrusively when I happened to see the pen. Lying almost casually amid a display of watches atop an ancient writing desk, the familiar lines of an early Porterly fountain pen seemed almost to call to me. I picked it up, enchanted as ever by the beauty of an old pen. At home and at the office I keep only fountain pens and none younger than me. I have quite an impressive collection, but it was clear to me that this Porterly was something very special indeed. The single cap band marked it out as belonging to the first year’s production. In 1933, a Porterly Majestic like this would have cost around six pounds, putting it beyond the reach of all but the wealthiest in a decade not renowned for affluence. Nowadays, this specimen would fetch thousands in such a perfect condition, and yet the small, white paper label proclaimed this exquisite specimen to be for sale for the minor matter of £200.

When I called on Lord Hartford, it was with the Porterly in my pocket, filled with the black ink I keep in my car. He proved to be a quite charming man, in that way peculiar to the aristocracy, and our conversation was not quite the trial I had been anticipating. It helped, of course, that I was able to point to much increased revenues in the last quarter, and when I took out the Porterly to sign the cheque I was about to hand to him, he seemed more interested in the pen than the cheque. I told him of my interest in pens and a little about the Porterly company. At the end of my call, milord assured me of his intention to continue patronising my firm.

Thus reassured, I drove back to the office, penning some notes to my accountant and to my assistant about the following day’s end of quarter reconciliations. After a dull afternoon reviewing performance of the overseas properties, I left for home.

The evening paper provided my first shock, reporting the death of a prominent peer at his country seat. It seemed that Lord Hartford’s servant had found him dead in the summerhouse, perhaps an hour or so after I had left his home. Cause of death was not stated in the paper, but no doubt the police would be in touch at some point should they wish to know more about my visit to him. It was therefore with no great surprise some hours later that, answering the door this Halloween evening, I was greeted not by children in masks but by a member of the local constabulary. I invited him in and started to talk about my visit earlier today to Lord Hartford, but his confusion soon became obvious. I shut up and let him speak. It turned out he had been visiting me to advise me of the death this evening of two of my employees. It seems that my accountant and my assistant had been working late in the office, when … well, exactly what had happened seemed to be something of a mystery, but for no evident reason that can be ascertained, the two of them simply died. It seems to be have been quite a peaceful end, with none of the ‘rictus of horror’ so favoured by sensational writers.

For a long time after the policeman’s departure, all I could think of was the pen I had bought this morning. The three people to whom I had written something using the pen had all died in manners which awaited explanation. Increasingly desperate, I tried and failed to link the three in some other way, to conceive of how their deaths might not be related to my newest pen find.

So, dear reader, I conceived of an experiment. It is nearly complete now. You see, I have written to someone else, letting the lines flow from this stately fountain pen, just to see if the pen really does carry an odd curse. It is probably nonsense, of course, but I couldn’t really risk the life of a friend, an acquaintance, even. So, I do hope, dear reader, that this tale finds you in comfortable circumstances and I earnestly hope that those circumstances continue to be comfortable for you. If they don’t … well, no doubt I will read of the tragedy in my paper, and then we shall know.

As I say, I am sure it really is the most frightful nonsense.

Here is the second Entry:

HELLO WINNIE
by Grasshopper


I must be tired. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t even move. In fact, I can’t move at all… and I can’t feel a thing… and what’s that smell? It stinks... what’s going on..?

I’m trying to think where I am but I can’t remember a thing either. Was I at home? Tina’s place? And why can’t I remember anything. Hang on… my eyes are opening… it’s all blurry… I blink hard and try to squint… only then can I see, if only for a second at a time…

I’m in a room somewhere. Looks like a farmhouse or a cheap motel room or something. Doesn’t help that it’s dark in here. The windows are open and there’s some light outside, but not enough for me too see in the room. There’s only a lamp on the table to my right but it’s lying down and not lighting much at all. I can hardly see anything, even if my eyes could see clearly. The only thing I can hear is some music playing weakly through the radio under the table. It’s a slow, melancholic tune and somehow, it sounded strangely familiar.

I blink and squint again… looks like there was a game being played here. That looks like a gameboard in the center of the table, with a handglove, I think, in the middle. I can see droplets slowly dripping off my eyebrows. I want to wipe it with my hand but it’s not moving. I look down, and it seems those droplets look like blood, and I don’t have my left hand anymore. It’s chopped off. I scream, but I don’t hear a thing.

I can start to feel something now though. My heart. I can feel it pounding. I’m breathing hard and fast now too. I squint back at the board on the table. That’s my hand in the middle. I scream again but I only smell my breath coming out of my mouth.

I look down at my right hand and I can see that I’m gripping a fountain pen. A fountain pen? A fountain pen?? Of all things, what am I doing holding a fountain pen? Why couldn’t I be holding a phone instead?? I hate these stupid, messy, useless things. Look at it. The nib’s even leaking red ink, for goodness sake. I remember telling Tina the other day that I wouldn’t be caught dead with one of these in my hands. And as soon as these thoughts came to my head… I don’t know why nor how, but my right hand moves up to my face, and I stab myself in the eye with the nib.

Of course, my senses now decide to fully come back to me and I feel the effects of the stab. I know I’m writhing and screaming in pain even though I’m not really moving nor making a sound. I curse at the pen. Then I stab myself again.

I realize that maybe I shouldn’t do that anymore, so I try to calm down, not think of the pen, and slowly fight the pain. I squint a bit harder with my other eye and I can see there are two other people in the room with me. They’re also sitting in armchairs and we’re all facing each other. That guy on the left, he looks funny. No way can his head bend to the left that way. In the other chair, there’s a girl bent forward, blood dripping from her head and down her arms. She’s got a small axe in her hand.

My heart beats faster and louder. I start to sweat like crazy now. I try hard to move but I can’t do anything. Then I hear something else. Someone outside is softly humming a tune. It’s a girl’s voice, it sounds sad. I’ve heard that tune before, I know it but… I can’t place it. I then realize that the radio has stopped playing… and it was playing the same song that she is now humming. I squint at the window and I see someone slowly walking past it. She’s the one humming. She looks all dressed in white. I immediately want to shout for help, but I’ve seen the movies, and I don’t think she’s the one I want to ask for help from.

I’m not a religious man but I start saying all the prayers I learned when I was young. My heart is pounding harder and faster. The pain from my chopped arm suddenly comes rushing to me. I see her again passing the nearer window and though I can’t see her clearly, she looks like she’s fully dressed in a wedding gown. The stench that I smelled earlier has also grown stronger. My heart rate has gone way up now.

The slow sad tune is now at its loudest as she opens the door behind me. I now remember hearing this obscure song a few years ago at my best friend’s wedding. As soon as that dawned on me, I knew my life had reached its twilight as I feel a cold rough hand on the top of my head and long, crumbling fingers slowly gripping around my face, a finger blocking my good eye.

The last thing I remember is the putrid stench of rotting carcass drowning me, and the freezing touch of dried, cracked lips on mine.


END

Here is the third Entry

A Light Tattoo

by Percy Dovetonsils

As I grumbled tired and weary
With my eyes a little teary
in my kitchen, slightly dreary
over a pile of snails I should have writ before.

I heard some feet come a slapping
right next there came a rapping
Almost like a fish was slapping
Slapping on my door.

It must be an octopus out of a storm
Only this and nothing more.

But upon my door this slapping
like an octopus was rapping
kept up like a dancer tapping
Till I screamed out like a bore.

Sir or madam stop your slapping
your violent rat-a-tatting
I can not stand this rapping
Thus with these words I open o're the door.

The sight I saw caused me to toddle
For on the carpet was a bottle
that of late had doomed and throttled
an enormous catfish now dying on the floor.

It was a fish that now lay dying
that upon my door was trying
to roust me up to help in prying
the cursed bottle from it gore.

A heimlich away from saving.
just a fish upon the floor.

As this fish was quite gigantic
I could say nay just titanic
the loss of this pet must make one frantic
Frantic in a search from door to door.

Looking for a fish now choking
Making sure I was not toking.
with my foot I started poking
at the bottle on the floor.

Just a small bottle of fluid
Next to the fish beside the door.

A bottle of blue ink was the cause
that made my snail writing pause
and now upon little paws
come cats to sup upon the floor.

Eating of the rare delight
A juicy fish upon the floor.

Looking at the faded label
Close to a lamp upon the table
I was almost nearly able
See a word that chilled me more.

It was noodlers killed this fish
Only this and nothing more.

Move over Edgar Allen, you've got company!

Notes to authors:

Ray: If I get a letter from the U.K. from a Ray Blake, there's no way that I'm opening it! Sorry.

Grassy: What, pray tell, was edited from yours by Kurt?

Percy: That should be forwarded to Nathan in case he doesn't pop in here in the near future.

Good going, guys!

Roger,

Everyone sent me their story by PM and I copies them into the thread. On Grasshopper's I forgot to hit add reply and thus also got a copy of Ray's story as well so I deleted the duplicate and thus an edit


I did not edit any of the posts for content!


Kurt H

Yeah, Roger, unfortunately my pathetic effort is still all there.

The Legacy of Hester Brook
by TN Taylor


Gary felt the lock give as the tumblers turned noiselessly around his tools. He opened his eyes and smiled. It couldn't have gone better if he'd oiled the hinges. The door opened into the darkened interior of Carl's Bazaar and Gary waited an extra moment to make sure he could find his way through the dark room, before creeping in.

He forced back the smile that threatened to spread across his face, as he though, So easy...

Gently, Gary closed the door, its soft click masked by the irritating drone of the many clocks displayed around the room.

Gary walked to the cash register. He stood before it, eyes wide and wandering as he tried to catch sight of the prize. There it was, lying atop the register, where it had been every day for the last week. Gary reached carefully, grasping the cylinder with his bare fingers, feeling the gritty dust that coated it, and finally allowed himself a brief moment of victory.

"Yesssssss," he sighed.

"Well, no."

Gary spun around, startled by the unexpected voice that seemed to breathe directly over his shoulder. And his world went black.

***

The young man blinked, his Garye following the snow that flurried and swirled before him. A dark movement in the background forced his eyes to focus through the motes of dust.

The figure moved out of the shadows and Gary groaned as he realized the enormity of his situation.

"Oh dear," the voice creaked worse than an old hinge. "Who's a naughty boy, then."

When the man stepped closer, Gary recognized him as the proprietor of the shop, and instinctively tried to make a run for it, but found that he had been bound to his chair. His heart raced and his head ached as he looked around the cramped room.

He was shocked to see another man, similarly tied in a chair, just behind the crooked form of his captor. There was blood staining the man's back and Gary craned his head to get a better look, just as the bound man also leaned to the side.

The old form shuffled sideways, blocking Gary's view.

"Bored already?" Carl asked. "I'm sure you'll be interested to know that the police are on the way. You set off all sorts of silent alarms when you broke in."

Gary threw his wiry body from side to side, trying to break or even loosen his bonds. As he did so, so did the captive before him. He looked around the room, taking in the array of books, lamps, and boxes that cluttered the old wooden furniture surrounding him. There were mirrors of varying sizes propped up all around the room. He leaned again and once more his reflected image moved with him.

Gary tried in vain to see the knots that bound his hands behind the chair, but the old man still blocked his view.

"What did you hit me with, an axe? I'm bleeding to death, here!"

Carl frowned. "Well, I am sorry about that." He seemed genuinely concerned. "Perhaps I was a might...overzealous with the mallet."

As Carl walked around Gary to examine the back of his head, Gary glimpsed the knots that bound him. He smiled briefly before Carl's own back came into view.

"Did stop the bleeding, though," Carl said. "Waste not..."

Carl returned to face Gary. "You're probably wishing you'd stayed home, tonight, eh?"

"You don't know what I'm thinking, old man," Gary threatened, itching for another look at his wrists.

"Look at yourself."

Gary's head snapped up and he stared at Carl.

"Look at the situation you're in. And for what? For a pen?"

Gary tried not to laugh.

"A pen?" he asked. "Is that all you think you've got?"

He slowly twisted and pulled at the rope that held his wrists together as he continued to buy time.

"When was the last time you even looked at that pen? When was the last time you touched anything in this place? You're sitting on a gold-mine, grandpa, and you're too stupid to know it! That pen has got to be one of their first, maybe even a prototype. And there's a misprint on the engraving. It's priceless! It's supposed to say Esterbr-"

"You think I don't know how unique that pen is?" Carl cut him off. "I don't know its value? You think I don't know all there is to know about everything in every inch of this shop? I wouldn't be where I am, today, were it not for the fortunes this very pen has bestowed upon me."

Now Gary did laugh.

"That pen brought you all...this?" He jerked his head toward a wall where grey dismal paintings were ranged, their colors and images long hidden by far too many years of accumulated dust. "All this junk? You should be happy to get rid of it, then," Gary said. "I was doing you a favor taking it off your hands. Man, I wish I owned this place..."

Carl leaned in closer to Gary and the younger man drew back, recoiling from the leathery ravines formed by the myriad wrinkles in the old man's face.

"You want to be careful what you wish for, little boy." Carl looked harder and stronger than his meagre frame seemed capable of being. But, in the next instant, his features relaxed, his shoulders sank low, and his voice lost its menace. "The pen is correctly engraved. I should know, I made it myself."

He walked away, back to his shadowed perch, giving Gary time to realize fully the futility of his night's mission.

"But I don't suppose you've ever heard of Hester Brook. Not many people have. She likes it that way."

Gary could again see his hands and began working at the knots, only half listening to the man who sat against the wall across from him.

"The well began to run dry near 70 years ago," Carl was saying. "That's when I knew it would all have to end some day. We're a good team, Hester and me. Always have been. Even when her mind started to go, and when the animals started to go missing. And then the children."

Sweat beaded on Gary's forehead and trickled down, burning his eyes. His ears rang and his head ached and he did not at all like the trancelike state the old man seemed to have drifted into, or the detached tone of his voice. He found himself straining to hear the reassuring wail of police sirens.

"We was poor Quakers, then. Don't know what we are now, but was was Quakers, then. Of course, Hester was part Lenape from way back, anyway, so she was always prone to...now, hold on a minute..." Carl cast his memory back through the years. "...How did they say?... ' -to renounce social conventions.' And she was always a bit more open to...suggestion...than the rest of the townsfolk. I guess demons ate up her soul long before I ever met her; she weren't never a nice gal.

"And I never did understand why she needed so dang much blood, not until the well started to dry, at least."

Carl approached Gary and could see the man's legs twitch beneath his clothes.

"You look a little nervous, boy. Nervous as I felt all them years ago. Not knowing what was going to happen next."

Gary found his voice, and dared to speak. "Look, why don't we just sit here...quietly...and wait for the cops..."

"Waiting's one thing Hester was never good at. She wanted her prize, her immortality. And she got it, too. I wasn't near as ambitious. Or smart. I wanted money, plain and simple. Got plenty of that."

Carl began to pace a lazy circle around Gary. He seemed lost, again, in his reverie. "Got to be careful what you wish for," he mumbled.

"Hooboy, and when the deal was done, when the pact was made? I must have looked whiter than a sheet, just like you."

Gary's breath was ragged now and he twisted and jerked his neck, following Carl around the room.

"If you could have heard that scream. It came out of Hester, I heard it. But I don't believe to this day that it was any human sound."

Carl paused in his stride, gazing as if through the walls of the building, back into the past.

"The way," he said, holding up his bent hands and slowly crushing them together. "The way her entire body just seemed to, seemed to squeeze in. Like she was melting and burning up and being sucked up from the inside. I couldn't even run." He resumed his pace.

"There weren't nothin' but nothin' left, except some ashes and soot." He stopped again, and looked directly at Gary. "That's when I seen it. Shining up at me like a diamond or something. My reward for seeing things through with Hester. I never even thought to walk away. I guess I knew my life was forfeit, soon as I touched it. Ain't no such thing as that kind of pain, anywhere in the world. Like hellfire was racing in my veins. I took it, and I made this with my own hands, and I did prosper."

Carl withdrew the object of Gary's desire from his breast pocket. He uncapped the pen and held it so that his face formed a backdrop against it as Gary stared, riveted, incapacitated by his own fear.

Tears threatened to pour from Gary's eyes as he saw the tip of the fountain pen. Smooth and sharp, the nib, which he had thought to have been carved of ivory or perhaps bone, was clearly a long, thin, sharp tooth.

"But I knew it was all going to end when the well first started to dry up." He circled behind Gary again. "And somehow I knew just what it needed. It must be refilled. Only fitting that it should come from someone as greedy as I was. Hell, I'm old and tired anyway. Time to pass the torch. Now, this is gonna hurt like the dickens, I reckon. But it'll be worth it."

Gary dared not turn his head, as he felt Carl's stopped behind him.

"The police aren't coming, are they?" he asked, his voice not much more than a whisper.

Carl placed his hand on the man's shoulder, leaning down so that his mouth was barely an inch from his ear.

"Well, no."

Carl thrust the nib deep, causing Gary to release his pent up fear in one piercing scream. The cry was cut to a choked retch, as Gary felt his throat seize up on itself, grating like sandpaper. His eyes bulged wide, but were now dry and painful as the pen drew his life's blood, his very essence, from within him. The lifeless husk that was once Carl dropped to the floor, as the grey shadows of the shop gave way to a warm amber glow. Gary sat, slumped still, tethered to his chair. But his wailing had abated, replaced now by sepulchral laughter. And so the subsistence of Hester Brook was assured.

Not pathetic at all. Since it was pretty gory to begin with I thought maybe Kurt had edited something that was even more gory yet, and thought it shouldn't be seen. Glad it was not for content. My faith is restored!

I tried I tried I tried to just relax and let it go, but I can't!

These two glitches shriek out at me from the screen.

Ok, initially, the protagonist's name was Gaz. I changed that to Gary (because Gaz sounded too British) and did a word-replace to correct it throughout the document.

Forgot that I'd used the word "gazed" at one point. Which now reads Garyed. Oops.

(...and...)

In editing a few sentences, one of them got completely botched up.

"Gary dared not turn his head, as he felt Carl stop behind him."


Phew!

Glad to have that off my chest.

t!

Go on, say it: "Hey, T... O-C much?"

We knew what you meant. All's .